Chapter 9

 

 

Jonas stared unseeingly at the sketch before him, at his hastily drawn lines. He did not understand what had happened. Something had changed, something had wrested control from his hands, and it sent the blood racing through his veins, filled him with fear and dread and a disturbing euphoria.

He continually underestimated her. She was never what he expected. He thought of when she'd first arrived this morning, wearing the blue moire silk that was as colorless and unflattering on her as everything else she'd worn. It made her look weak and frail, and he'd let that fool him, even though it shouldn't have, even though he knew she was stronger than she looked.

He was twice the fool, since he could not look at that moire silk now without thinking of how it had looked peeling back under his fingers, slowly—button by button—revealing the virginal pointelle lace of her chemise, the smooth ivory of her flesh. He could not stop remembering how dark and dirty his fingers had looked against her pale skin, or the freckles spattered across her shoulders, or those fine light hairs at the nape of her neck, the pale down . . .

Jonas closed his eyes briefly. He was truly going mad. He had wanted to send her running, and instead he was the one who felt the need to run. Because he could not take his eyes off her. Because sitting there with her back to him, she was captivating and puzzling, a mystery he needed to solve. Because when she named her conditions for posing, he had wanted suddenly and completely to draw her, as she'd asked, and he could not figure out why.

He told himself she was too delicate, too pale, too fragile for his tastes. But the sunlight pouring through the windows added color to her skin, sent highlights flickering through that honey-colored hair, gave her a soft warmth, an ethereal, almost spiritual, strength.

He told himself she was plain, her face too angular for beauty, her jaw too long. But sitting there the way she was, with her chin lifted at an angle to him, he saw the delicate structure of her jaw, the rise of cheekbone, the fine symmetry of her features.

He was entranced by those expressive eyes and the smoothness of her skin and her scent, by the strange force of her words, the wistfulness he heard in them, the threat of intimacy. "I want to know what it's like to be you. I want to understand."

Why the hell wouldn't she run?

Jonas clenched the charcoal in his fingers, feeling overwhelming frustration. He didn't know what else to try, what to do, couldn't even remember why he wanted so badly for her to go. What was it about her? Why was it that she affected him this way? He couldn't remember the last time a woman had gotten so under his skin—

The lines on the paper seemed to congeal suddenly, to take form before his eyes. Not just separate lines, more than a two-dimensional plane, more than space and shadow. He looked down at his sketch pad and saw the woman he'd drawn in exquisite detail. The sketch took his breath away. He stared at it, at the sensuality of the form, the quiet eroticism, and felt a shock and dismay that went clear to his bones.

He shook his head. Ah, Christ. Christ, not this. Not so easily. He'd struggled for days with the courtesan, for weeks. She had never unfurled as easily as this. Every sketch had been a struggle, every line a defeat.

The buzzing in his blood grew. It rang in his ears, pulsed through him like a heartbeat. Jonas dropped the charcoal and stepped away until he could no longer see the drawing, wanting to deny it even existed. She was in everything. Everything. He didn't want her there, didn't want any part of her at all. He glanced up at her, sitting there on that platform, not at all the victim he'd wanted her to be, and his anger came fast and furious. He felt as defeated as the courtesan had made him. Viciously he tore the sketch from the easel, crumpling it and throwing it to the floor.

"Get dressed," he said harshly. He could barely get the words out, but they seemed to echo in the room, too loud and too brutal. "For Christ's sake, get dressed and go home. All of you go home."

She jumped, twisting around to stare at him. He saw her gaze drop to the paper he'd tossed aside, saw the question in her big brown eyes. Then color flooded her cheeks, and she was frowning, pulling up the sleeves of her dress, and McBride was on his feet and moving toward her, helping her with her gown. Jonas felt the stares of the others as well, turning on him, trapping him, and he didn't give a damn what they saw or what they thought.

He turned away, striding past them to the canvas against the window. He grabbed his palette on the way, determined to paint, determined to let his vision take over, to blank out Imogene Carter and her delicate curves and fragile features. Determined to draw the courtesan. Determined not to look at her again, not to think about her.

