James walked east toward the location he remembered as Siddons’ studio. He found the shabby building. He knocked.
Siddons answered, wearing only a paint-spattered shirt, barelegged, barefoot.
“Cavendish.” Siddons sneered. James did not wait for an invitation but stepped inside.
A young girl stood naked on the far side of the studio. She made no move to dress herself when James entered the room. James averted his eyes.
“Pru!” Siddons barked and the girl started, as if she had been asleep. “Cover up. You’re embarrassing Lord Daventry.”
James did not correct him with his new title.
The girl Pru moved as if she were wading in deep water and picked up a drape from the floor and began wrapping herself in it.
“I was expecting someone at some point but I didn’t know it would be you, Cavendish.” Siddons picked at the paint on his hands. “But perhaps, I should have. You always seem to be bursting in where you’re not wanted, trying to save the day, but only making things worse for everybody.”
“I want to buy the painting, Siddons.”
James’ directness seemed to surprise Siddons. Of course. Siddons was expecting him to be drunk, mocking, unable to approach a subject head-on. Well, too late now.
Siddons recovered and laughed. “Of course you do. So many people do. The painting is not for sale.”
“Name your price.”
Siddons smiled. “The painting is not for sale.”
“A thousand pounds.”
The girl Prue squawked, “Lawks!” and almost dropped her drape.
Siddons felt the bump on the bridge of his nose. “The painting is not for sale.” Had there been some hesitation there?
“Five thousand pounds.”
“The painting is not for sale.”
“Ten thousand pounds.”
“You think you can buy anything.” A sneer. “The. Painting. Is. Not. For. Sale.”
“Is it here?”
“If it were, do you think I would have opened the door? It’s gone to the Exhibition. It’s too late.”
“I see.” James went to the still-open door.
“Farewell, Marquess, and thanks for the laughs.”
James stopped and turned around.
“It’s Duke, actually. The Duke of Middlewich.”
“Oh, it’s Your Grace, now, is it? Well, Your Grace.” Siddons leaned forward as if to tell James something in confidence. “The painting is not for sale.”
James stared at Siddons. Siddons took a step backward.
“What are you looking at, Cavendish?”
“Ten thousand pounds is a lot of money to lose just for the opportunity to hurt someone.”
“Yes, well, I was never very clever about money, was I? Otherwise, I wouldn’t live like this.” Siddons gestured to the squalid studio.
“No, I suppose not. You are driven by other things. How wretched you must be.”
James turned on his heel and left.
He walked south toward the river. Eventually, he found a hack and rode the rest of the way to Somerset House.
He paid the driver and the hack pulled back out into the busy traffic of the Strand. This front part of Somerset House on the Strand, this section housed the Royal Academy.
James noted five uniformed and armed Royal Marines, standing at attention, outside the building. He walked through one of the three arches that faced the Strand and into the vestibule and out into the large courtyard. Across the courtyard, at the South Wing, the building that faced the Thames on the other side, he saw more Royal Marines. Ah, yes, the Navy Board was here.
He had thought when he had taken up his work for Mr. Bulverton that he might get to report to an admiral or some person of importance at Somerset House. But it had never happened. Perhaps because only his very first piece of intelligence, the one that had led to the rout of the French at San Sebastian, had been related to foreign affairs. Since then, all of his endeavors had been regarding domestic concerns. And, if he were honest with himself, rather trifling domestic concerns. Carrying a coded message from one place to another, reporting the gossip of the ton, informing on those who voiced sympathies with the Americans or Bonaparte or the Irish. And yes, stealing jewelry and love tokens and indiscreet letters that should never have been sent by important men with too much time on their hands.
Well, that part of his life was over. No more louche marquess. He must tell Bulverton. He was the duke now. He had responsibilities to his sisters, his mother, the people on his estate and in his duchy.
And to Catherine. He must find this painting quickly.
In the offices of the Royal Academy, several clerks and functionaries tried to placate a seething and clamorous mob of artists, all bent on complaining about the positioning of their paintings in the Exhibition. James elbowed his way to the front, noting that he seemed to be the only visitor whose hands were not covered in paint.
“I am the new Duke of Middlewich,” he roared, “and I demand to see the man in charge of this madhouse!”
For pity’s sake. He was turning into his father now.
The artists murmured and withdrew and left several empty feet of space around him. In a matter of moments, James was ushered into the private office of the secretary to the President of the Royal Academy of Arts.
The secretary stood, bowed, and said, “Your Grace.” He looked harried.
“I wish to procure a painting.”
“Yes, Your Grace, the Exhibition will begin in four days and you can purchase a painting at your leisure at that time.”
“Yes,” James said. “May I sit?”
The secretary frowned. “Certainly.” James sensed that the man was under a great deal of pressure and wanted him out of the office with as much haste as possible so that he could get back to the stack of papers on his desk.
