The Undying Legion Page 12

  “Well done, Malcolm.” Simon laughed and handed Kate down. “Very snide. I’ll make a London gentleman out of you yet.”

  “I’ll kill myself, or more likely you, first. Where’s Penny? Why doesn’t she have to endure this?”

  “She wanted to spend a bit of time with her brother, understandably,” Simon replied.

  Malcolm’s gaze darkened, knowing now what Penny had been through recently. Simon added, “Besides, she said she wasn’t really salon material.”

  Malcolm snorted. “And I am?”

  “You’re our poetry expert, Malcolm. Plus, you’re tall and handsome and Scottish. Quite the showpiece.” Simon led the way to the door and shoved it open. The warm damp of a crowd and the cloying scent of opium assaulted them. A few flushed faces turned their way, seeking familiarity or recognition, but then returned to their previous activities.

  The dour Scotsman gazed over the crowd and leaned toward Simon. “I don’t detect a ripple of awe at your appearance.”

  “They’re all quite intoxicated.” Simon helped Kate with her jacket and removed his own, along with his hat and gloves. No butler came forward, so he draped the coats over his arm.

  “It’s mainly women,” Simon observed.

  “What are they doing?” Malcolm’s brows knit together.

  Most of the people, who were gathered in small groups, visible in the flickering candlelight, in the large greeting room or through the wide doorway of a parlor, were young women. However, there was no idle female activity such as needlepoint or tea sipping as in country homes. They were animated in discussion, and many held books, reading from them or referencing passages for their friends. Several of them were smoking pipes, whether tobacco or opium was unclear, but either was unusual in a public place. Men sat with them, almost as afterthoughts, and hardly the centers of attention.

  Kate replied dryly, “It looks as if they are thinking and speaking. I can see how that might come as a shock.”

  The Scotsman looked at her, surprised by her sarcasm.

  She raised an eyebrow. “It is amazing to see how you are both surprised and confounded by the mere sight of women partaking equally in society.” The two men started to object, but she continued, “Please don’t. If these were men talking seriously, reading, smoking, ignoring you, it would have made no impression. But since they are women, you are nonplussed, as if you’ve walked into a room on Mars.”

  Simon chuckled. “It appears Kate has shot past Whiggish reform, pushed through July Terror, and is bound for Wollstonecraft utopianism. But,” he admitted thoughtfully, “she is quite right. I think nothing of women laboring equally in our unique community, but I still fall back on old ways elsewhere. I’m ashamed before you, Kate. Again.”

  “Well, I’m not ashamed,” Malcolm growled. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Simon turned to the Scotsman. “You see, Mary Wollstonecraft is—”

  “I know that bit, you pompous ass. You think I spent my time at university in the Grassmarket pubs?”

  Simon looked contemplative, then saw an unusual sight across the crowded room. There were two people, obviously a couple. A large man and a small woman, at least small compared to him. Simon recognized the man. It was the ambassador from the United States, Mansfield by name. They had met briefly at various parties and balls. Ambassador Mansfield was a large man, not fat, but powerful, with a chest like a draft horse. He was a pleasant enough fellow.

  The woman Simon had never met nor seen before. She must have been the fabled Mary Mansfield, the ambassador’s wife. Little was known about her and she had become a bit of a legend in social circles since Mansfield presented his credentials to the Court of St. James last year. The fact that she rarely attended social events, which would seem a requirement for an ambassador’s wife, was a topic of much speculation. And even more notable, when she did make the odd appearance, it was always an odd appearance indeed. And tonight was no exception.

  Mrs. Mansfield was at least a foot shorter than her husband but hardly insubstantial or hidden in his shadow. She was dressed as if for a Turkish seraglio, with silken pantaloons and shoes that curled up at the toe. The odd clothing showed her figure to fine effect. She wore a long, colorful mantle that draped to the floor and her hands were covered in bright green gloves. Her face was lost in a silken veil that completely hid her features. To top it off, she wore a sizeable turban upon which perched a large, stuffed bird, wings spread.