He heard the door to the studio open. Jonas kept his gaze fastened on the canvas before him, the muted underpainting, the lush lines of the whore. . . .

The studio door crashed shut. Jonas glanced over. It was Childs. The sight of him brought both relief and irritation. "What do you want, Rico?"

"It's past noon, mon ami." Childs shrugged, a loose, beautiful movement that sent his golden hair tumbling over his shoulders. "Time for all the boys and girls to go home." He glanced over the room, and Jonas felt a surge of annoyance as Rico turned his smile on Miss Carter, who was stepping off the platform, blushing prettily, her dress done up again to hide those smooth, creamy shoulders, her pale throat.

"Ah, Miss Imogene," Rico said in his smooth, cultured tone. "How nice to see you again. I—"

"Leave her the hell alone." For a moment, Jonas didn't realize the words had come from him. For a moment, the intensity of his anger startled him. He saw Childs turn to him, a dark blond brow rising in surprise, saw the sudden interest flaring in his friend's eyes.

"Let's go, Imogene."

With a part of his mind, Jonas heard McBride's voice. It was too loud in the sudden silence. He saw the way the man took Imogene Carter's arm, the way he pulled her to the door. She hesitated for only an instant, long enough to grab the crumpled sketch Jonas had thrown away, and when Jonas saw the careful, precious way she held it, he lost whatever illusion of control he had.

"Yes, go, Genie, won't you?" he said, putting all of his anger and self-mockery into the words. "Get the hell out of here."

And even though he knew Childs was watching, even though he knew there would be questions about it later, Jonas couldn't take his eyes off her as Peter escorted her to the door. He expected to feel relief when she was finally gone, but all he felt was a confusing disappointment, and he could do nothing but stand there while the others left. When Tobias Harrington finally closed the door behind him, Jonas slowly turned his gaze to Rico, who was lounging on the model's chair, the image of careless indolence.

Jonas wasn't fooled. He saw the intense interest in his friend's pale blue eyes, the thinly veiled curiosity.

"Well, well. What was that all about, mon ami?"

There was no excuse he could offer. Briefly Jonas wondered what to tell him. What explanation would satisfy when he didn't understand himself what had just happened? He thought of a dozen offhand comments, vague disclaimers, easy lies, but he knew by the way Rico was watching him that he would never escape so easily.

"Well? Are you going to answer me, or shall I be forced to come up with an explanation myself? Let's see—I know—you've fallen madly in love with the girl-"

"Don't be ridiculous," Jonas snapped.

"Pardon, but it hardly seems ridiculous to me. I heard your last words to that little innocent—not to mention those charming endearments you sent my way. You hardly sounded disinterested."

"Words are easily misunderstood."

"Don't turn philosophical on me, Jonas, I can hardly bear it." Childs groaned, rolling his eyes.      “Credit me with a little intelligence, won't you? There's not much room to interpret 'Leave her the hell alone.’”

Jonas worked to keep his face impassive. "Perhaps I was angry at something else."

"Perhaps Paris is in Germany."

"Don't start with me, Rico."

"You forget," Childs said with a limpid smile. "You can't threaten me. I've already seen you at your worst."

"That's what you think."

"And anyway, my curiosity has the better of me."

"I won't insult you by reminding you of the pitfalls of curiosity."

"Or I suppose I could simply ask Clarisse." Rico glanced at the changing screen, and then frowned and looked around the room. "Where is she, anyway? I thought you said she'd be modeling today."

Clarisse. Jonas had forgotten about her. Forgotten her so completely it took a moment for him to react to Childs's words. "Clarisse," he repeated slowly. "She's gone."

"Gone?" Rico's frown deepened. "You say that as if she's dead."

"Dead to me anyway. I'm done with her."

"You're done with her? After only a week?" Childs's scrutiny intensified. "Why do I feel as if I've missed something?"

Jonas tried to keep his words casual. "It's nothing, Rico. I was tired of her, that's all."

