Prologue

Rome, 1807

The late-afternoon Roman sun strikes fiercely through the glass skylight in the ceiling of Maestro Montegno’s sculpture studio. Three beautiful girls, two brunettes, one blonde, stand poised beneath it on a small dais, clad in flowing drapery in the classical style. They are real-life statues, life-size, silent, unmoving.

Louisa struggles to maintain the pose the maestro insists upon for the preliminary sketches of his next masterpiece in marble—The Three Graces. Unlike Olympia and Rosa next to her, Louisa is not a professional model—she’s Il Maestro’s student. She volunteered for the job because she wants to know what it’s like to be a model. She’s very dedicated to her studies and wants to know everything about the process of making a sculpture.

“Maestro, a break, please. My throat is turning to dust!” Olympia moans.

“Isn’t that what you’re paid for?” snaps Il Maestro irritably. “Look,” he says, gesturing at Louisa.  “Louisa stays in pose, and she’s not even a model. And she’s not even Italian! Are you going to let the English miss beat you? Italian girls, pah!” he grumbles.

The Italian girls laugh. “She’s used to the bad air of London,” Maestro,” Rosa says, nudging Louisa playfully.

“I’m afraid I need to break too, Maestro, before I collapse,” Louisa says in perfect Italian, her voice shaking.

“All right, rest, then,” Il Maestro grunts. Three girls drop their poses, and all three sit down on the edge of the dais.

Just then, the door to the studio is kicked open, and a handsome, well-built man barges in, carrying two bags. Grinning at the maestro, he strides to the table and unpacks the bags, tossing bread, cheeses, and grapes, onto the table, then produces three flasks of wine. Louisa admires his physique from afar with a sculptor’s eye. An Apollo for sure.  

“Valentino, you’ve been gone so long, I thought you had left me,” jokes Il Maestro as the two men embrace.

“Sorry, but the markets are packed,” says Valentino.

He glances across at the women, his deep-brown eyes skimming their bodies coldly before turning back to Il Maestro.

The sculptor regards Valentino with glowing eyes and then claps his hands.

“All right, girls, we’re done for today,” he announces. “You can go. Not you, Louisa. You eat and rest. I’ll need you later, to help me with these drawings. You two can leave. But be back here first thing in the morning.”

“Yes, Maestro,” chorus the Italian girls.

“Thank you, Maestro,” Louisa mutters, deciding she hates modeling. Oh, to be wielding her chisel on some block of marble!

Olympia and Rosa quickly dress. They embrace Louisa, kissing her soundly on both cheeks, muttering, “Ciao, amiga,” before flying from the studio.

Neither man glances at Louisa as she leaves the room, noiseless on bare feet. They are in love and only have eyes for each other.

In her cot, she imagines Mama and Papa’s faces if they knew what sort of an education their daughter is receiving in Italy. Will they come to Rome to see The Three Graces when it’s finished? Will they recognize their little Louisa in her drapery as one of the models? What will the ton say? She giggles softly, turns on her side, and slips into the deep sleep of exhaustion.

Chapter One

London, 1810

Louisa Hamilton took firm hold of the red cord and pulled. She watched the rapt faces in the crowd as the fabric covering fell away, revealing the imposing figure of Atlas beneath. Carved with her own hands from the finest Italian Carrara marble, the looming statue stood complete with the world balancing on his muscular shoulders. Applause, calls of congratulations, and gasps of awe ran through the audience.

“Magnificent my dear, simply magnificent!” her client, the Duke of Ventnor, called up to her, clapping and smiling, his grinning wife at his side. Louisa saw her parents standing nearby, applauding and beaming with pride. “Well done, darling,” her mother mouthed to her. Louisa smiled her thanks for their everlasting support.

“Oh, it’s so . . . imposing!” someone exclaimed.

“Bravo!” cried others in unison.

“Simply stunning!” called someone at the back of the crowd.

Louisa breathed deeply, satisfied she had scored her biggest artistic triumph yet among the Ton. Her heart sang as she realized she had finally achieved her long-held dream; the years of study and grind had brought her here, to the pinnacle of her popularity—as the British Isles’ only successful female sculptor.

