as she had hastened around the racking.
Harland’s voice was clearly audible as she stood there, shivering with cold and fear, her ear pressed against the door panels. He sounded flustered. ‘Gentlemen, as you can see, I am alone, but really not in a fit state to receive. However, now you are here, what can I do for you, Mr Hemsley? Something about a portrait of your aunt, I believe you wrote?’
‘Alone?’ The owner of the arrogant voice—Mr Hemsley, she deduced—appeared to take no notice of the artist’s question. ‘Your man said you had a model up here.’
‘He is mistaken. I was working from the nude earlier, but—’
‘Nude, I’ll say! See here, you fellows!’ This voice was younger, excited.
‘Take care, my lord! That platform is not very stable!’ So, one of them had climbed up to the canvas.
‘Bloody hell.’ It was Hemsley, his voice strangely flat with what even Tallie in her innocence could recognise as lust. Then the excitement came back to his tone. ‘I’ll bet she’s still here, Harland, you dog. Come on, men, yoicks and tally-ho!’
‘For heaven’s sake, Hemsley.’ The sardonic man sounded utterly uninterested. ‘How much longer do you intend hanging around in this squalid attic? Oh, very well, if nothing will satisfy you but to search, let us search. I will look over here, you and the others take the rest. Doubtless we will discover some large spiders, a dead starling or two and any number of mice.’
The voice was getting closer as he spoke. Tallie thought wildly of seizing the door handle and holding on if he tried to open it, but the possibility of being dragged out into the open in such an undignified way only added to the horror. The approaching footsteps halted. From the far side of the attic there was the sound of boisterous searching, excited cries and the occasional ‘Do be careful of those canvases, gentlemen!’ from the agitated artist.
The footsteps resumed, rounded the corner of the racking if her straining ears were correct, and stopped outside the closet. Tallie turned her back on the door, moved as far away from it as she could and, wrapping her arms around her shrinking body, awaited the worst.
Her hair fell on either side of her bowed head giving her the fragile illusion of shelter and anonymity. But even that vanished as the door creaked open, sending light from the studio flooding into the small space. It defeated the glimmer from the closet window and spilt the shadow of a man across the floor beside Tallie’s feet.
He did not move. Tallie could hear his breathing, steady and even, but she had also heard the sudden catch in it when he had first seen her. He was under control again now, standing there silently watching her. She could not drag her eyes away from the long shadow.
The unseen regard felt as though it was burning into her back. Tallie was well aware of just what he was seeing and a wave of scalding humiliation washed up her body. She was going to be sick, she knew it.
Oh, get it over with! she screamed silently. How can you torture me like this? At any moment he was going to call out and the whole pack of them would be there, leering, touching, jeering. Like an animal at bay she turned in upon herself, her mind too frozen with terror and shame to allow her coherent thought.
The shadow at her feet shifted. The man moved and something touched her shoulders lightly. It was a hand resting warm on the shrinking skin. The soft whisper of cloth brushed down her back and over her buttocks. Tallie choked on a scream and his voice—very soft, quite dispassionate—said, ‘Here, your wrap was caught on a nail. Be very quiet and everything will be all right, I promise you.’
I promise you. She believed him. The hand was lifted, but she realised he was standing very close just behind her, close enough to whisper in her ear without the sound penetrating outside, close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath. There was the sound of a long indrawn breath and Tallie had the strange sense that he was inhaling the scent of her. When he spoke again there was an edge to the controlled voice, the merest hint that he was finding her proximity unsettling.
‘I am putting the key in the lock on the inside; as soon as I am gone, turn it.’ No, she was imagining it: he sounded practical, aloof, unaffected by the sight of the naked girl shivering before him at his mercy.
The door shut, cutting off the bright light. He had gone, leaving the tiny space feeling vast and empty. Over the sound of her own pounding heart she had not heard him move. The voices of the other hunters sounded suddenly loud outside. ‘What are you about, Nick? Run her to earth, have you?’
‘That closet is locked.’ He seemed to be speaking rather louder than necessary and Tallie, wrenching herself out of her frozen state with an effort, twisted the key in the lock, the sharp click masked by the noise outside. ‘The key was outside,’ the man Nick said.
Oh, clever, Tallie thought as her legs gave way under her and she sank slowly down the wall until she was huddled on the floor. The closet is locked and the key was outside, so it couldn’t have been locked from the inside. All perfectly truthful and all perfectly deceiving.
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, will you not come down to the first floor, where you will be more comfortable, and we can discuss the question of Lady Agatha’s portrait, Mr Hemsley.’ The voices, the excitement dying out of them now their hunt had ended in disappointment, receded down the stairs as the men followed Mr Harland.
Tallie stayed huddled on the floor until her breathing settled a little and the wave of nausea subsided. Then she realised that she was so cold that she could hardly move. With agonising slowness, like an old woman recovering from a fall, she clawed her way up the wall until she was on her feet again. The sharp noise of the key in the lock as she turned it made her jump, but with ears straining she pushed the door open and tiptoed out into the cold attic. Far below she could just make out voices. Mr Harland had them all safely in his first-floor studio, thank goodness, probably offering them the good Madeira he kept for clients.
Tallie crept down the stairs to the next floor and into the near-empty bedchamber that she used to change in. The water in the basin on the washstand was icy as she rinsed her dusty fingers, but the blessed security of her clothing as she pulled it on warmed her from the inside, even though the old wool dress was chill from the room. The scent of the jasmine water she habitually wore touched her nostrils. In the absence of her body heat it was a faint ghost of an aroma.
Her hair snagged and tugged as she pulled the comb through it, but she had to braid it tightly and pin it up so that her hat covered the pale blonde shimmer of it modestly. To an onlooker familiar with the detail of ladies’ fashions, the bonnet that she set on her now-subdued hair would have seemed surprisingly elegant in contrast to the shabby gown and pelisse. The straw was the finest pale Luton plait and the trimming, although modest enough, was of elegantly pleated grosgrain ribbon.
Safely and respectably dressed at last, Tallie ventured out onto the landing and peered over the rail. In the hall beneath she could see the tops of the hats of four gentlemen, a variety of well-tailored shoulders and the bare heads of Mr Harland and Peter, who had poked his dishevelled grey head out of his workshop door as the visitors left.
The last man paused and Tallie could hear his voice clearly. It was the sardonic tones of the man the others had called Nick, the man who had found and protected her hiding place. ‘Good day, Mr Harland. I trust we have not caused any of your household too much disturbance.’ The cool voice did not sound as though it was overly concerned, but Tallie was left with a strong impression of a gentleman who regarded his companions’ behaviour with fastidious distaste.
‘Thank