"Who have you replaced her with?"

The question stabbed through Jonas with surprising sharpness. It was a valid query, given that he was never without a mistress, but it startled him that he'd forgotten that, and he wanted to answer: No one. I've replaced her with no one at all. He wanted to believe it. But then he saw Imogene Carter sitting on the chair, lowering the straps of her chemise over her shoulders . . .

Jonas's mouth went dry. He swallowed, forced himself to make a dismissive gesture.

"I see."

The studied disbelief in his friend's voice irritated Jonas. He turned away, back to the table, to the glass slab loaded with half-ground ultramarine. "It's easy enough to find a woman. You know that."

"Yes, of course. How silly of me to suspect you're not telling me the whole truth."

Jonas winced. "Rico—"

"Please, mon ami, you sound so tortured. If you're so determined to keep everything such a secret, just say so and be done with it."

"It's a secret."

"Damn you." There was laughter in the words.

Jonas sighed. "It's nothing for you to be concerned about, Rico."

There was silence. Then Rico's voice came, soft and somber, all humor gone. "Isn't it?"

Jonas squeezed his eyes shut. Funny how that concern pierced through him. It almost undid him, and he opened his eyes and stared at the paint on the slab, forcing himself to gain control, trying to come up with some plausible lie, some way to explain to Rico what he could not explain to himself. How could he explain that the thought of a mistress suddenly seemed repulsive and coarse? That a virginal, colorless woman had suddenly taken on such vibrancy that it was impossible to banish or forget her?

He couldn't explain any of it. And he knew if he tried, Rico would just look at him with those too-perceptive, too-blue eyes, and see right through him the way he always had. It was why Jonas hated Childs as much as he loved him, why those months Childs had spent in Paris had been a relief for both of them.

Despite himself, Jonas remembered last spring. He buried the memory as quickly as he had it, forcing himself to speak gently. "It's nothing, Rico. Really, it's nothing."

"I've heard those words before," Childs said quietly.

God, the pain he felt at Rico's soft statement, the misery of memory. Jonas forced himself to forget it, to turn and smile, to pretend nothing had changed at all. He kept his voice deliberately light. "Tell me why you came over this morning."

Childs laughed, a short, dismissive sound, and Jonas knew it was more a response to the fact that he was keeping secrets than to his question.

Rico grinned wryly. "All right, my love, I'll play along like a good boy. I came this morning to invite you over. The other night I'd forgotten—I brought something back from Paris for you—a bit of the devil himself. I thought you might enjoy it—a lungful of wickedness to go with the rest of you, eh?"

Jonas didn't pretend to misunderstand. He closed his eyes, imagining the smooth, sweet heaviness of opium. Ah, it sounded good. It sounded like blessed peace, heady forgetfulness.

And he wanted to forget. He wanted to forget today. Wanted to forget the vision of her eyes and the tantalizing glimpses of her ivory flesh and how easy it had been to draw her. He wanted to forget today and last night and yesterday, wanted to calm the fierce buzzing in his blood that had grown stronger and stronger since she'd looked in his eyes and said "I want to know what it's like ..."

Jonas shook his head slightly as if to clear it. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I'd like that very much."

Childs gave a little bow. "Then come with me. What was that poem? ' "Come into my parlor," said the spider to the fly'—something like that."

Jonas smiled. "You can tempt me all you want, Rico, but I'll tell you no secrets today, I'm warning you."

Rico laughed. It was joyous and sweet, and the studio seemed to pulsate with the sound. "I've already told you that you can't threaten me," he said, and he led the way across the hall to his studio, like the Pied Piper leading children to the sea.

 

 

 

 

It was later, much later, that Jonas lounged on the huge bed in the corner of Childs's studio, his eyes bleary and his body drunk on smoke. He watched the golden and black shadows cast by the oil lamp dance over the walls and Rico's paintings, over the large trunk from Paris that still stood in the middle of the room, its lid thrown open to reveal the multicolored fabrics of Rico's wardrobe—waistcoats and morning coats and trousers spread all about, some crumpled on the floor, some strewn on the bed, some crunched beneath Jonas's legs.