How long that will last, I do not know, for the Ton is terribly fickle and easily distracted.

Since her return from Italy almost two years ago, she had often doubted herself. In those early months, she’d wearied of fending off criticism from the old dowagers, who deemed her chosen career unsuitable for one of her sex and unmarried state.

She’d chosen to ignore the critics, instead devoting all her energies to her work. Several months later, an exhibition of her sculptures at a private gallery had changed everything, drawing even the Prince Regent’s admiration. Suddenly, she’d become the hottest artistic property in London, woman or not. Everybody who was anybody wanted one of her sculptures for their homes or estates—to impress their peers.

Flooded by demand for commissions, Louisa learned fast to select her clients carefully and to exceed their expectations. The project had to have artistic appeal—and the client must be able to afford her high rates. Nevertheless, today, surveying her admirers, Louisa still felt a sense of astonishment at how easily the haute monde had accepted her. She didn’t know if it was because she was one of their own—the only daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Brandon—or in spite of it, considering how her very existence as a female sculptor challenged all of Society’s expectations of women. She wanted to believe it was simply because of her skills. Whatever the reason, she knew she had achieved her long-held dream of success.

If only they knew the hours of hard labor, sleepless nights, tears, perspiration, and passion that went into creating my Atlas—that goes into creating all my works.

Her serene smile faded a little as she realized with weary certainty that she would likely spend the rest of the party fending off requests for sculpting commissions. And she was right, for as soon as she stepped down from the dais, accepting a glass of champagne from the bluff Duke of Ventnor himself, she was swept up by her admirers. They peppered her with more congratulations, questions . . . and demands to reproduce some relative’s likeness in stone.

But those last were to be disappointed. “I’m afraid I shall be taking a little sabbatical,” she explained repeatedly to them. “I shan’t be taking on any new commissions for at least a year.” Their faces fell; some pleaded with her to change her mind. “I’m tired, and I wish to work on a project of my own,” she added. More than that, she refused to say.

Over the heads of the throng, she spied her friend Lady Fenella Ball approaching, with her elderly mother in tow. Fenella, determinedly elbowing a path toward Louisa, waved at her, grinning. Fenella was the only person, apart from her parents, Louisa had kept in touch with while in Italy. She was happy to see her old confidante and supporter and waved back, eager to talk with her.

“But she’s just a slip of a girl,” old Lady Ball commented loudly from beneath her voluminous hat as they drew level, surveying Louisa through gimlet eyes. “How on earth can she have produced something so . . . large and masculine? It’s indecent. It’s unnatural in a lady. How can she know so much of a man’s—” She broke off, her withered cheeks reddening.

Louisa curtsied respectfully to the old dowager. “Indeed, I have studied the human physique closely, but one does not need simply brute strength to create such sculptures, Lady Ball,” Louisa explained patiently, while she and Fenella struggled to hold back their giggles. The old dowager was a frequent source of amusement to them. Fenella was her best friend and often had Louisa in fits of laughter with her uncanny ability to imitate her mother’s voice. “Man or woman, it is the artist’s vision of what lies within the stone and the techniques used to apply one’s tools, the chisels, the hammers, the files, which decide the beauty and authenticity of the finished article.”

“Chisels? Hammers? Why, I have never even seen these implements, let alone used them,” declared the old lady with a sniff. “Wouldn’t a lady of the ton be better served by sticking to embroidery? Surely, even for a duke’s daughter, one’s chances for a good match would be much reduced by such . . . masculine activities.”

“Ah, well, fortunately, I am not seeking a match of any sort. A husband would be quite superfluous, and, unless I fall in love, which is highly unlikely, I am quite content to devote myself to my art for the foreseeable future.” At that, Lady Ball looked as if she had been hit on the head with a croquet mallet, and Louisa once again had to stifle a laugh.

“Quite right, Lulu,” Fenella chipped in, rolling her eyes. “Don’t be such an old-fashioned goose, Mama,” she chided. “Louisa doesn’t need a silly old husband! She makes her own money, and she’s the best sculptor in the country. Everyone wants her.”

