Fortune Favors the Wicked by Theresa Romain Page B

sort. It was early, surely, for drinking brandy. But marquesses kept to their own schedule.
    He took a small sip. “Excellent brandy. And an excellent idea, too, to arrange an exhibition. I know a gallery in London that would—”
    â€œI haven’t settled on a place yet, but I rather think it will . . . not be London.”
    Edward blinked. “Well . . . the Royal Academy exhibits in London. If the purpose is to. . .” He coughed. “To promote an artist’s work, then that would be the most logical—”
    â€œAh. Well.” Randolph folded his hands. Edward noticed the marquess hadn’t touched his brandy and quickly set down his own glass. “What I’m looking for, to be honest, is information. About your model.”
    Somehow the nobleman’s stillness guided Edward’s eyes back up to the painting behind the desk. To the Venus, dark-haired, her straight locks like a waterfall over her bare body, revealing as much as they cloaked. About her neck winked a necklace in diamonds and emeralds, her only garment.
    â€œIf you tell me what I need to know,” added Randolph, “then I’ll see to that exhibition.”
    Edward hesitated. Since his marriage to an earl’s daughter eight years before, he had grown used to having few secrets. Really, there was only one.
    Randolph lifted his glass at last. “Regardless of its location, I promise the result will be to your advantage.”
    A new Lawrence. A new Turner. As good as Gainsborough.
    Edward took up his own glass and clinked it against Randolph’s. “What would you like to know?”

Chapter Five
    Dinner represented Benedict’s first acquaintance with both Maggie and Mrs. Perry. Upon entering the dining room, he made a bow to the vicar’s grandchild as though she were a grown woman, recalling how much his sister, Georgette, had enjoyed being treated so during her girlhood.
    â€œMr. Frost,” Maggie replied. “I am giving you my finest curtsy.”
    â€œI have no doubt of it.” He smiled, then turned toward the doorway as another set of footsteps entered the room.
    â€œAh, the blind traveler,” said an unfamiliar female voice. “Welcome to my husband’s vicarage, Mr. Frost. Let me think—the usual sort of greeting won’t make you feel welcome if you can’t see it. Shall we shake hands?”
    â€œIf you like, yes.” Benedict extended a hand. “Though your words of welcome are fine enough for me.”
    Knowing the vicar’s wife to be dedicated to scholarship, he had expected an ethereal creature with the dreamy voice of the perpetually distracted. Instead, Charlotte’s mother possessed a matter-of-fact tone and a remarkably firm grip.
    â€œBe seated, everyone,” said Mrs. Perry. “Frost, stick out your left hand and you’ll take hold of the chair. That’s right. We can begin our meal now. No reason to wait for the vicar with all this food ready to eat.”
    Benedict thought a man attending to a serving girl’s last moments of life ought at least to come home to a hot dinner and the sympathy of his family. But rather than gainsay his hostess, he found the chair to which he’d been directed, and a slide and scrape of furniture ensued as the three generations of females took their places. Charlotte and Maggie, he gathered, were across from him, and their hostess sat at one end.
    Service was the usual à la francaise, with all the foods laid out on the table. He caught the aroma of roasted beef, of some vegetable in a peppery, buttery sauce.
    â€œMr. Frost,” said Charlotte, “shall I describe the dishes around the compass?”
    â€œDo you recall which way is north?” He could not resist teasing her.
    â€œOh, good heavens—that is too difficult for one who hasn’t a lodestone in her head. What of describing the table like a clock face?” When he agreed, she said,