It was like a Pandora's box, he thought, eyeing the quivering fringe of the bedcovers, the gold that looked more golden in the lamplight, the rich burgundies and greens that seemed to pulsate in the lying visions of the drug. Rico's chambers were much more opulent than his, but that was because Childs cared about fine things and Jonas did not. Childs loved luxuries, soft velvets and expensive liquors and fine perfumes. Even now the scent of incense hung in the air, mixing with the sweet opium smoke, heavy and deep with spice.

Jonas felt as if he were drowning in it, and he longed to close his eyes and stay here forever, but there was a thrumming in his blood that the opiate hadn't taken away, not yet, and he needed something else to ease it.

"More?" Childs's voice came to him, sounding languid and hopelessly far away, though it wasn't. Rico hadn't moved from where he sat beside Jonas on the bed, the picture of decadent languor, a pipe in one hand while he stroked Jonas's hair with the other, threading his fingers through the strands in an intimate, soothing rhythm.

Jonas reached up and took the pipe, sucking the burning smoke into his lungs, letting it curl around him. So insidious, he thought, closing his eyes. One never knew where the drug would take you, how dangerous it would choose to be, or how alluring.

Like Imogene Carter. The thought unfurled in his mind, slowly and without surprise. He hadn't been able to lose the image of her, not throughout the long evening and not now, in the dark hours of early morning. He remembered what he'd called her earlier, what Peter had called her. Genie. The name fit her. Like a genie in a bottle, she was magical, seductive, alluring. She was as dangerous as the opium, the way she haunted his thoughts.

He could not get her out of his mind, and though he'd smoked the opium to forget her, it only intensified his vision instead, brought back every detail of this morning in startling clarity. He remembered how much he'd hated her when she walked into the studio, how he'd been looking forward to destroying her today, to discovering her scheme and making her pay for her presumption. He remembered how he'd savored the words "Genie, will you model for us today?" and then how shocked he'd been when her small, slender hands went to her collar, how paralyzed he'd been by the smooth grace of her movements. She had never seemed so self-possessed, never so confident. And somehow that was seductive.

Ah, Genie. Genie turning her back to him so he could finish the buttons. Genie bending that long, pale neck, almost like an offering. That heated, almond scent, the silky warm flesh, the honeyed strands of hair dancing over his knuckles as he unfastened the buttons —one, two, and then three, and then clean white lace and freckled skin and smooth softness.

She was all fragrant intrigue, a huge contradiction— quiet and subdued, but with such startling power, a power that had radiated from his sketch, that had flowed from her into his hands. He wanted to savor the discovery of it, to think about that intoxicating conviction in her eyes. It had been so provocative, so alluring. It made him wonder for the first time what she would be like in bed. He imagined it; the smooth satin of her flesh, the soft trembling of her body, the harsh, moist little gasps brushing his cheek. He thought about the way that hair of hers would look tumbled about her shoulders, wondered how it would feel against his skin.

The image drove him nearly insane; he could not forget it, could not erase it. He thought of her and he felt the quick and savage thrust of desire, and it was different from what he'd felt for Clarisse or any of the others. It was more than just carnal lust, and he knew it had everything to do with that look in Imogene Carter's eyes. The look that turned the little brown moth into a beautiful butterfly. The look that had changed his intentions, took his original reasons for wanting her gone and sent them floating away, as elusive as the smoke wisping through the bed hangings. Gosney's threats, his own inability to paint—those things seemed so unimportant now, so ludicrously trivial.

They didn't matter—not in light of what he felt tonight. Because what he felt tonight was the elation of inspiration—the same inspiration that the threat of her presence had taken away just a few weeks ago. The ideas were crowding in his mind now, swirling though his head in the prismatic dance of opiate, pure and fuzzy and beautiful. Hundreds of them, spinning so fast and furiously he barely had time to think of one before another that was even more potent and compelling burst into his brain.