Lady Ball frowned. “Well, it wouldn’t have been allowed in my day,” she said querulously.

“Since that was around the time of the ark, Mama, I doubt it would. Now, come, let us get a cup of tea,” riposted Fenella sharply, taking Lady Ball’s arm and beginning to steer her away toward the refreshment tables. “If I do not see you before we leave, I shall see you at the park, usual time. Well done, by the way. Another blow for womanhood, eh?” she whispered to Louisa over her shoulder before giving her a parting wink. Louisa chuckled, smiling warmly at her friend’s back as the pair moved away, sorry to see her go.

A fresh-faced young couple next appeared before her. The lady, pink-cheeked beneath a pretty, pale-blue bonnet, introduced herself as Lady Dorothy Owen, Lord Owen’s second-eldest daughter, and her escort as Jonathan Cecil, the youngest son of the Duke of Somerset. Louisa curtseyed politely to them. Lady Dorothy, who was rather short, gazed up at her, eyes shining.

“The Atlas is astonishing, Lady Louisa. Why, I thought I would swoon at the reveal! How talented you are. I believe you studied for four years in Italy, didn’t you, under Signor Montegno. How marvelous! They say he’s the best in all Europe,” she blurted out without pause.

“Indeed, I believe he is,” Louisa replied, smiling and nodding. “Yes, he was my teacher and mentor while I was in Italy. I owe him everything.”

“That’s as maybe, but how can a woman do such work? It’s unseemly!” Cecil the younger suddenly muttered, two hectic spots glowing on his cheekbones, his eyes flicking between Atlas’ rippling naked muscles and Louisa’s calm face.

Louisa put a hand to her face as if to brush away a stray golden lock. The practiced motion gave her the split second she needed to suppress the grin threatening to appear on her lips at any moment. Oh, callow youth!

Softly, she cleared her throat, then made a show of briefly running her eyes over his muscular form, as if in professional appraisal, enjoying watching him shift from foot to foot in clear discomfort. He looked about twenty, a tall, good-looking fellow, chin slightly weak, with dark brown eyes and matching well-groomed hair. Elegantly dressed too. Too young for an Apollo. Not yet in his prime. More of a Mercury or Hermes, she concluded. Perhaps he has an elder brother at home who would fit the bill.

“What a shame you feel that way, sir,” she breathed, tilting her head to one side and looking at him through half-closed eyes. “Would you yourself not consider sitting for me? You would make a marvelous model for the full-length figure of Adonis I have planned.”

Young Cecil’s mouth fell open, his eyes popped, and he blushed like a lady. Louisa fought hard against the laughter threatening to break from her lips.

“Ha ha! That’s put you in your place, Johnny,” Lady Dorothy taunted her discombobulated beau gleefully.

“But I mean to say—” young Cecil managed to mumble before he was cut off by Lady Dorothy.

“I’m sorry, Lady Louisa,” Lady Dorothy piped up, “I suppose you have to put up with a lot of that. Please, do forgive him, he’s an ignoramus, but he has a good heart.”

“Good Lord, Dolly, that’s a bit much,” exclaimed young Cecil, grimacing as he gazed at the young woman on his arm, with whom Louisa could see he was clearly besotted.

“Well, it’s true,” Dolly declared, pouting charmingly. “The normal rules of Society don’t apply to lady artists and bluestockings, do they, Lady Louisa?”

“Well, that is true to an extent, but such women plough a lonely and difficult furrow, being compelled to follow their vocation in our very masculine world,” Louisa replied, smiling warmly at the amusingly opinionated young woman before her.

Just then, the florid face of their host, the Duke of Ventnor, appeared at young Cecil’s shoulder, briefly pounded it with a meaty hand, making the young fellow grow quite pale as he shuffled aside.

“She’s a marvel, isn’t she?” the Duke boomed at the young couple, gesturing to Louisa and sending out wafts of brandy and tobacco from his august person as he did so. Louisa and Lady Dorothy both turned their noses slightly aside as he went on. “As my wife tells me, in our great and enlightened age, even a mere woman can become a celebrated artist, a famous sculptress, garnering accolades from her peers. I am delighted with my Atlas!”