  Simon could barely pry his gaze from the peculiar bird, which seemed to stare at him so he hardly noticed the odd couple moving closer until he heard “Simon Archer!” blaring in an American voice. “I didn’t know I’d see you here, but I’m damned glad I have. Now I have someone to talk to.” Mansfield cast his eyes about him with unguarded disdain. “Mary likes to come out every so often. And I do run into a lot of important people here, so it’s useful for me to attend. I’ve even seen Grace North out here. Now, there’s a lovely women. You know, the prime minister’s wife. Of course you know; he’s your prime minister. But in general, the people here aren’t my type of crowd though. Oh, you’re not a regular, are you? Sorry if you are.”

  “Good evening, Your Excellency.” Simon bowed, covering a smirk at the man’s American bluntness. “No, this is my first time.”

  “Good, good. How are you, my boy, how are you?” Mansfield shook Simon’s hand vigorously as he angled toward Kate, expecting an introduction.

  “I am well, sir. Thank you. May I present—”

  “Kate Anstruther.” The ambassador flashed a grin and kissed Kate’s hand. “I saw you at the Duke of Lincoln’s summer regatta but never had the fortune to speak. It’s a great honor, Miss Anstruther. Your father, Sir Roland, was an enormous hero of mine. I’ve read all about his travels and expeditions. He was a man among men. I was honored to meet him once in New Orleans many years ago. I’d welcome the chance to talk about him with you.”

  “Thank you, Your Excellency.” Kate looked mildly confused. “I didn’t know my father had been to New Orleans, but he did move around quite a bit.”

  “And this,” Simon continued, “is Malcolm MacFarlane.”

  Mansfield, to his democratic credit, greeted Malcolm with the same enthusiasm. “MacFarlane. Scotsman, eh? I enjoy your whiskey.”

  “Thank you,” Malcolm said, his mouth a thin line. “I’ll tell them.”

  The ambassador laughed and turned to the outrageous shape beside him. “I have the unique opportunity to introduce my wife, Mary.”

  Simon bowed deeply and reached for Mrs. Mansfield’s hand, but she didn’t move, like a statue from a harem. As he straightened, he smoothly raised the empty hand to his mouth to cover a slight cough. “Mrs. Mansfield, a great pleasure to meet you, and may I compliment you on the tasteful size of the taxidermied bird on your head?”

  Her response was a bare whisper. “People have died for far less than this bird giving his life for fashion.”

  Ambassador Mansfield laughed. “Yes, yes. The poor thing’s just returned from a long tour of the Continent and the Levant. Literally just off the boat a few days ago. But she wanted to come tonight. She’s quite the warhorse.”

  “You must be exhausted.” Simon smiled at her faceless lace visage. “I presume.”

  Mansfield crossed his arms and took up a position as if his wife was no longer present, as indeed she barely was. “Mary loves to travel. I hardly see her. I’d wager we haven’t spent five months together since we met in Egypt, what was it, Mary, four years ago?”

  The woman said, “It seems longer.”

  “You’ve traveled in Egypt, Your Excellency?” Kate asked the ambassador.

  “Business, Miss Anstruther. I’m in cotton. Know anything about cotton, Archer?”

  “No more than any other plant.”

  “Well, they grow a lot of it in Egypt. Most people think the place is a barren desert, but all along the Nile River is good farmland. Ever been to Egypt?”

  “No.”

/>   “Damn place is full of old things. I bought a boatload of mummies for a few piasters and sold them to aristocrats all over Europe for a tidy profit.”

  “So you’re interested in ancient Egyptian culture?”

  “Not particularly. Most of the time, it’s all a bunch of pictures of men standing sideways.” Mansfield looked at his motionless wife, who cleared her throat. He stiffened, then gave the perfunctory smile to Simon that their conversation needed to end. “Well, all this diplomacy has made me thirsty.”

  Simon bowed again. “Thank you for your kindness, Your Excellency, Mrs. Mansfield. Will you excuse us?”

  “Sure, Archer. Let’s find time for a glass of champagne together later. Miss Anstruther, a great honor. I hope to see you again. Mr. MacFarlane, good to meet you.”

