Page 5

E velyn had plastered the smile on her face for so long, her cheeks were starting to hurt… and still, she had not managed to find a way to interrupt this imbecile.

“—so you see, that is why some of the greatest painters don’t actually decide to use pencil when they are starting to mark out their ideas,” the blotchy-faced gentleman said with a simper. “Now, if you were to ask me…”

If he were to ask her, Evelyn could not help but think as she found herself nodding, almost hypnotized, she would have to point out that she had not asked him.

How Mr. Halifax had managed to speak for a full forty minutes without her interrupting, or even speaking, therefore, was quite fantastic.

Not fantastic in a positive way, though.

“—I always find, and I am more than happy to share my expertise with you, a budding new artist. After all, it’s only fair that you are given support,” declared Mr. Halifax in a patronizing manner that made Evelyn’s skin crawl.

“I’ve often thought—and I will give you this little piece of advice, Lady Evelyn, as you are trying to be a painter—”

“I am a painter.”

“As I said, as you are trying to be a painter,” said Mr. Halifax, speaking not so much over her as through her.

From the corner of the room, Laurent, her and Lucy’s lady’s maid from France, cleared her throat to cover a snort.

She seemed particularly occupied by the sewing in her hand.

Too occupied. Mr. Halifax hardly noticed.

“So nice for the ladies like yourself to have a hobby. As I was saying…”

Evelyn slumped back in her chair and wondered idly if Mr. Halifax’s throat would eventually give in. That, or she would fall asleep.

Well, it had been a complete disaster. Which was a shame, for the advertisement she had written up had been perfect.

Artist of significant talent but no renown seeks model for practice. No experience necessary. Skills required: sitting down and not moving for hours at a time. Recompense offered. No fools, please.

It had taken her a great deal of time to concoct the precise wording, and Evelyn had been proud of the result.

Detailed enough to hopefully entice someone who would not mind her practicing noses—noses really were most awkward—and vague enough that hopefully no one would realize that it was Lady Evelyn Chance, daughter of the Earl of Lindow, who was hoping for volunteers.

Well, not volunteers, precisely. She had put aside as much of her pin money as she could manage. She wasn’t going to allow a man to just sit around for nothing. But it had not been a very auspicious morning.

First, there had been Mr. Cooper.

“What, sit around? While you paint me?” He had sniffed curiously as the eyes in his wan, pear-shaped face had darted around the drawing room.

Evelyn had attempted to smile. It had taken a great deal of effort to persuade both her parents and both siblings to go out this afternoon.

She had wished for the house to herself so that she could interview the applicants who had sent notes through to the newspaper, the editor passing them on to her for a handshake, which had included a half crown.

Laurent had been particularly useful in such endeavors and adept at keeping secrets.

If all else failed and Evelyn were discovered or the gentlemen who came by talked about their visits to the rest of Society—at least she could plead that she had not been alone.

Despite all the wagging tongues, nothing truly improper would come from her efforts to expand her skills an artist. She’d make sure of that.

For all the interest Mr. Cooper had been showing, though, perhaps nothing whatsoever would come from her efforts.

“And can I hold some of your fancy stuff?” Mr. Cooper had asked hopefully. “Some of that china—or the gold stuff?”

When Mr. Cooper had been shown the door, politely, five minutes later, Evelyn had to, all in conscience, have a very awkward conversation with the butler about keeping a watch on the house for the next few nights.

Fortunately, the man had a fondness for her, and she could rely on him not to tell the earl and countess about the parade of applicants and the reasons for such vigilance going forward.

Fortunately, she was only somewhat certain Mr. Cooper was suffering from kleptomania.

Mr. Sharpe of the lobe-less ears had not been much better.

“I had thought you might be a famous artist,” he had said with barely concealed disappointment across his furrowed brow. “Having to use anonymity, you see, because you were so famous.”

Evelyn’s smile had become tense as she had tried to disregard Laurent’s little snort. “Well, as you can see, I am not.”

Mr. Sharpe had sniffed. “Disappointing.”

“I made no promises,” she had pointed out, temper rising.

“Yes, but—”

“Next!”

Mr. Moncrieff had been a Miss Moncrieff. Evelyn had grown excited at that point—perhaps she was an artist herself and understood the challenges of finding a suitable model—until she had opened her pouty-lipped mouth.