A mere woman!

“How kind, Your Grace,” Louisa said through gritted teeth, somehow managing to assume her serene professional smile once more as she bobbed a curtsey to the old Duke.

“Yes, indeed, Your Grace,” agreed Lady Dorothy, following Louisa’s example, while young Cecil bowed. “Lady Louisa is a true original, and her success gives hope to many of us young, ambitious ladies of the Ton.”

“Well, I hope you don’t intend to start chiseling away at any rocks, Dolly,” young Cecil interjected, his smooth brow furrowing. “Much as I admire Lady Louisa’s, err, efforts.” He paused, glancing up at Atlas again with a visible shiver. “It wouldn’t do for you at all. I mean, what about your dresses? They’d be ruined.”

“Oh, Johnny, what am I to do with you?” Lady Dorothy huffed, batting his arm with her fan. “Come, we mustn’t hog Lady Louisa any longer. There are many more people who want to speak to her. Do excuse us, Your Grace, Lady Louisa.” With that, she hauled her unsatisfactory beau away toward the refreshment tables.

The old Duke’s face split into a grin, and he chuckled, shaking his head at Louisa. “She’ll have him knocked into shape in no time, I fancy. A lady after your own heart, eh, Lady Louisa? Knows how to put us fellows in our place.”

“We try our best, my lord, but it is hard work and full of disappointments, I’m afraid,” she said, her dry wit making the old lord guffaw and slap his thigh.

“My wife would agree with you, I don’t doubt,” he wheezed, while Louisa gazed after the retreating couple with curiosity.

I think I should like to have Lady Dolly as a friend, for she seems a bright young thing. I’m not sure how much of that young fool I can tolerate, though. I shall make a point of bumping into her at the next event and talk with her further—alone.

“Will you excuse me, Your Grace? I think I see my parents over there,” she said.

“Of course, my dear. They must be very proud of you today,” the old duke replied with a gracious nod.

With a curtsey, Louisa thanked him and set out in the same direction as the young couple, toward the refreshment tables. Her mouth was dry from all the chatter, and she craved a glass of chilled white wine. Champagne was simply too dry to slake her thirst. Then, I shall go and find Mama and Papa and see when they will be ready to leave. Her parents were staying the night with her at her rented house in Richmond before returning to the country the following day, so they were sharing a carriage for the return journey.

But as she made her way across to the refreshment tables, she was once again buttonholed by more of her peers, all anxious to tempt her to work for them.

“Lady Louisa, pray, do consider undertaking a commission for me—I wish for a marble bust of my eldest son . . .”

“Lady Louisa, I desire a statue of Aphrodite for my sculpture gallery . . .”

“Oh, my dear Lady Louisa, a statue of Persephone would just complete my collection perfectly . . .”

By the time she finally reached the refreshment tables, the white wine had run dry. Too parched to wait for more to be brought up from the cellars, with a sigh, she accepted a cold glass of punch. Sipping it gratefully, she scanned the crowd for her parents, trying hard not to catch anyone’s eye.

At last, she saw them, deep in conversation with their host, the duke. Seeking to avoid further interruptions, she skirted the lawns unnoticed until she reached the trio, taking refuge from further onslaughts in her mother’s kisses and embraces.

Chapter Two

Cecil Hall, Greenwich, London

Nathaniel Cecil’s already saturnine features darkened further. His mouth was a thin line as he glowered at his bailiff. The man turned his hat compulsively in his fingers as he stood before his employer, eyes downcast.

“I thought so,” Nathaniel growled. “Derick Smith and John Casey, damn their eyes. I give the blackguards honest work, and this is how they repay me. Why didn’t you tell me this before, Stevens?”

Stevens’ chin wobbled as he stuttered, “W-well, my lord, you see . . . I hoped to settle it quietly, them both being family men and all—”

Nathaniel smacked his large hand on the desk, making Stevens visibly jump.

“Settle it quietly? They’ve stolen four of my deer, Stevens!” Nathaniel roared. “I’ve given that pair of scoundrels enough chances already. This time . . .” he growled menacingly, dark brows knitting in fury.