“Have all the paintings been delivered to the Academy?”
“Yes, they’re being hung at this moment by the Hanging Committee. The Varnishing Days start tomorrow and will go for three days. Then the Exhibition will open.”
“The painting I want, I would rather it was never hung. I would like to buy it now and take it with me.”
“That would be most irregular, Your Grace.”
James leaned forward.
“But would it be impossible?”
The man thought.
“Yes. It would. There are over thirteen hundred paintings to be hung. We cannot interrupt our work to go looking for one painting in particular. And then, of course, you would have to apply to the artist for the purchase. My advice to you, Your Grace, is to come back very early on the first day of the Exhibition and buy the painting at that time.”
James stood. “Very well. I will do so.”
Blast. Hellfire. Damnation. He was going to have to steal the painting.
He walked back out into the courtyard and looked around. There was an excessive number of marines in the courtyard. Of course, they were not there to protect the Royal Academy, but he wondered how they might react to a duke slipping out of a window, carrying a large painting.
James came back that night. Royal Marines at the Strand entrance. He could see beyond them into the courtyard where torches were lit. Still more uniformed Royal Marines.
Tricky.
He had no idea what he was going to do next.
He went back to his rooms, sent Enfield to bed, and paced. What a sham he was. For almost six years he had considered himself some kind of covert operative and had delighted in fooling those around him and having secret meetings with Bulverton. And now, when he needed to do something of import for the woman he loved, something that actually mattered to him, he had come up dry.
Well, he still had one tool at his disposal.
One he had never used.
Opening day. Catalog and ticket in hand and accompanied by Mr. Deedles, his father’s longtime London agent, James pushed to the front and was among the first to enter the Great Room. There, on the far end. Eye level. The painting.
And what luck. The secretary he had met four days ago was in the Great Room surveying the press of people.
“Sir!” he accosted the secretary.
“Oh, Your Grace, you’re here. Very good. I hope you find your painting.”
“I’ve found it. I’m ready to buy it. This is Mr. Deedles. He is ready with payment.”
The secretary stammered. “But . . . you must make application to the artist, Your Grace. The Academy has nothing to do with the purchase of paintings.”
“Come with me.” James put his arm around the man’s shoulders and walked him across the Great Room to Catherine’s portrait. Most of the viewers were still on the other side of the room, looking at the pictures near the entrance. Mr. Deedles trailed in the duke’s and secretary’s wake, carrying a small metal box.
“What is your name?” James asked, keeping his arm around the secretary’s shoulders, keeping him facing toward the picture.
“Harris. Mr. Elias Harris, Your Grace.”
They stood in front of the painting, and James released him.
“Oh,” Mr. Harris said. “Oh, this is the painting you meant. I see.”
“My sole aim, Mr. Harris, is to remove this picture from public view at once and save a lady from embarrassment.”
Mr. Harris fidgeted.
“I think you would agree that there would be no great loss to the world of fine art if this painting disappeared.”
Mr. Harris nodded. “The painting, I seem to remember, Your Grace, was chosen by the selection panel almost purely,” he lowered his voice, “to provoke offense and bring in curiosity seekers. Not what I would wish for.”
“No, certainly not, Mr. Harris. It is immediately apparent that you are a man of taste and the highest aesthetic values. Now. The artist is not willing to sell to me, personally. Not at any price. Have you ever been in love, Mr. Harris?”
“Your Grace, I . . . yes.”
“There is a Mrs. Harris, then?”
“No.” The man blushed. “But I have hopes.”
“Well, I can sense that you are a man of enormous sympathy and that if I told you, in confidence, that I love this lady in the painting and that I would do anything to spare her even the smallest bit of pain, you might think of some way I could obtain the picture. Legally. Without involving the painter.”
“Well, there is a rule . . . “
“Yes, Mr. Harris? A rule?”
“The Academy has the right of first refusal on any painting displayed during the Exhibition. We have very little storage and almost never buy anything, however. Let’s see.” Mr. Harris leaned forward to examine the card next to the painting of Catherine. “For its size, the price would be ten pounds. Not too dear. I suppose the Academy could buy the painting and sell it to you?”
“Capital! And the painting can be removed immediately from public view?”
“It’s most irregular,” Mr. Harris dithered.
James snapped his fingers and Mr. Deedles approached. “I think five hundred pounds would be a good price for the painting. And a letter of praise from the Duke of Middlewich regarding your personal work here and the need for your advancement. Or barring that, perhaps a new career as a curator of a personal collection, a position that would surely pay enough to allow for a wife and family?”
It was done.
James took the painting off the wall immediately and covered it with a drape that Mr. Deedles carried under his arm.
Of course, money had smoothed the way and the promise of a letter or a position. But James couldn’t help feeling, for the first time in his life, that he had solved a problem by telling the truth.
It felt decidedly pure. And right.