“I thought you might be a famous artist,” she had said, her voice dripping in displeasure. “I thought I could take off all my clothes for you and—”

“Next,” Evelyn had wearily. There had been no missing the way Laurent had cackled at that one.

By the time Mr. Halifax had arrived, she had started to give up hope. Perhaps the advertisement had not been the cleverest idea in the world. Perhaps her parents were right. Perhaps she would never find someone to sit for her, and her hopes of being a respected artist were for naught.

Which was galling in the extreme. Why, it wasn’t as though she could do much else.

Daughters of earls had to sit around and drink tea, or find some sort of cause, like Lucy had.

The idea that they may wish to improve themselves, do something themselves , had apparently never occurred to anyone more noble than a baronet.

“—and that is why you should never wash your paintbrushes in—”

“I am so sorry, Mr. Halifax, our time is at an end,” Evelyn said firmly, rising to her feet.

It was perhaps a tad rude, but desperate times called for desperate measures… and Lucy had just entered the drawing room.

Her sister’s eyes widened. “What on earth is going on?”

“ Goodbye , Mr. Halifax,” Evelyn said decidedly, actually grabbing the man by his arm now and dragging him toward the door. “Cawthorne will see you out.”

“But I haven’t finished telling you how to—”

“I am certain I can work it out for myself, thank you.” Honestly!

There should be a term , Evelyn thought furiously as she practically slammed the door behind Mr. Halifax and left him in the hallway, for the way a gentleman attempts to tell a lady something as though he were an expert—when it is the lady herself who knows well the topic of conversation!

“Good afternoon, Lady Lucy.” Laurent stood, folding the dress she had spent the last few hours mending—when not making her feelings on the parade of applicants known—over her arm.

A lock of raven-black hair escaped her cap, but the lady’s maid did not move to fix it.

Instead, she sent a wry smile, accenting the dimples in her olive complexion, toward Evelyn before excusing herself, shutting the door behind her far more gently than Evelyn had.

Yes, there would likely be no more potential models to interview today.

“Who was that?” Lucy asked curiously, settling down on the settee and goggling at the now closed door.

“Laurent. Your and my lady’s maid both. I would have thought you’d recognize her by now.”

“Don’t be daft!” Lucy rolled her eyes. “I have never seen such a man here before! You’re not allowing him to court you?”

“No, I am not being courted by Mr. Halifax, thank goodness,” Evelyn said heavily, dropping into the armchair opposite her sister. “Although I am sure he will make someone very happy,” she added, feeling slightly guilty.

Well. Perhaps the man could not help being a complete and utter ass. Perhaps there was a lady in search of the sound of a dull, monotonous ceaseless voice to lull her to sleep.

“Oh, no.”

Evelyn looked up. “What is it?”

Her sister was shaking her head sadly. “You wanted him to model for you, didn’t you?”

It was not in Evelyn’s nature to lie. It was also not in her nature to always tell the complete truth. It was just easier that way, with a father who cared desperately, perhaps too much , for his daughters, and a mother who was quick to calculate the likelihood of your own failure.

Percy had taught her that. His lie, while not large, had been persistent, and when the truth had emerged and the family had discovered he had been not precisely courting their neighbor’s daughter, but bedding her with absolutely no intention of marrying her…

Of course there could have been a scandal. But it was the lie that had rankled so deeply within Evelyn’s conscience. That someone she trusted, her own brother, could lie to her face—their relationship had never recovered.

Lucy was different. Lucy was her sister, and with just over three years between them, they were close.

But her sister did not always understand.

Evelyn sighed. “It was just… I thought, if I could find someone…”

“You’ve got to stop asking complete strangers to sit for you,” Lucy scolded, as though she were the eldest sibling. “Honestly, it’s not proper!”

“Laurent was present for every interview.”

“That’s not the whole of what I mean, and you know that.”

“ Proper hasn’t gotten me very far since my only two sitters decided they were bored of sitting and wouldn’t even contemplate standing,” retorted Evelyn, a hot prickle of irritation curling in her stomach.

“Even Laurent will not hear of sitting for me herself. Too much to do, and she does not like the broadness of her forehead, as she’s told me time and again. If you would just consider—”

“Absolutely not,” Lucy said firmly. “I have far more important things to be getting on with than standing about for you.”