Page 22 of Murder at Somerset House (A Wrexford & Sloane Mystery #9)

“Remember, Kit, you are to appear impatient shortly after we encounter Ducasse and ask if I have seen enough of the paintings,” said Charlotte as she and Sheffield climbed the outdoor stairs leading up to the back terrace of Somerset House.

Like the Royal Society, the Royal Academy was housed in the grand building.

“From what you and Wrex have described, I’m quite sure he will offer to serve as my escort, allowing you to hare off. ”

“I have the distinct impression that the pompous Frog thinks his Gallic charm is irresistible to the ladies.”

“And I shall not disappoint him.” She took a moment to study the scene of the murder and then looked out over the pewter-dark water of the river.

A sharp breeze stirred a rippling of whitecaps near the far shore, while the swirling patterns closer to their vantage point gave a hint of the treacherous crosscurrents just beneath the surface.

Turning back to the ornate facade of the building, Charlotte took Sheffield’s arm. “The question is whether his show of bonhomie hides a more sinister intent.”

The display rooms of the Royal Academy were crowded, as attendance at the annual exhibit was de rigueur for the beau monde so that they might show off their refined sense of taste by discussing the art at their social gatherings.

Sheffield immediately spotted Ducasse standing with officials of both the Academy and the Royal Society.

“This way,” he murmured, drawing them through the crush of spectators to take up a position close to the group.

“Ah, Monsieur Sheffield!” It didn’t take the Frenchman long to spot them and saunter over. “Dare I hope that I’m about to have the honor of being introduced to the Countess of Wrexford?”

Charlotte had deliberately dressed in a gown of steel-blue watered silk that shimmered with subtle variations of color as the light reflected off the textured fabric.

The effect, she knew, was eye-catching, and as Sheffield performed the introductions, she saw a speculative gleam sharpen in Ducasse’s gaze.

“ Enchanté .” He bowed and with a graceful flourish bestowed a kiss to her gloved hand.

Maintaining a certain sangfroid—in her experience, men like Ducasse enjoyed the thrill of the chase—Charlotte gave a cool smile. “You Frenchmen have mastered the art of shamelessly flattering a lady.”

“It is not shameless flattery, milady. I am simply giving ethereal beauty and grace its due,” he replied.

The fellow possessed a smooth tongue and facile manners to go along with his undeniably handsome looks, she reflected. It was up to her to determine whether or not the polished veneer hid a core of rot.

“Lord Wrexford mentioned that you have a great interest in art,” continued Ducasse.

“I do,” answered Charlotte. “Alas, my husband is bored to perdition by looking at paintings and says he is too busy doing important work in his laboratory to accompany me to exhibits such as these.”

A glance at the myriad gilt-framed paintings crowded cheek by jowl on the main salon’s walls. “Our dear friend Mr. Sheffield is more accommodating, but I fear he doesn’t really enjoy the experience either.”

Taking his cue, Sheffield shuffled his feet. ‘No, no, I’m delighted to be here,” he said in a tone that fooled nobody. “I say, er, are there any pictures of hounds or horses anywhere?”

“I’m afraid not,” replied Ducasse.

“A pity.” Sheffield took a quick peek at his pocket watch and cleared his throat.” “Er, any idea how long we shall be here? I was hoping that I might pay a visit to my tailor …”

“Please, I shall be happy to escort Lady Wrexford through the exhibit at her leisure,” interjected the Frenchman, “and then accompany her back to Berkeley Square.”

How interesting that he knows where we reside , thought Charlotte, though her only outward reaction was a nod of thanks. “Now that I am here,” she added, “I would very much like to take my time in studying the paintings.”

“Then it’s settled,” said Ducasse.

“You truly don’t mind?” Sheffield cast a longing look at the exit.

“Not at all.”

“Well then …” A jaunty wave. “ Au revoir .”

“A pleasant fellow,” remarked Ducasse as Sheffield hurried away.

“Yes, very,” agreed Charlotte.

“I’ve been told that he’s a gentleman who enjoys the pleasures of life.” A pause. “But apparently art is not one of them?”

“Not everyone sees the world in the same way,” she replied.

“A very sage observation, milady.” The Frenchman offered her his arm and began maneuvering through the crowd to gain a better position for viewing the art. He found a spot in front of several large portraits and drew to a halt.

“To appreciate art, I think that one must have imagination,” he continued. “The ability to see beneath the physical pigment and brushstrokes and sense the elemental emotions and passions that inspire the artist’s creativity.”

“The ability to faithfully copy an object or scene is a decorative skill,” observed Charlotte. “It is passion that transcends the ordinary and makes a painting or a drawing or a sculpture into true art.”

“It seems we are kindred souls,” murmured Ducasse.

“Take, for example, this portrait by Sir William Beechey of your Prince Regent. It’s common knowledge that His Royal Highness has a number of, shall we say, character flaws.

And yet, the artist brilliantly captures the spirit of the monarchy, not the man, creating a heroic figure for the ages that will inspire his subjects. ”

“In other words, Beechey has transformed base metal into gold, so perhaps he’s an alchemist, not an artist,” said Charlotte dryly.

Ducasse gave an appreciate chuckle. “Art does involve illusion and sleight of hand …” They moved on and spent the next two hours discussing the merits of the many paintings on display.

Charlotte hadn’t expected to have such mixed feelings about the Frenchman.