He looked at his hand, lying motionless on his chest, and it seemed to glow with brilliance. Long ago, at Barbizon, Jean-Claude Millet had told Jonas there was fire in his blood, and tonight he believed it. Tonight he wondered if there was anything he couldn't do. Everything fell into place. Abruptly he saw the courtesan he'd been trying to paint in all its vivid detail—his masterpiece, the pièce de résistance he'd intended to be the greatest, most sublime offering at the National Academy exhibition. He had wanted to show contradiction and desire, had wanted the woman to be disturbing, to show the power women had—that elusive power that controlled men whether they wanted to admit it or not. The courtesan's nakedness, her disdain, her strength would reflect all that—ah, God, it would be the greatest thing he had ever done.

Because this morning he'd realized what it needed, the thing he'd been seeking for weeks, the edge that eluded him. He had never been able to see the courtesan's face in his mind, but now suddenly it was there; the guarded eyes, the colorless beauty, the flat monochrome of her skin. Genie Carter.

God, he was so damned brilliant it amazed him. The exultation of earlier still burned in his blood, the fierce joy of inspiration grew until it filled his soul. He laughed at the pure wondrousness of it.

"Hmmm?" Rico stirred slightly beside him, and Jonas opened his eyes to see Childs leaning over him, his expression drowsy, his long blond hair falling forward like a lion's mane.

"Genie Carter," Jonas said, struggling to one elbow. He heard his voice; it was breathless, too fast, but he couldn't slow down. "She's the courtesan, Rico. Christ, can you see it? That face—it's the perfect face. Like a butterfly."

"Like a butterfly?" Rico leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes, smiling. "You've lost me, mon ami. Her face is like a butterfly?"

"She's stunning, don't you see?" Jonas shook his friend's arm until Childs opened his eyes again. "I've got to paint her."

"Oh? I thought your little odalisque was nude."

"Yes, of course."

"And Miss Imogene is going to take her clothes off for you? Ah, you are clever then."

Rico's voice was languid, so slow that Jonas had already forgotten the beginning of the sentence before Childs reached the end. It didn't matter anyway; the only important thing was the nude—and all Jonas could think about was that it might be better if she were draped in some diaphanous material, something that lent an opalescence to her skin, the luce di dentro. Yes, perfect. A scarf or something. Rico must have something.

Jonas lunged off the bed, hardly noticing when Rico protested. He went to the trunk in the middle of the room, tossing out clothes—waistcoats and fine linen shirts and stockings—damn, there must be something. He spun around, staring at the room, at the heavy bed hangings and the mulberry-colored drapes and the pillows.

"What are you looking for?"

"A scarf," Jonas said. "A robe—" He spotted a length of mosquito netting draped over a table in the corner of the room. The finely woven cloth shimmered in the dim candlelight. He strode to it, pulling it loose with one quick tug, upsetting bottles and brushes and a few saucers holding color. He held it up, holding it so the candlelight diffused through it. Ah, yes. Like the cocoon of a butterfly—thin and cottony. It added another layer of meaning to the painting that he liked, and he smiled and looked over his shoulder at Childs, who was watching him with a laborious frown.

Rico took another tug on the pipe. He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment and then exhaled with a sigh. "You want Miss Carter to wear that?"

"Yes."

"1 see." Childs smiled. "I was right, wasn't I? You do want the little innocent."

The words blurred together in Jonas's mind. Theliddleinnocent, and they were as compelling as she was. Yes, he wanted her. Wanted her in a hundred different ways. Wanted her so badly it was all he could do to keep from hiring a carriage and racing to Gosney's house to get her.

But then he thought of the painting waiting in his studio, and it was even more compelling, the vision burning in his blood too tantalizing to deny or postpone. His fingers itched to get started. He threw the mosquito netting over his shoulder and started for the door.

From the bed, Rico laughed, and then he started humming, a slow chorus, a familiar and compulsive melody, "'I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair

Jonas turned from the door with a smile. A dream, yes. Genie Carter was that. She was a lovely dream, and the night was shimmering with color and vibrance, and even Childs, languid as he was, looked shining and beautiful as he lounged against the pillow, the candlelight glinting on his hair.

