Murder While I Smile (13 page)

“I don’t want Boisvert boasting to all his sitters that he is painting Lady deCoventry. After he removes his studio to some more polite address and becomes respectable, but for the meanwhile...”

Corinne snorted genteelly. “What a whisker. When did you ever care about such things?”

“When I became an engaged man. I am turning over a new leaf, Mrs. Grundy.”

The carriage drew to a stop at the end of the alley, in front of a door bearing a shingle sign: Atelier, M. Boisvert. Through the window they caught a glimpse of the signs of Boisvert’s profession. Canvases stacked against walls, a worktable holding oils and pigments, soiled rags and bottles of brushes, a few easels with canvases propped on them. The shop was empty of clients. Only one head was visible through the window.

Luten tapped on the door and stepped into a modest room that reeked of turpentine and linseed oil, and beneath the sharp smell, the heavier aroma of boiled cabbage and gammon. Obviously Boisvert lived on the premises.

He was a stocky, muscular man in his mid-thirties with blue eyes and crinkly hair the tawny golden orange color of a cocker spaniel. He wore the customary artist’s smock, liberally spotted with pigments of all hues. Were it not for his outfit, he would never have been taken for an artist. He lacked the dreamy quality. His sharp, ruddy face suggested a farmer. He did not look French either, despite his name, but when he spoke, his voice held the trace of an accent. His blue eyes were open wide in surprise at the elegance of his clients.

“Can I help you, sir, ma’am?” he asked, bowing to them both.

Luten preferred his hand. “Mr. Lucas, and my wife. We are visiting London for a few days. I would like to have my bride’s portrait taken before we return to Devonshire.” His drawling accent had turned to a clipped, provincial curtness.

As Corinne smiled and performed an abbreviated curtsy, she made a mental note not to remove her gloves. While Luten chatted to Boisvert, she had a moment to consider this visit.

Luten would not care a fig about having her portrait taken by an unstylish artist in an out-of-the-way place. In fact, he would delight in it. A small part of the Berkeley Brigade’s reputation was based on being outrageous. So why had Luten driven his hunting carriage? He wasn’t here because he wanted her portrait. He thought Boisvert was involved in the business of Coffen’s Poussin!

“I am very busy at the moment,” Boisvert said, wrinkling up his brow. “You see the many works in progress.” His sweeping arm indicated three easels with canvases propped on them. “I regret— How long are you in town?”

“A week,” Luten replied. “Money is no object,” he added, with an ingratiating smile that sat ill on his haughty face. “You come highly recommended.”

“That is very kind. Who did you say recommended me?”

“Who was that lady we met at the party the other night, dear?” Luten asked Corinne.

“Oh la,” she said, tossing up her hands. “There were so many people there I never met before. The lady in the green gown with the funny red hair, was it not?”

Luten didn’t volunteer a name. “We had the devil of a time finding your place,” he said, strolling in and peering all about.

“I plan to move soon. You must forgive...” Again Boisvert swept his arm about vaguely.

“It was only a head-and-shoulders picture we wanted,” Luten said. “That wouldn’t take long, would it? We would really appreciate it. There is no decent artist near Tiverton.”

“Lord knows when we shall get to London again,” Corinne added, with a beseeching smile at the artist.

It was not often that Boisvert had such a pretty model. His usual customers were merchants with heavy jowls and lined faces, and often their matronly wives.

“Perhaps I could squeeze you in,” he said.

Luten clapped his shoulder. “There’s a good fellow,” he said in that hearty, country voice. He turned to Corinne. “You set up the details with Boisvert, dear. I’ll just take a peek about at what work he is doing. You don’t mind, Boisvert? Can’t buy a pig in a poke, eh? Oh, this is dandy! Look at this church, dear. Didn’t we see it yesterday?”

Corinne sensed that Luten was looking for something, presumably the copy of the Poussin, and after glancing at the painting of a church, she made an effort to distract Boisvert. But why would Luten think the copy was here? Surely Chamaude would have it.

“Do you always paint here, Mr. Boisvert?” she asked, looking about doubtfully. “Or could you come to—to our hotel? The Clarendon,” she suggested, and immediately wondered if a country couple would put up at such a stylish hotel.