  Simon led his two companions past the unusual couple. When they were acceptably buffered by a noisy cocoon of surrounding conversations, Malcolm said, “What in hell is the situation with his wife?”

  “Shh.” Simon tried not to laugh. Kate did laugh and nudged the Scotsman as Simon said, “No one knows apparently. She has never shown her face in public. She remains a frustrating enigma to the society papers.”

  Kate said quietly, “You have to admit though, she sports a gigantic bird with great aplomb. That’s very difficult for a petite woman.”

  Simon gestured to the crowds. “In any case, we are here to have a look at Rowan Barnes if we can find him through the smoke.”

  Kate held up a finger and strolled on into the parlor. The two men followed, as if she were their ticket of acceptable entry in this salon of women. There were a few glances of interest from the gathered but no attempt to engage the newcomers. Simon stepped over the sprawled legs of a few women and men who had indulged a bit much in opium and lay senseless in a corner. There were other women who sat together, holding hands, engaged in close intimacy that seemed a bit more than sisterly chatter. Nothing he hadn’t seen before, but here at Red Orchid it seemed more comfortable and natural, not hidden in shadows.

  Kate paused to chat with several young women who were huddled over small volumes of poetry. They smiled in welcome and pointed up.

  Kate returned. “Rowan Barnes is upstairs.”

  Malcolm leaned close to his partners. “What’s our play? Are we taking action against the man?”

  “No,” Simon said. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’re here to talk and observe. We need evidence against Barnes first.”

  “Right enough.” Malcolm adjusted his pistol under his coat. “You two should be able to handle a painter. I’ll nose about down here.”

  “Let’s not have a riot,” Simon cautioned, and started up the stairs with Kate.

  As they made their way up, they saw paintings hanging as well as stacked against the wall. Landscapes. Scenes of heroic figures and biblical images. Most of the figures were nude. Simon stopped to peruse.

  “Common,” Kate observed. “He doesn’t reach very far, does he?”

  “You think not? This Brutus at the Temple of Diana is vigorous and powerful, yet touching and with pathos. There is skill in perspective and color. It has the common immediacy of watercolor but with a foundation of excellent draftsmanship.”

  “Please. All heavenly light and muscles. I wouldn’t hang it in my stables.”

  Simon suddenly wondered with alarm if his tastes were more plebian than he had thought. He took Kate’s arm and went on. The upstairs was more open than the ground floor thanks to a peaked roof. The hallway was still crowded and hazy, and all space seemed occupied by small groups deep in discussion or busy sketching. It seemed questionable that the old wooden floor could hold up under the strain of so many feet. Kate led the way to a large doorway that opened onto a vast chamber, likely once a ballroom. A throng of fifty people, overwhelmingly women, stood shoulder to shoulder inside. Beyond the multitude of heads, in the center of the room, was a man and an easel. The fellow had his back to the door. He was tall and well built, clad in black pants and a blousy white shirt. His red hair was tied in a long queue.

  Beyond the easel, Simon saw a nude woman leaning on a marble pedestal. The blatant exhibition of her nakedness in the center of so many clothed people struck Simon as decadent and shocking. But he realized there was no sense of licentiousness or judgment in the room. The model herself displayed no embarrassment and her attitude was as normal as if she had been chatting with a friend in Hyde Park on a Sunday.

  Rowan Barnes moved around the easel with odd, palsied motions. He was silent, pausing to study the nude woman, then making swift definitive strikes against the canvas as if it were an enemy. Seemingly random marks combined over time to form an extraordinary rendition of the model’s body. The artist left the easel to prowl around the naked women. He gave off a sense of fascination without lewdness. He admired and studied her anatomy as one would a fine home or a wild glen.

  There was no restless shuffling or whispered conversations in the crowd. They watched Barnes as if he would soon pronounce some great discovery.

  The artist had been bent over making a close inspection of the model’s lower back when his face rose over her shoulder, and he froze. His eyes peered toward the door, two shining caramel-brown lights. The crowd began to look at one another, slowly turning around to find the object of the great man’s attention.

  “I was hoping to stay more unobtrusive,” Simon whispered. “This is embarrassing for me.”