"Come with me," Jonas urged. "The night's still young."

"Ah, yes." Childs struggled from the bed and made his way slowly toward Jonas. "The night's young enough. It's only you and I who get older. Where are we going? Down to the Bowery? Maybe we can find Clarisse, eh? She's probably over being angry with you."

"No, not there," Jonas said, yanking open the door and pulling Rico after him into the hall. "We've more important things to do."

"Oh? What's that?"

"We're going to paint, my friend," Jonas said, pushing open the door to his studio, feeling a surge of excitement and revelation so pure his whole body tingled with it. "We're going to paint a masterpiece."

 

 

It had been two days since she'd been back to the studio. Two days since she'd received the note from a messenger she'd never seen before, a single line scrawled on a piece of paper torn from a sketch pad, the handwriting bold and black and nearly indecipherable. No class until further notice. JW. That was all. No explanations and no apologies, and when Thomas had gone to the studio to inquire, there had been no answer to his knock.

It reminded Imogene of Peter's story about last spring. She wondered if Whitaker had been sitting in his studio, listening to her godfather's summons, lost in his own visions. The thought was disconcerting and uncomfortable, and she found herself feeling that she should go to him, to look in on him if nothing else, to make sure he was all right. But she dismissed the notion. She didn't know Whitaker well enough to intrude, and more than that, she wasn't sure how he would respond if she did visit him—or even what she would feel upon seeing him again.

Imogene glanced at the sketch hanging above her washstand. The paper still looked crumpled and worn, even though she'd worked painstakingly to smooth the wrinkles, hoping to bring out whatever secrets were hidden in the folds, hoping it would explain everything. She'd thought the drawing would explain why he paid her so much attention, what he truly wanted. But instead the sketch only raised more questions than it answered.

The portrait Imogene had rescued from the floor was of a woman she didn't recognize, a woman whose resemblance to herself lay only in the gown and the hairstyle. The rest ... the rest was someone Imogene had never seen before, someone she didn't know.

The woman in that picture looked delicate and beautiful. She was half turned toward the artist, and there was something sublime in her profile, something peaceful and confident in her expression, poise and grace in her pose. She was exquisite and arresting, almost . . . sensual. She was everything Imogene was not. And Imogene couldn't help but look at it and wonder who it was he'd drawn, or why he'd thrown it to the ground in anger, as if there were something ugly in it, something profane. At the time, Imogene had thought maybe it was because she was such a poor subject, or that he saw nothing in her worth drawing. But the sketch was so beautiful that now she wondered if his temper had anything to do with her at all.

She sighed and turned away, going to the window to stare out at the park below. She wished she were the woman in the picture—a woman of mystery and grace, a woman who could interest him, challenge him. The longing frightened her. Jonas Whitaker was not the man for her; it was useless to feel desire or yearning. It was useless to want him. But she did, and she knew that was the most dangerous feeling of all.

She leaned her head against the window, feeling the cold glass upon her skin, along with sinking despair. She wasn't the kind of woman Whitaker would be attracted to, she never could be, and the thought filled her with a sense of loss that was impossible to bear.

As impossible to bear as the notion that she might not see him again.

"Imogene?"

Katherine's voice came from the hallway. Imogene's godmother had been solicitous and kind over the last two days, but for once Imogene didn't want kindness. She didn't want the busywork of embroidery and tea. She wanted to think through her confusion—for once she wanted the solitude that had been her life in Nashville.

But Katherine meant well, Imogene knew, and so she sighed and turned from the window. "Come in."

The door squeaked open, and Katherine peeked around the edge. "Oh, Imogene, you are here," she said. There was a breathless relief in her voice. "Haven't you heard me calling?"

Imogene frowned. "No. I didn't hear anything."

"Well . . ." Katherine stepped inside, holding out a piece of paper. "This just came for you. I think it's important."