“I prefer to work here, where I have all my equipment handy, and the light is good. I have had the window enlarged. I have a selection of curtains I use for a backdrop.” He led her to a corner, where various rich stuffs were hung on rods. She thumbed through them, holding each up to her face, looking for his opinion.

“Do you think this green one might do? My eyes are green,” she added, fluttering her long lashes.

“It is a little dark. I thought something lighter, to contrast with your black hair.”

“This one?” she suggested, fingering a yellow velvet.

“I was thinking of red, if you don’t think it too gaudy. And a white gown to recall your recent marriage. The red curtain would cast rose highlights on the white. With perhaps some jewelry ...” His eyes, bright with anticipation, darted over his model. He wanted to do more than a head-and-shoulders portrait. That figure deserved immortalizing.

“My diamonds!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Mr. Lucas gave them to me as a wedding gift,” she said, and went on with a few other artless remarks.

While she entertained Boisvert, Luten quickly glanced at the works on the easels. They were all partially finished portraits, two of aging merchants, one of a severe lady with a scowl that would challenge da Vinci’s genius to make her look anything but an antidote. The Watteau was not there.

He peered over his shoulder to see that Boisvert was enjoying his flirtation with Corinne, then turned to the other side of the room, where canvases were stacked against the wall, two or three deep. Behind a stretched canvas primed for paint, he saw the edge of a painting protruding. He lifted the canvas in front; peering behind it, he found himself staring at the Watteau. It was still in its frame. He had brought a grease pencil for the purpose of marking it. He leaned over and drew a small black dot in the upper right corner, put the stretched canvas back in place, and turned around to join the others.

“All set, dear?” he asked. “You know we were to visit my aunt for tea.” He turned aside to Boisvert. “Rich as a nabob, and no children. Must do the pretty.”

“Mr. Boisvert has agreed to come to the hotel to do my picture,” she said. “Is that not kind of him, Mr. Lucas? We thought tomorrow afternoon, around three. You have that business meeting, you recall. My dresser will be with us,” she added with a shy smile to appease her groom’s proprietorial instincts.

“Three it is. The Clarendon. What suite are we in, dear?”

“The Primrose suite,” she said without blinking.

The gentlemen settled on a fee, then Luten took Corinne’s elbow and they went out to the waiting carriage.

Before they had gone two paces, she turned on Luten. “Don’t think you have conned me, Luten. You didn’t want a portrait of me.”

“I do!”

“But not by Boisvert. I know that charade had to do with Coffen’s Poussin. Why do you think Boisvert has it?”

“It has to be somewhere. I felt you were not eager for me to visit Yvonne again.”

“Was the Poussin there?”

“No.”

Corinne felt a little guilty. Was her jealousy preventing Luten from proving Chamaude a thief? She still disliked his calling on Chamaude, however.

She gave a little sniff and said in an injured tone, “Well, you didn’t want an informal picture of me for your own sole enjoyment, as you claimed.”

“Beauty should be shared—to a point.”

“Rubbish. You just wanted an excuse to prowl about Boisvert’s atelier. I assume he is the fellow making Chamaude’s copies for her. How did you find out?”

“I had Winkle watch her house,” he said. “She sent a footman there with a picture this morning. It was the Watteau. I saw it hidden behind another canvas in the studio.”

“The painting you told her you were interested in! She said it wasn’t for sale when I admired it. Or actually I believe it was Yarrow who said it.”

“She probably felt she could wring a higher price out of me. I marked it so I could identify the original if she tries to palm off a copy on me.”

“You plan to buy it, then?” she asked, stiffening. How should he buy it without calling on Chamaude again?

“I’ll wait and see if she contacts me. It will take Boisvert a few days to make the copy and age it to make it look older than brand-new.”

“I doubt she’d try to sell you a forgery.” Luten could not reveal how he had overcome this difficulty without admitting he had called on Chamaude, so he said nothing. “So why is she having a copy made?” she asked.

“To keep for herself, perhaps, as she is so fond of it.”

“Let me know if she contacts you. Another point occurs to me. Why didn’t you tell me I was to be Mrs. Lucas, from Tiverton?”

“I only thought of it after we were in the shop. I was sure you could carry it off—as you did, admirably.”

“I’m not wearing a wedding ring
—
or even an engagement ring,” she added. It rankled a little that Luten was in no rush to put a ring on her finger. “If I hadn’t thought to leave my gloves on, it would have given away the charade.”