Wrexford’s brief description had portrayed him as an arrogant fellow—perhaps deliberately so, in order to hide the more nuanced aspects of his character.

He was indeed clever and used exaggerated bluster and humor to probe for information.

But he was also thoughtful and articulate, showing a keen intelligence when opining about art and human nature.

Possible friend? Or devious foe?

She wasn’t yet ready to make a decision.

“ Alors , Ducasse!” A gentleman squeezed past a trio of elderly ladies. Lowering his voice, he added, “J’ai des nouvelles urgentes. Nous devons discuter—”

“ En anglais, mon ami! ” interjected the artist. He turned and fixed Charlotte with an apologetic smile. “It would be rude of us to continue speaking in French.” A pause. “That is, unless you would like the opportunity to practice.”

“Alas, I don’t have an ear for languages,” replied Charlotte with a rueful grimace. “I’m ashamed to admit that the only French I understand is bonbon and baguette .”

Both gentlemen laughed politely.

“Lady Wrexford, may I present Monsieur Hubert Odilon, a leader of the French émigré community here in London, to whom I was introduced just the other day at the Royal Institution’s reception,” said Ducasse.

Which begged the question of what sort of urgent news Odilon had that demanded an immediate tête-à-tête with the artist, reflected Charlotte, who had not been truthful about her fluency in French.

Tit for tat. She was quite sure that Ducasse had been lying through his teeth about the length of his acquaintance with Odilon.

“I had the honor of meeting your distinguished husband, milady,” said Odilon after inclining a formal bow.

“I understand that his scientific work in metallurgy helped the British military defeat the self-proclaimed Emperor Napoleon and restore the rightful king to the throne of France. Please pass on my gratitude to him for his part in freeing my country from that Corsican tyrant.”

“Be assured I will do so, sir,” said Charlotte.

“Might I steal Monsieur Ducasse away for a few moments?” added Odilon after a sidelong glance at his fellow Frenchman. “He has agreed to attend a dinner given in his honor by the leaders of our local community, and we wouldn’t want to bore you with mundane talk of the logistics.”

“But of course,” answered Charlotte. To Ducasse, she added, “I shall be at Beechey’s portrait of Prinny. I would like a second look at the nuances of his brushstrokes and how he blends light and shadow.”

As they moved away, Charlotte took a moment to study the crowd.

She wasn’t quite sure what she was seeking.

Perhaps a stranger who seemed out of place?

Raven’s description of a man with obsidian eyes and a pointy chin had stuck in her mind and refused to be dislodged.

However, her gaze met only the familiar faces of the beau monde.

Most of whom hadn’t an artistic bone in their bodies. They had simply come to see and be seen by their peers.

“Shall we sit for a bit?” suggested Ducasse after rejoining her. He gestured to the line of upholstered benches that ran down the center of the hall. “Art demands both mental and physical stamina. Shall I fetch us some champagne?”

“Refreshments would be very welcome.”

Ducasse returned with the sparkling wine and took a seat next to her. ‘Now that we’ve had a lovely interlude of pleasantries, might I broach a business matter?”

“Ladies of London’s beau monde don’t engage in business, sir.” Her mouth quirked. “Not officially.”

He smiled, as she had intended. “Actually, it’s your husband with whom I would like to do a deal. Might you agree to help me convince him to sit for a portrait? I would, of course, be happy to show you examples of my work so that you may judge whether or not you like my style.”

“I don’t doubt your talent, sir. Alas, it doesn’t matter. My husband has no interest in having his face hung on the wall of the French Academy.”

“But—”

“There are no ‘buts’ about it. He won’t change his mind.” Charlotte took a sip of her champagne. “So save your breath.”

He heaved a mournful sigh. “It would be ungentlemanly of me to press you, so I won’t.”

His gaze moved from the tiny bubbles exploding in his glass to the far wall and the large arched window just below the ceiling, which allowed in natural light to illuminate the paintings.

“Might I ask what draws your husband to science? From what I have heard of the British aristocracy, gentlemen of wealth and title are usually …”

“Indolent?” suggested Charlotte when he seemed to be searching for the right word.

“My English leaves much to be desired,” he said with an apologetic shrug.

Somehow, she doubted that.

“Wrexford likes an intellectual challenge,” she answered after a moment of silence. “He enjoys solving practical problems in chemistry. He’s also curious and often simply interested in understanding how the basic laws of the universe work.”

Ducasse looked thoughtful “Your husband and I are more alike than you might think. I chose to specialize in painting portraits because I’m fascinated by people and their uniquely individual motivations.”

Charlotte smiled. “As I said before, your charm is wasted on me.”

He leaned a little closer. “That depends on what I wish to gain, milady.”

She decided to challenge him. “Which is?”

“Your company on a visit to view Lord Elgin’s Marbles at the British Museum,” answered the Frenchman, “so that I might have a chance to forge a friendship with you.”

An intriguing answer . Assuming there was a grain of truth to it.

“The Marbles possess a mesmerizing beauty that never ages and are well worth a visit,” said Charlotte. “I would be happy to come along.”

“ Merci! ”

She had already pulled her elegant little pocket watch from her reticule and clicked open the gold case. “And now, sir, I really ought to be returning home.”

What with Wrexford and the Weasels on the move shortly, and her own efforts this afternoon, they were beginning their dangerous dance across the checkered tiles of the chessboard.

Attack. Feint. Maneuver.

It remained to be seen as to how the unknown enemies would play the game.