“But what about the children, my lord? Both men have been ill from the fever and unable to work for weeks,” Stevens explained. “The other workers have been helping, but they have their own work to do. Smith and Casey were only poaching to put food in the children’s bellies. I mean, can you blame them?”

A vein began to pulse in Nathaniel’s forehead, but even though Stevens clearly saw it, he continued. “If their fathers are convicted and you put the families out on the street, they’ll have nowhere to go. They’ll starve.”

Nathaniel breathed deeply several times through his nose, then flung himself out of his chair to lean over the desk, his tall, bulky shadow eclipsing Stevens where he stood as a rain cloud blocks out the sun.

“This bleeding-heart nonsense of yours has got to stop, Stevens. May I remind you that I’m the Justice of the Peace around here? What will it look like to the other landowners if I allow poaching on my own land without punishment? Weak, that’s what they’ll say.”

“I suppose they might, my lord, but—” Stevens put in with the air of a condemned man.

“But nothing,” Nathaniel barked, still looming over the little bailiff. “If their children starve it’ll be the fault of their fathers, not me. You will have the miscreants brought in and the constables called to take them to jail at once. And hurry up about it, or it’ll be your head on the block next, damn you. Now, get out.”

“Yes, my lord, at once,” replied Stevens in a dejected tone, bowing and exiting the study as fast as his short legs would carry him.

Nathaniel threw himself back into his chair, reached across to a decanter on the corner of the desk, and poured himself a stiff measure of brandy. Tossing it down in one swallow, he leaned back and closed his eyes. Gradually, the angry lines on his face smoothed away lessen, and he sighed deeply. “Bloody fools, the lot of them,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

The specter of emaciated children in rags suddenly rose up in his mind’s eye, and a fleeting pang of remorse for his harsh judgment on the poachers pierced his heart. He was a father himself . . . what if Stevens was right and the children starved?

He stood up suddenly and opened his mouth as if about to call Stevens back. Then he closed it again and slumped back down in his chair. And you’re the biggest bloody fool of them all! His face reddened once more, as though he was freshly incensed by his own weakness. Snatching up the decanter again, he poured another drink, taking deep gulps. “Let those two hang, it’s what they deserve,” he muttered to himself, his eyes narrowing. “And if those children end up homeless and starving, that’s their look out. No one crosses Nathaniel Cecil, Marquis of Hertford, without paying a heavy price!”

“Well, that was a nice little scene, I must say,” came a voice from the doorway. Nathaniel looked up.

“Jonathan. You’re back,” he said, his lips curling as he looked his fashionably attired younger brother up and down.

“Remarkable powers of observation you have, brother dear. By the way, I’ll have one of those, if you don’t mind,” Jonathan drawled, gesturing at the decanter as he strolled into the room and lowered his long form into one of the armchairs by the empty fireplace. After a few seconds of silence, Nathaniel snorted. Then, he got up and fetched a clean glass from the nearby drinks cabinet and took it, along with the decanter and his own half-drunk brandy, over to where his brother was sitting.

“Help yourself,” he said, plonking them down on the occasional table before taking the armchair opposite his brother. Jonathan poured himself a drink and topped up Nathaniel’s glass, handing it to him.

“So, how was London?” he asked, stretching out his legs.

“Hot and stinking, as it always is in summer. But Dolly and I had a jolly time, eating ices at Gunter’s, walking in the parks, that sort of thing.”

Nathaniel nodded. “How very romantic,” he said with barely disguised sarcasm before sipping his brandy. Jonathan chuckled.

“You can scoff, but everyone knows you’re simply jealous. We’re not all cold-hearted old widowers like you.”

“I resent the use of ‘old’ in that sentence,” Nathaniel said, straight-faced, and Jonathan sniggered.

“You know it’s true, and you revel in it. And don’t think the whole family doesn’t know why you never come up to Town these days. We’re not complete fools, you know. Once again, you’ve sneakily managed to miss the whole Season,” he said, suddenly leaning forward in his chair. “I should warn you that you and your non-existent social life and persistently unmarried state are the top topics of conversation between Ma and Pa.”

