shabby and meek, with bare feet and a shawl around her thin shoulders.
‘Matches,’ she called hoarsely, ‘matches.’
Cameo crouched down and smiled. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello, miss.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘It’s Becky, miss. Do you want some matches?’
‘I don’t have any money with me.’ Why hadn’t she brought her reticule with her? She normally did, for she kept a tiny sketchbook and sharpened pencils inside, but she’d rushed out in such a hurry. ‘I’ll bring you some another day, I promise.’
The girl sighed. ‘That’s all right.’
‘I will, Becky. Perhaps now you can help me. Do you know how to get in to where the people live upstairs?’
‘You go round the back, miss, down that alleyway. There’s a red door.’
‘Thank you,’ Cameo called, already moving away.
A cat yowled as she entered the dingy alley. For a moment she hesitated before she picked her way through the sodden newspaper, broken glass bottles, cabbage stalks and something that looked like—no; it couldn’t be. Edging around the rubbish, she narrowly avoided a puddle of something that looked and smelled worse.
The red door, if the flakes of peeling paint identified it as such, was ajar. At her touch it swung open wider, creaking.
Inside the cramped entrance hall, she stared, half fascinated, half appalled. She’d never visited such a rundown establishment. The walls had been white once, perhaps, but now they were an indeterminate colour, yellow or cream, with water marks at the bottom, where the damp had crept in. A staircase with a worn green runner lay directly in front of her, the woodwork scuffed and dull.
Dust dirtied her white-kid gloves as she gripped the banister. She brushed them on her skirt. Up two narrow flights of steps she climbed, passing closed doors on each landing, checking numbers as she went and up a third flight, which was narrower still.
Out of breath, she reached the attic door at the top. It bore no number, just a name plate beside it, simple and beautiful. She hadn’t expected something so unique. Carved from a piece of oak, a pattern of leaves and berries had been etched on to its square edges, and at the centre scrolled the name: Benedict Cole.
Well, now, Benedict Cole. You’re about to receive a surprise visit from a society lady.
Her heart drummed as she rapped on the door. No reply.
Under her skirts she tapped her foot. She knocked again, harder.
The door flung open. Cameo gasped and fell backwards at the sheer force of the man who glowered in front of her, his fist gripping a paintbrush. Benedict Cole. She knew it with a certainty flaming inside her belly. Tall, with dark hair that swooped over his forehead, he wore a loose, unbuttoned painting shirt covered with blotches of dried oils in a frenzy of colours. Yet his eyes held her attention. Dark brown, under heavy black brows, they blazed with a fierce inner light that seared into her very soul.
‘You’re too late.’ His educated accent held an unexpected warm burr.
With a huge gulp of air she tried to steady her ragged breathing. ‘Too late?’
‘I’m too busy to see you now.’ He started to close the door.
‘Wait! I must see you. You are Benedict Cole?’
He scowled. ‘Who else would be working in my studio?’
‘Please. Just give me a few minutes of your time.’
Eyebrows drawn together, he studied her. ‘You’ve seen the notice.’
‘The notice...?’
‘Will you please stop repeating every word I say? Are you dim-witted as well as unpunctual? Yes, my notice seeking a new model. I have a major new work in mind.’
‘You’re looking for a model. For your painting.’
‘How many times do we have to have this conversation? If you’re not here to be considered, then why exactly are you here wasting my time?’
In a flash, she realised what had happened. ‘Well, actually...’
‘Well, actually what?’ he mimicked, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sneer.
How dare this man speak to her in such a manner? In person he was just as rude as in his letter, even ruder if that were possible. Cameo opened her mouth to tell him of his mistake in no uncertain terms and then snapped it shut again.
Her mind whirred. He’d made it clear he didn’t wish to provide painting lessons to Lady Catherine Mary St Clair. Now, upon seeing him, he appeared to be the kind of man who would never change his mind.
Cameo smiled. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late, Mr Cole. You’re quite right. I’ve come to be your model.’
‘As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade,
She stood.’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’
‘We’ll see about that.’ Benedict Cole arched his eyebrow. ‘You’d better come in and let me look at you.’
Leaving the door ajar, he turned away. ‘Are you coming in or not?’
Cameo followed him into the studio. Was it necessary for him to be so abrupt? He turned his back on her, something that was never done in society. Yet her irritation vanished as she surveyed her surroundings. Why, the studio was exactly the kind of space she had always wished she might have one day. The light that flooded in from the windows was so much better than in the drawing room at home. It glinted on the tools of the painter’s trade scattered everywhere: papers, pots of oil paints, rags, bottles and brushes, and canvases propped against the walls. A huge easel, much stronger than her slender folding one, dominated the room. There were no fine carpets to worry about here, just wooden floorboards, scratched and worn.
Her eyes closed. She savoured the smell of oil paint and turpentine permeating the studio. No perfume had ever smelled so sweet. Upon opening her eyes, she encountered the artist’s stare.
‘Are you quite well?’
A flush heated her cheeks. ‘I like the smell of oil paints and turpentine, that’s all.’
‘That’s unusual. Many models complain about it. They say it makes them feel ill.’
‘How could anyone not like the smell of paints?’
‘It’s a point in your favour.’ He threw aside his paintbrush and beckoned. ‘Come over by the window.’
‘Why?’
‘Why