“I’ll send to the abbey for the family engagement ring. It was this inheritance in Somerset that put it out of my mind.”

Corinne considered this a moment, not quite pleased at his forgetting to do it sooner. “What are we to do about Boisvert’s visit to the Clarendon? Are we actually to hire a suite there as Mr. and Mrs. Lucas? He’ll smell a rat if we aren’t there when he calls.”

“I’ll drop him a line canceling the sitting. Tell him we were called back to Devonshire in a great hurry. Although actually I wouldn’t mind another visit to just check and see that he is making a copy of the Watteau. He might just be cleaning it.”

“I think we can assume he’s going to make a copy,” she said, always ready to suspect the worst of Chamaude, “but I doubt she’ll try to palm it off on you. When both you and I expressed interest in it, she realized it has a broad appeal and plans to put it up for sale.”

A glinting smile peeped out. “You’re probably right. It would be fun to visit the Clarendon incognito as a married couple, though.”

“We would be recognized in a minute. So you will let Boisvert know we have changed our minds?”

“I’ll leave word for him at the hotel. That will ensure that the studio is empty tomorrow at three. A good chance to slip in and investigate. The back door will probably yield to my passe-partout. As he claimed to be busy, I assume he plans to get to work on the Watteau at once.”

“We’ll keep our ears on the stretch to discover who buys it. Boisvert seems like such a nice little man,” she said, rather sadly. “Of course, he might be perfectly innocent. Chamaude need not tell him why she wants her pictures copied. He is obviously not sharing the profits. His studio is bleak.”

“I expect he knows what’s afoot. He mentioned moving up to better quarters.”

They fell silent for a moment, then Luten said, “Have you seen Pattle and Prance? I wonder what they have on for this evening.”

“I haven’t see them since this morning. I saw Prance call on Coffen. Lady Birrell is having a small rout. Half the town has gone partridge hunting, of course, but whoever is in town will be there.”

“We’ll call on them after dinner. I hope you are free for dinner? I’ve asked my chef to prepare a special dîner
à
deux.”

“About time!”

“I’ve been ignoring you. I’m sorry, darling, but
—
”

“I know. I don’t mind, so long as you let me know what is going on, Mr. Lucas.”

“Dinner at eight, Mrs. Lucas. I shall call for you.”

“I expect I can find my own way across the street.”

He didn’t argue, but just repeated, “I shall call for you.”

* * * *

From Coffen’s saloon window, Prance and Coffen watched the arrival of Luten and Corinne. They walked hand in hand, laughing in the sunlight. As soon as Luten went home, they called on him. He was tired and worried and in no good humor when he entered his house. He disliked deceiving Corinne, but to tell her the whole would surely throw her into a pelter and precipitate an argument. That Irish temper of hers would lead her to it. He decided a long soak in a warm tub, a shave, and a fresh toilette would do him the world of good. They would have a lovely dinner together and enjoy the party after. If Yvonne sold him the forged Watteau, he’d tell Corinne. The worst would be over then. He wouldn’t have to visit Yvonne again.

“If anyone except Lady deCoventry calls, I am out. I don’t want to be disturbed,” he told his butler, and went upstairs.

Two minutes later, the butler delivered the message to the callers.

“Tell him it is us, Simon,” Prance said. “Use your head, man. We’ll go up. No need to bring his lordship downstairs.”

“His lordship does not wish to be disturbed. He gave specific instructions.”

“Well!” Prance snorted. “If that is the way he treats his friends!” He marched stiff-backed from the doorway. “You see how it is, Pattle? He is ashamed to see us. And well he might be. It is clearly your duty to tell Corinne all.”

“Nothing of the sort. I’ll speak to Luten before I do. Bound to be some explanation.”

“We know the explanation. It is not fit for that darling girl’s ears.”

It came to him on the spot that if Luten was stealing Chamaude from him, he would steal Corinne from Luten. All was fair in love and war, and this present situation was obviously both. He culled a bouquet of flowers from his conservatory, which pretty well decimated the blooms there, and sent it across the street with a suggestive note.

“From a true friend, your faithful servant, Sir Reginald.” He underlined the
true
and
faithful.
That would give her something to think about!