“Well, well, what a surprise,” Nathaniel said with a weary sigh before taking a big gulp of whiskey.

“Oh, yes, it’s all, ‘When is that boy going to do his duty and remarry? It’s been two years . . . he should be here, in Town, now, with us, getting out and about and meeting new ladies. People are starting to talk,’” Jonathan said, perfectly mimicking the Duchess of Somerset’s fretting tones. Nathaniel laughed out loud.

“Very amusing, brother. You have her down pat,” he said once he’d done laughing. “What about the old man? I suppose it’s much of the same with him, is it?” His face turned serious again as he looked at his brother searchingly.

Jonathan nodded, sipping his drink before answering, “Mmm, let’s just say you’re hardy the blue-eyed boy at the moment. The heat is on, old chap, mark my words. I even heard them talking about finding a bride for you.” He looked at Nathaniel, eyebrows raised warningly. “I reckon your days as a crusty old widower are numbered.”

“Damn. Why can’t they just leave me alone? It’s not as if I’m lazing about doing nothing. I mean, I’m running everything for the old man, just as he’s always wanted. I’ve made him more money over the last two years than he made in the last five!” Nathaniel exclaimed, his voice rising.

“Yes, but stuffing their mouths with gold was never going to work in the long term, you know, Nat.”

“It’s all right for you, Jonathan,” Nathaniel said irritably. “You can’t understand what it’s like, being the eldest. You can go your own way. I envy your freedom. But me, I’ve done everything they told me I had to do as the heir. I married Edwina because they wanted me to, even though I didn’t want to marry at all. And I certainly didn’t love Edwina, and she didn’t love me either. So, that was two lives practically ruined from the start. And despite that, I still managed to give them the heir they so desperately wanted. In all that time, there was not a single thought about what I might want. Or her.” He paused, out of breath.

“And now, just two years after Edwina’s death, it’s starting all over again—just to satisfy their wishes, to obey the Ton’s bloody stupid rules about what’s proper and what isn’t. I can tell you I’m sick of it, and I won’t put up with it anymore. And you can tell them when you see them that I shall never remarry, never, no matter what they do,” he finished, huffing, his cheeks flushed.

Jonathan put out a placating hand. “Steady on, Brother, no need to burst a blood vessel. Look, at the risk of making you even angrier, it’s not all about appearances and doing what the Ton thinks is proper. The old folks love you, they do care about your happiness—” He was cut short by Nathaniel’s bitter laughter and waited until it had finished. “Can’t you see? We all worry about you, the way you’ve locked yourself away here since Edwina . . . well, you’ve changed. You used to be fun, but now . . . well, it’s as though your heart has turned to stone. I mean, look at that little scene with Stevens earlier. You’d have never acted like that before. Besides, you deserve some happiness, and maybe, just maybe, finding a new wife will do the trick. And there’s the children to think of. Don’t you think they need a mother’s love, as we both had? They’re still young, they’ll adjust. Find the right woman and . . .”

He stopped as Nathaniel got up and began pacing, clearly agitated.

“Stop, Jon! Again, you don’t see it at all. If I remarry, Linton and Charlotte will get a new mother, yes, but what about the old one? The dead one? They’ll forget all about Edwina in no time. And I can’t allow that. I respected her too much, and she was a wonderful friend and companion. It wouldn’t be fair to her. She was a good wife, a wonderful, loving mother. I may not have loved her, but I refuse to let her be replaced by another woman, to allow her memory to be wiped out of her children’s minds just to satisfy someone else’s selfish whims.”

Jon rose quickly and crossed to his brother, putting a hand on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. “All right, Nat, this is me, Jon, you’re talking to. I’m on your side, remember?” Nathaniel shook himself.

“Yes, sorry,” he muttered.

“Come, let us sit down again,” Jonathan said, steering his brother back to their seats. “Well, you clearly feel strongly about this, but if you want a permanent reminder of Edwina for the children, why don’t you do something more . . . concrete about it?”

Nathaniel looked at his brother, calm once more. “I already have. I’ve written to Sir Oliver Bryant about commissioning a marble bust of her. He’s already said he’ll do it.”

