After coffee, he asked, ‘Did you mean it about showing me your work?’
‘Sure.’ She took him through to the library. ‘I guess it starts here. We took the window out this afternoon.’
‘There’s a facsimile of the window on the boards,’ he said, sounding surprised.
‘People come especially to Edensfield to see the mermaid window. I don’t want to disappoint them by hiding everything behind scaffolding,’ she explained. ‘I went to Venice when they were doing some work on the Bridge of Sighs, and they’d put a facsimile of the bridge on the advertising hoardings. I thought that was a brilliant idea and I’ve tried to do something like that with my own work, ever since.’
‘Good idea,’ he said.
‘Come and see the mermaid up close. She’s gorgeous. Victorian—very much in the style of Burne-Jones, though she isn’t actually one of his.’
* * *
He smiled. ‘I was thinking earlier, if you’d been wearing a green velvet dress, you would look like a PRB model.’
‘Thank you for the compliment.’ She blushed, looking pleased. ‘That’s my favourite art movement.’
‘Mine, too.’ He almost told her that his family had a collection and that Burne-Jones had sketched his great-great-grandmother. But then he’d have to explain who he was, and he wasn’t ready to do that yet.
‘I’d love the chance to work on some PRB glass.’ She gave a wistful smile. ‘Maybe one day.’ She led him into a room further down the corridor. ‘Gus set up this room as my workshop. Obviously we’ve had to rope off my table for health and safety purposes—I work with dangerous substances—but people can still talk to me and see what I’m doing. I have a camera on my desk and the picture feeds through to that screen over there, so they can see the close-up work in total safety.’
She was so matter-of-fact about it. ‘Don’t you mind working with an audience?’ he asked. ‘Doesn’t it get in your way?’
‘The house is only open for a few hours, four days a week,’ she said with a shrug. ‘The visitors won’t be that much of a distraction.’
The window from the library had already been dismantled into frames; the one containing the mermaid was in the centre of her table.
‘I took close-ups of the panel this afternoon so I have a complete photographic record,’ she said. ‘Next I’m going to take it apart, clean it all and start the repairs.’
‘Which is why the camera’s one of the tools of your trade.’ He understood that now. ‘I’m sorry I accused you of being a pap.’
‘You’ve apologised—and nicely—so consider it forgotten.’ She looked at him. ‘Though if you really want to make it up to me, there is something you could do.’
Quid pro quo. It was a standard part of diplomacy. Though part of Lorenzo was disappointed that she’d asked. He’d thought that Indigo might be different. But maybe everyone had their price, after all. ‘Which is?’
‘Would you sit for me?’
He blinked. ‘Sit for you?’
‘So I can draw you.’
He’d already worked that out. ‘Why?’
She spread her hands. ‘Because you look like an angel.’
Heat spread through him. Was this her way of telling him that she was attracted to him? Did she feel the same weird pull that he did? ‘An angel?’ He knew he was parroting what she said, but he didn’t care if he sounded dim. He needed to find out where this was going.
‘Or a medieval prince.’
That was rather closer to home. Though he thought her ignorance about his identity was totally genuine. ‘And what would sitting for you involve?’ he asked.
‘Literally just sitting still while I sketch you. Though modelling is a bit hard on the muscles—having to sit perfectly still and keep the same expression for a minimum of ten minutes is a lot more difficult than most people think. So I’d be happy to compromise with taking photographs and working from them, if that makes it easier for you.’
Which was where this had all started. ‘Is that why you took my photograph?’
She nodded. ‘You were scowling like a dark angel. You were going to be perfect for Lucifer.’
‘Why, thank you, Ms Moran,’ he said dryly.
She grinned. ‘It’s meant as a compliment. Or you could be Gabriel, if you’d rather.’
‘Didn’t Gabriel have blond hair?’
‘In the carol,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘his wings were drifts of snow, his eyes of flame.’
On impulse, he sang a snatch of the carol.
Her eyes widened. ‘I wasn’t expecting that. You have a lovely voice, Mr Torelli.’
‘Thank you.’ He bowed slightly in acknowledgement of the compliment.
‘So will you sit for me?’
He was tempted. Seriously tempted. But it was all too complicated. ‘Ask me another time,’ he said softly. When he’d worked out how to say no while letting her down gently. ‘Tell me about your work here. The mermaid’s face is damaged, so are you going to replace that bit of the glass with a copy?’
‘I could do, but that would be a last resort. I want to keep as much of the original glass as possible.’ She grimaced. ‘I’d better shut up. I can bore for England on this subject.’
‘No, I’m interested. Really.’
‘Trust me, you don’t want to hear me drone on about the merits of epoxy, silicon and copper foil,’ she said dryly.
He smiled. ‘OK. Tell me something else. What’s the story behind the mermaid?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Gus hasn’t told you?’
‘It’s not exactly the kind of thing that comes up when you’re a schoolboy,’ he said, ‘and since we left school I guess we’ve had other things to talk about.’
‘Rebuke acknowledged,’ she said.
He wrinkled his nose. ‘That wasn’t a rebuke.’
* * *
Maybe not. It hadn’t been quite like the way he’d spoken to her in the garden, when he’d been all stuffy and pompous.
‘Tell me about the mermaid,’ he invited.
He really meant it, she realised in wonder. He actually wanted to hear what she had to say. ‘So the story goes, many years ago the Earl was a keen card-player. He won against almost everyone—except one night, when he played against a tall,