  “More embarrassing than you know,” Kate responded quietly, “because they’re looking at me.”

  Simon reevaluated Barnes’s fierce gaze. The object was indeed Kate. Not surprising, Simon realized. Kate was quite the most fascinating woman in London.

  “That’s what I meant,” he said.

  “Of course it is.”

  Barnes ran his hand along the model’s bare shoulders and whispered something to her, never shifting his stare away from Kate. The blond nude looked briefly at Kate too. The artist parted the crowd, slowly striding toward the door. He stopped a few feet from Kate, regarding her as if she didn’t have a male companion with his arm looped through hers. Barnes extended his hand with its long, supple fingers.

  “I am Rowan Barnes.”

  “Enchanted.” Kate took his hand with a bemused half curtsy. “I am—”

  “Kate Anstruther.” He turned her hand as if studying her knuckles and tendons in slightly different light. “I know you.”

  “Do you?”

  “May I say you have remarkable proportions?”

  Kate smiled uncomfortably. Barnes tilted his head, peering at Kate’s face like an object. He had yet to slide his gaze over her sensuous figure. That was admirable restraint, Simon thought with mild annoyance at the man’s boldness because even he found it impossible to keep himself from staring as she left a room.

  Kate sighed. “May I present my companion, Mr. Simon Archer.”

  Barnes didn’t even glance at him. “Archer? I’ve heard your name.”

  “Have you now?” Simon gave Kate a smug, knowing look.

  Kate extracted her hand from the artist’s grip. “Would you be so good, Mr. Barnes, as to cease staring at me?”

  “I’m truly sorry. You’re hypnotic. Your face is … mathematically perfect.”

  Simon briefly thought that was an excellent line.

  “I must paint you,” Barnes exclaimed.

  “Must you really?” Kate exhaled, growing annoyed.

  “Yes.” Barnes was sincere, or at least a remarkable facsimile of it. There was no hint of the trolling lascivious artist tempting an eager model. He was only tempting a savage beating as he continued to stare into Kate’s face. “You are the protofemale. You are the emanation of the primeval woman.”

  “I am impressed by your boldness, sir,” she replied, “if confused by your words. However, you seem to travel with an ample supply of women who would pose for you.”

  “I see none of them with you here. I see my Jerusalem in you. Would that I could worship you
with burnt offerings and pungent oils.” Barnes pressed his hands together in obvious passion. “You must pose for me. I would make yours the most famous visage in England … in the world. Armies of men would go forth with your face in their hearts.”

  “No doubt you feel it is the dream of all women to be the object of men going forth,” Kate replied sarcastically. “But some of us serve in lesser ways.”

  “There can be no lesser way for a woman such as you.” Barnes’s eyes were wide with fervor. “If you do not allow me to paint you, I will burn this place to the ground with everyone in it! For there will no longer be a purpose here. I swear by all the gods I will!”

  Simon laughed. “I’ve heard the arts are not for those with a sense of compromise.”

  Barnes continued to stare at Kate, but said, “I am not sure why you choose to accompany this man. Surely not for his wit.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Simon said. “We cackle like hyenas from morning till night.”

  The painter was done with the diffident playboy now. He gave no sign of hearing Simon and only gazed at Kate with ferocious desire. She met his eyes with admirable concentration. The two of them stood like that, the faces of desire and intellect, in confrontation for a minute. The crowd watched with breathless anticipation.

  Simon finally cleared his throat softly and leaned to Kate’s ear. “Are you actually considering this offer?”

  “No, I’m not considering it. I’m doing it,” Kate said firmly. She gave Simon a quick smile of confidence and nodded to the artist. “I have made a decision. I will pose for you, Mr. Barnes.”

  The artist clenched his hands together and dropped to both knees in a religious swoon. He swept his arms around Kate’s knees and embraced her.

  Simon and Kate glanced down at the top of the man’s head while he clutched her legs in supplication.

  “Well,” Simon said, “this shouldn’t go wrong.”

  Chapter 14

  Kate tapped the enraptured Barnes on the shoulder. “When shall we begin? How long until you finish your current painting?”