‘Oh,’ Tallie managed feebly. ‘No, no, of course not.’
‘I am sorry, Aunt Kate,’ Nick said, gathering up his hat and gloves from the hall chest. ‘I had only dropped in for a minute. I have a business appointment now, otherwise I would be delighted to accompany you.’
Tallie’s anger that he had considered ‘only a minute’ sufficient to discuss yesterday’s encounter allowed her to put on her outdoor clothing and join Lady Parry in the carriage without refining too much upon where they were going. But once the carriage started her thoughts began to spin.
She had written to Mr Harland, apologising for having to cease her sittings and had received back such a carefully worded reply that she was reassured about his continuing discretion. Absence, and Kate’s revelation that she knew all about her sittings, had lulled her still further.
Now she realised how dangerously she had let her guard down, even if Lady Parry knew her secret. What if Nick had been able to oblige his aunt and accompany them and saw something that linked Tallie and the naked Diana in his mind? Even a slight suspicion would be enough to spell disgrace.
The journey to Panton Square passed quickly, too quickly for Tallie, who was desperately trying to regain her composure. She held furs and muff for Lady Parry as she was handed down by the coachman, then descended herself. As she did so some instinct made her glance back to where the tiny square opened out into Coventry Street. A hackney had drawn up and a man was paying his fare—a thin man in an overlarge greatcoat. She shook her head, convinced she was imagining things. When she looked back both man and cab had gone.
The sound of the door opening behind her recalled her to the immediate problem and Tallie followed Lady Parry into the hallway of Mr Harland’s house. Peter the colourman was standing holding the door, his best green baize apron in place, his scanty grey hair carefully brushed. On ‘portrait days’ he was always well turned out to greet clients. On the days when Tallie had posed for the classical works he had hurried back to his workshop, oil-stained apron flapping, knife or pestle in hand.
He helped Lady Parry with her things, then saw Tallie behind her. ‘Miss Grey! This is a pleasure, miss. You’ll be glad to know I’ve managed to get a nice consignment of mummy in at long last.’
‘Good morning, Peter. I am pleased to hear that—supplies were getting very difficult, were they not?’ Peter had sometimes allowed her to look round his workshop and had explained the contents of the jars and twists of paper that filled each shelf and spilled from every drawer.
‘Mummy?’ Lady Parry, always ready to be interested in something new, paused with one hand on the baluster.
‘Yes, my lady. I’ll show you.’ The colourman vanished into his sanctum and emerged with a box, which he opened carefully. Inside were a number of fragile sheets of a flaking substance the colour of dried tobacco and a gnarled object which looked exactly like part of a human finger.
‘Whatever is it?’ Lady Parry asked, extending an elegantly gloved forefinger to prod it.
‘I rather think it is a … a human finger.’ Tallie swallowed. It had been fascinating to hear how artists ground up the remains dug from the hot Egyptian sands to use as a brown pigment. It was considerably less appealing to see it in the … flesh. She swallowed again. That had been an unfortunate thought.
‘Oh, my goodness! The poor creature! What do you want it for?’ Lady Parry withdrew her own finger sharply.
‘It was only a part of a heathen, my lady, and been dead since the Flood, I daresay.’ Peter shut his precious box carefully. ‘It makes a wonderful deep brown pigment; nothing quite matches it. But the cost, ma’am, that is terrible. Lucky those rogues who broke in last night didn’t think to come down here—why, I’ve got lapis and gold leaf—’
‘You had burglars? What happened?’ Tallie asked, concerned. ‘I do hope no one was hurt.’
‘Nothing like that, I am glad to say.’ It was Mr Harland, alerted by the voices, coming down to greet his new client. ‘Good day, Lady Parry, this is an honour. Miss Grey, how very nice to see you again.’ Tallie smiled despite herself. Frederick Harland might be vague, inconsiderate and distracted when painting, and he might profess to despise his portrait work, but he did know how to charm his lady clients with every attention.
He was ushering them up to his public studio and reception room, a world away from the dusty draughty attic where his great canvases would be set up and where Tallie was used to shivering in flimsy draperies.
‘Was anything taken?’ she asked as he drew up chairs for them next to a series of empty display easels.
‘No—a very strange thing, that.’ The artist frowned. ‘They rummaged through the canvases—fortunately damaged nothing—and that was all.’
‘Possibly they were disturbed,’ Lady Parry suggested. ‘Or they thought you might hide your valuables amongst them.’
‘You are most likely correct, ma’am. Now, as I understand you have decided upon a portrait and are most graciously entrusting me with the task. I think the first thing we must decide is the size and style of the work. I will show you some examples …’
He proceeded to prop canvases on the easels. First a head and shoulders of a formidable lady with grey hair. ‘Lady Agatha Mornington. I am about to begin varnishing this one.’ Tallie started nervously; this was Jack Hemsley’s aunt. Next, a three-quarters length of a young lady holding a child. Then a full-length canvas of a graceful figure in a clinging gown, one hand lightly resting on a classical pillar. It was a preparatory sketch only, but well detailed, and the face that smiled serenely back at the viewer was Tallie’s.
‘Ah, there is that delightful portrait I saw last time I was here,’ Lady Parry said with pleasure.
‘Yes, my lady. As you had already seen it, I thought there was no harm in producing it again, and I expect Miss Grey will be amused to see it once more. I will just fetch my notebook,’ Mr Harland said and left the room.
‘That … that is the picture of me you saw?’ Tallie asked, hideous apprehension beginning to ball in her stomach. ‘The one I sat for because Lady Smythe was expecting?’
‘Yes, of course, dear. Were there any others? I do think it is nice that Mr Harland bothered to draw your face, even though in the finished work it is Lady Smythe, of course.’
‘And that is the … costume you thought shocking?’ The ball of apprehension was turning into lead shot in the pit of her stomach.
‘It looks as though the petticoats have been dampened,’ Kate said severely. ‘One can see every line of your figure. And what is holding the bodice up—if one can call it a bodice—goodness only knows. Still, everyone knows Penelope Smythe thinks of herself as a dasher, and it must have hit her hard to have lost her figure, however temporary that state of affairs was.’
Tallie sank back in her chair aghast. So Lady Parry had not seen one of the shocking classical nudes, only this portrait. She should have trusted her instincts that her kind patroness was being too tolerant. Now what was she going to do?
Mr Harland had returned and he and Lady Parry were deep in discussion on the relative merits of head and shoulders and full length—three-quarters having been rapidly dismissed as neither one thing nor another. Eventually full length was decided upon, with a draped background. Tallie found it quite impossible to do more than keep an expression of interest on her face and then follow Lady Parry downstairs when her business was concluded.
Her head was spinning and she was conscious only of an overwhelming desire to throw herself on Nick Stangate’s chest and confess all. As this was dangerous insanity she stood on the pavement in the light mizzle which had just begun to fall and tried to drag air into her tightened lungs. Then she saw the man.
‘Tallie? What is it? You have gone quite