Nothing But Deception. Allegra Gray

Tanner looked pointedly around the room. “I daresay half of London has a newfound appreciation for art. One can only hope it is caused by a desire for self-improvement.”

      Bea bit her lip to keep from laughing as Lady Tanner moved off, her cane clicking on the polished wood floor. The astute old lady obviously had surmised that many of the room’s occupants had more interest in the artist than in his work.

      “Well,” Bea said brightly, “shall we continue our journey toward self-improvement?” She gestured to a large display across the room.

      Charity grinned back. “Indeed.”

      She leaned toward Bea and whispered, “There’s more…not only does he choose his own subjects, but there is rumor he shot a man.”

      “Shot?”

      Charity nodded, relishing her news. “In a duel. The fiancé of one of his subjects claimed that though Monsieur Durand’s portrayal of the young lady had her fully clothed, her expression, the painstaking detail with which he captured every nuance, could only have come from knowing her intimately. He denied it, of course, but the man demanded satisfaction.” She sighed. “Have you ever heard of such a romantic figure?”

      Bea rolled her eyes and redirected her enthusiastic charge toward the next painting. But the moment they stepped forward, a swell of murmurs filled the room.

      Charity stopped, craning to look around a heavyset man in front of her. She sucked in a breath and grabbed Bea’s arm. “There he is.”

      She pulled Bea to an open space as heads turned and bodies parted, revealing Lord Wilbourne. Standing at his side was a tall man with golden, stylishly neglected hair and a gaze that seemed to not only see, but absorb his surroundings.

      Bea was grateful for the steadying grip of Charity’s hand as a sudden rush of awareness set her heart beating faster.

      This was no ordinary salon, no everyday artist. She’d felt it when she’d glimpsed his work, but seeing him in person, the sensation hit her full force.

      The man who’d created that living, magical art was a good ten paces away, but even at a distance he projected an aura—all indolent charm and undercurrents of passion. No wonder Charity was smitten. No young London fop would stand a chance against Jean Philippe Durand.

      Lord Wilbourne held up a hand, and the murmuring crowd settled. “I’d like to thank you for attending tonight’s salon, honoring the work of my good friend. It is my pleasure to introduce you to the creator of that work, Monsieur Jean Philippe Durand. Although he prefers to give no formal speech, save a brief welcome, please do not hesitate to approach him during the evening with any questions you may have, as he is happy to answer in an informal setting.”

      The Frenchman stepped forward. “Messieurs and mademoiselles, my lords and ladies, I am deeply honored and humbled by your presence tonight. This is the first opportunity I have had to experience England, and I must say I find it unexpectedly delightful.” His English was accented but precise, his voice a resonant baritone.

      He paused, one hand frozen in midair as he took a deliberate gaze around the room. A smile spread across his features. Bea felt the jolt of it in her toes.

      “Ah. The women of Paris mock their English counterparts, but now that I see for myself, I declare they speak out of jealousy,” he said grandly. “Had I known London harbored such beauties, I would have come here years ago.” He bowed. “Please, enjoy yourselves. I shall speak briefly about the remaining paintings as I unveil them, but there is no need for a formal audience, so let us mingle and enjoy the lovely home of my gracious hosts, Lord and Lady Wilbourne.”

      He flashed another smile, all polish and charm, and women’s fans throughout the room fluttered vigorously.

      Charity looked around. “Unbelievable.”

      “Oh, come now,” Bea laughed. “Were you not the one who insisted we come? I thought you had a mad crush on Monsieur Durand.”

      “Had.” Charity tossed her head. “I don’t like to be part of a crowd.”

      “You, darling, will always stand out from any crowd.” Bea shook her head in amusement. Elizabeth’s little sister was headstrong, but Bea had known Charity long enough to know she had a heart of gold and was steadfastly loyal to those she truly cared for. Apparently, Monsieur Jean Philippe Durand no longer rated in that category.

      Charity’s disillusionment, however, didn’t diminish Bea’s enthusiasm in the least. Though she’d heard of Durand, she’d never seen his work before tonight—and now she was captivated.

      “Come.” Bea nodded to where the first covered painting was being unveiled. “Let us see this new work, and hear what the artiste has to say of it.” She led Charity to the edge of the crowd that had gathered for the spectacle.

      With a flourish, Monsieur Durand whisked away the draping of amethyst velvet, revealing an ornately framed portrait of a woman. The subject stood on the balcony of a Paris town house, gazing pensively at the street below. She was lovely, yet to Bea, she exuded the impression she longed for escape.

      The Frenchman cleared his throat. “This, friends, is the last portrait of my mother.” He spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear, but without the showmanship used earlier. “She was taken by illness earlier this year, but it is to her I owe my career, my passion for art. She saw to my lessons from the time I was young, and her connections afforded me the exposure necessary for success.”

      Bea watched his features soften as he spoke. Clearly, his mother had meant a great deal to him. Never had she observed a man who seemed so willing, if not entirely at ease, about speaking of emotional matters before near strangers.

      The artist paused in his speech. Those gathered about remained respectfully quiet as well, seemingly content to admire the painting rather than press questions.

      “He’s looking our way.”

      “Hmm?”

      “He’s looking our way,” Charity repeated.

      She was right. Bea glanced from Charity to the Frenchman, who was most certainly gazing in their direction, in spite of the fact that they stood on the very fringes of the gathering.

      “You see?” Bea said. “It is just as I proclaimed earlier—you stand out in a crowd. I predict you shall receive singular notice this eve. You look stunning, after all.”

      “Monsieur Durand?” A heavyset woman in a blue turban spoke up. “Is it true that you have studied in Venice, as well as France?”

      The artist dismissed the out-of-place question with the merest shake of his head.

      A low buzzing seemed to fill the air around Bea. Something extraordinary was happening. She turned to Charity, who seemed to sense it, too.

      But when Jean Philippe Durand made his way through the crowd and came to a dead stop, it was not in front of Charity.

      He lifted one hand, gesturing almost reverently toward Bea.

      “Belle. You must be a transplanted rose, for in all of England, I have seen nothing so beautiful.” He looked to Charity. “Please, permit me an introduction.”

      Charity appeared stunned, but recovered quickly. “Of course, monsieur. It is my pleasure to introduce to you Lady Beatrice Pullington, a dear friend.”

      “Lady Beatrice Pullington.” He bowed lavishly, regaining some of his earlier showmanship. “A proper English name, indeed. Yet not so proper as to dispel the glow of beauty, of life, that enchants all about you.”

      Bea’s cheeks grew hot, but she managed a coy tone to match his manner. “You have a charming way with words, monsieur.”

      He threw her a wicked grin. “Not nearly so charming as my way with paints. I am impulsive, oui, but I have learned to trust my instincts. They tell me now that you are the inspiration I have been seeking. A muse, gracing earth in human form. Please, let me paint you.”