of mine will be hung together in a fitting setting is a matter of such importance to me it gives me the hope that you may find yourself able to oblige me.
Tallie dropped the pages onto the sofa and stared blankly at Peter. ‘Do you know what is in the letter?’
‘Yes, Miss Grey. Mr Harland wishes you to sit for him one last time.’
Tallie’s immediate reaction was simply to say ‘no', but then the recollection of how grateful she had been for the money Mr Harland paid her, the gentlemanly manner in which he had always treated her and his intense belief and pride in his classical paintings made her hesitate.
‘I do not know when I can sit for him, though,’ she said. ‘Lady Parry is away, but when she returns she will expect me to accompany her. It would be difficult to explain why I wished to spend several hours at the studio.’ She bit her lip. ‘I suppose this afternoon …?’
‘Mr Harland is painting a portrait this afternoon and the gentleman in question will be attending the studio.’
‘Oh, dear. Then I cannot say, for I do not know when Lady Parry will return—it could even be tomorrow.’
‘Would this evening be convenient, Miss Grey?’ Peter asked hopefully.
‘But the light—surely that would be impossible?’
‘Mr Harland has invested in some of the new oil lamps, Miss Grey—why, it is almost as light as day with those all lit up.’
Tallie bit her lip. It seemed that both circumstances and her own conscience were conspiring together.
‘Shall I tell Mr Harland a time?’ the colourman pressed.
‘Eight o’clock?’ Tallie suggested faintly. She could have an early dinner and take a hackney. Rainbird would suppose her to be going to Upper Wimpole Street, for she had not mentioned to him that the household was away.
In the event it proved almost too easy to evade difficult questions, for Rainbird had not been in the hall when she asked a footman to call her a hackney carriage. She remarked carelessly that she was going to meet friends and the sight of her evening dress and opera cloak was obviously sufficiently usual for the young man not to make the sort of more probing enquiry that the butler in his more privileged position would have had no hesitation in making.
Tallie checked nervously up and down Bruton Street but could see no one lurking suspiciously in the evening drizzle and she sat back against the squabs feeling slightly reassured. It appeared that her mysterious follower had gone—or she had refined too much upon a series of coincidences.
As they neared Panton Square, however, she discovered that her stomach was a mass of butterflies. Somehow there was all the difference in the world in sitting for Mr Harland when it was a routine matter of earning her living. Now—with no excuse other than a sense of obligation that she was certain any respectable lady would tell her was misplaced—she was creeping out alone in a cab, dressed up to deceive the servants and feeling thoroughly uneasy about the entire enterprise.
The hackney turned into Panton Square. Too late to go back now, she told herself firmly, paying the driver. She would insist that Peter found her a cab for the return journey before she left the house, she decided, glancing up nervously from returning her purse to her reticule as another cab drew up a little further down. But the short, middle-aged man who climbed down bore no resemblance to her sinister follower and she watched in relief as he opened an area gate and vanished down the steps after a word with the driver.
Once she was inside a sense of familiarity took over from the nervousness and she climbed the stairs to the attic studio, feeling calmer. The artist had the large canvas already set up and his palette set and was busily adjusting the bright new lamps around the model’s podium and the old blue screen.
‘My dear Miss Grey, I cannot thank you enough,’ he exclaimed, bustling forward to shake her hand. ‘I understand how difficult it is for you now, but to be able to complete the canvases … to know that they will be fittingly hung, even if it is in remote and private rooms, not in a gallery … I cannot begin to explain …’
‘I quite understand,’ Tallie assured him. ‘I will just go and change.’
‘I have set up screens, in the corner.’ Harland gestured to a set of old Spanish leather folding screens from which hung a length of white linen. ‘With the new lamps it is so much warmer up here, I thought it would be more convenient.’
Tallie found the screened area contained a chair, a mirror and a clothes stand and began to undress. She had chosen the evening gown for its ease of removal and was soon draped in the linen and unpinning her hair. The gold filet hung from the mirror and within a few minutes Diana stared back at herself in the fly-spotted glass. Forcing herself to be practical, Tallie flicked her hair into the style of the portrait, gathered the linen around her as modestly as she could and went to stand on her mark.
After the first few, strange, minutes it simply became ordinary and familiar again. The attic still creaked, mice still scuffled in the corners and the familiar drafts penetrated even the warmth created by the powerful spermaceti lamps. The artist paced and muttered behind her, once hurrying down to twitch the hem of the linen drape, again to adjust the angle of the lights.
After an hour he observed, ‘Splendid! Splendid. Now, Miss Grey, if you would like to take ten minutes to rest, then I believe another half-hour will see all complete.’
Tallie swathed the drape around her and turned, flexing her shoulders gratefully. ‘How are the other canvases progressing, Mr Harland? Are you—?’
She broke off at the sound of thunderous knocking on the street door and froze, gazing at the artist in wild surmise. What was happening? It seemed just like that terrifying afternoon when Jack Hemsley and his friends had invaded the studio.
Harland threw open the attic door and once again, just like that nightmare day, Peter’s voice rose up the stairwell. ‘No, sir! You cannot go up there! Mr Harland is occupied.’
Tallie grabbed his arm. ‘Who is it? Are you expecting anyone?’
‘No! Get back inside, I will go down …’
But the sound of footsteps was clear on the stairs. Someone with a long stride was taking the stairs at the run. Frantic, Tallie spun round and began to flee across the dusty floor towards the only hiding place, the closet.
But she was only halfway there when the attic door crashed open behind her. She turned again, clutching the illusory protection of the linen drape around her and stared wild-eyed at the doorway where a man was thrusting the protesting artist aside with a peremptory hand.
Mr Harland staggered back and, trembling, Tallie braced herself for humiliation, disgrace and the ruin of her reputation.
Chapter Fifteen
His lungs heaving from the effort of taking four precipitous flights of stairs at the run, Nick Stangate stood in the doorway and regarded the goddess standing at bay in front of him. In the strong light she seemed bathed in a strange sunlight that gave her an ancient magic all her own and his breath caught in awe. Then he saw her wide, frightened eyes, the way her breasts rose and fell with her breathing, the courage that made her stay there,