“I’m sure I should know this—and thank God Dolly’s not here to hear me say it—but who the hell is Sir Oliver Bryant?”

Nathaniel sighed. “He’s the best sculptor in the country, apparently, according to The Gentleman’s Quarterly, that is,” he explained. “And I want the best. So, I wrote to him. Wait a minute . . .” He got up and went to the desk, pulled a sheet of paper from a pile of correspondence, then returned to his seat and handed Jonathan a letter. “Read it.”

Jonathan scanned the letter rapidly, then looked up, eyes wide and lip curled. “Good lord, what a pompous windbag! What a crawler. Clearly, he’s one of those sucking-up types. The man will be all over you, and rob you blind too, no doubt. No, he won’t do at all.” He flung the letter aside.

“Well, what do you suggest?”

At that, Jonathan smiled and rubbed his hands together. “It just so happens, Brother, that I have the perfect solution to your problem.” Nathaniel shook his head. “No, no, I mean it. Look. Hear me out. When Dolly and I were in London gadding about, we attended a party at the Ventnor’s mansion in Mayfair—an unveiling party, in fact.” He grinned and nodded at his brother, but Nathaniel only frowned back.

“To paraphrase you, Jon, what the hell is an unveiling party?”

“Unveiling of a statue, you dolt! What else would you unveil?” He paused for a moment. “No, best not answer that. At any rate, Dolly’s always raving about this sculptor, and so is the whole Ton, apparently. That’s how come we were at the party.”

“Go on,” Nathaniel said, nodding.

“Well, I have to say, the statue, sculpture, whatever you call it, was quite magnificent. Ventnor was as pleased as punch. As you know, what I know about art you could write on the head of a pin, but even I was impressed . . . if rather . . . shocked.”

“What do you mean? Shocked?”

“Well, standing next to a twelve-foot-high statue of Atlas in all his manly glory, rippling muscles, leaving nothing to the imagination, with Dolly on my arm, you can imagine . . . it left me feeling rather like a scandalized old dowager. Honestly, Nat, it made me blush. Made a bit of a fool of myself blurting it out and earned myself a telling-off from Dolly. But the thing is, the statue, well . . . it was very impressive.”

“Well, nudity in classical art is the norm, so that’s no surprise. I can’t see why you were so scandalized.”

“It was just so . . . realistic. Anyway, I think you should write to the sculptor about commissioning Edwina’s bust. You said you want the best, and this is the best. Damn that old windbag, sir, whatever his name is. There’s just one thing you should know first though . . .”

“And what’s that?”

“The sculptor . . . it’s a woman!”

“A woman!? You jest, Brother, surely.”

“No, it’s true. I know, I didn’t believe it at first either. I met her too, and she’s a sharp one. And to top it all, she’s only the daughter of old Hamilton, the Earl of Brandon. She’s one of us!”

“Good Lord,” Nathaniel breathed, throwing down the rest of his whisky in one gulp and loosening his cravat.

“And I have her address. Got Dolly to write it all down.” He fumbled in his pockets and pulled out a small notebook, flicking through the pages.

Nathaniel sat up straight in his chair. “Hang on, have you had this planned all along?”

“Of course. Just doing what you always taught me, brother—being prepared.”

“And what are you getting out of all this? Because I know you have an ulterior motive.”

Jonathan smiled innocently. “Oh, well, it might have something to do with my plan to propose to Dolly at Lord Mackie’s daughter’s coming out ball in three weeks’ time. When I tell her you’ve hired Louisa Hamilton, she won’t be able to refuse me.”

“I knew it,” Nathaniel grumbled. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in writing to the woman.”

“Exactly, and no time like the present, brother. I need a reply as quickly as possible. So, you get the pen and paper, and I’ll give you the details, yes? Then, I can arrange with Briggs to have it sent by messenger tomorrow, first thing.” He looked up at Nathaniel, who was staring at him, open-mouthed, and added, “Well, don’t just sit there, Nat, this can’t wait.”

Shaking his head, wondering if he was drunk or just losing his mind, Nathaniel went to carry out his brother’s orders.

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