Imogene stared at the note in Katherine's hand, feeling an odd dread at the sight of it. Odd because she knew it was about Jonas Whitaker, though she had no reason at all to think it. It wasn't torn from a sketch pad like the last message she'd received. This was a heavy, cream-colored stock that bespoke elegance and money, as different from the other as it could be. So

different Imogene told herself it was absurd to think it had anything to do with Whitaker. But her breath caught anyway as she hurried toward her godmother, and her hands trembled when she took the note from Katherine's hand.

Katherine frowned, her deep brown eyes dark with concern. "Imogene, is everything all right? Is this— were you expecting this?"

Imogene shook her head. The paper felt thick and textured against her fingers. She unfolded it slowly, noting with part of her mind that the thin copperplate handwriting was not one she recognized. Her chest tightened with apprehension. It was bad news, certainly. A quick, impersonal statement telling her he would no longer be teaching her. That, or maybe something even worse, something informing her of his untimely death or . . . or . . .

An echo of Peter's words lingered in her ears. "The madness is waiting for me, Rico. Should I give in to it?"

She shut her eyes briefly, willing away the thought before she undid the last crease and read the words. Like before, the message was simple: Jonas Whitaker requests the pleasure of your company immediately.

There was no signature.

Imogene felt a sudden, fierce joy, along with an uneasiness that made her mouth dry. "Someone brought this?"

"He's downstairs now," Katherine said. "He insisted on waiting." She patted Imogene's hand, a gentle, reassuring touch. "Dear, is everything all right?"

"He wants to see me."

"Who does?"

"Mr. Whitaker." The questions rang in Imogene's mind. He wanted to see her immediately, and she had no idea why, still could not begin to fathom what he wanted from her. She could not believe he meant to give her a lesson. It was late, already near dinnertime.

"Well, thank goodness," Katherine said. "So you'll be going to the studio in the morning, then?"

Wordlessly Imogene held out the note. Katherine read it quickly, the frown furrowing deeper between her eyes as she handed it back. "He can't be serious," she said. "Certainly he means for you to come tomorrow?"

"It says immediately."

"Yes, but—"

"Perhaps I should talk to the man who brought it."

Katherine motioned to the stairs. "He's in the hall," she said.

Imogene had to force herself to take the stairs with dignity and grace. Still she couldn't quite go slowly enough, though it seemed an eternity before she saw who waited in the foyer.

Frederic Childs. Imogene hesitated. He was quite possibly the last person she expected to see, and yet he stood as if he belonged there, lazily studying a framed woodcut, his long blond hair falling over the shoulders of his fine blue coat. Like Nicholas, she thought. Comfortable in any situation.

Immediately a smile curved his mobile mouth, his eyes sparkled. "Miss Imogene," he said, making a small bow. "I'm delighted to see you again."

"Mr. Childs." She didn't smile back. She gestured with the note. "You brought this?"

"Yes." he said, starting toward her. Then he stopped, and his gaze slid beyond her. "Pardon," he said with cool aplomb. "1 didn't realize there was another beautiful lady on the stairs."

Imogene half turned to see Katherine standing behind her. She'd forgotten her godmother was even there. Distractedly she introduced them.

Childs smiled again, that dazzling smile. "I've heard a great deal about you, Mrs. Gosney. You and your husband are quite well thought of in the art community."

"Oh, you're an artist?" Katherine threw a questioning glance at Imogene.

"He's a friend of Mr. Whitaker's," Imogene explained, hearing the edge of impatience in her voice. "Please, Mr. Childs. This message—"

"Ah, yes, the message." His smile stayed steady, the good humor in his voice didn't fade, but something came into his eyes, some expression she couldn't read. "I've come to escort you to the studio."

Katherine frowned. "It's nearly time for dinner. Surely he doesn't mean—"

"Oh, but he does."

"I know artists have strange hours, Mr. Childs," she continued reasonably. "But surely this can wait until tomorrow."

Childs shook his head. "Forgive me, Mrs. Gosney," he said, disagreeing with firm politeness. "But this can't wait." He looked back to Imogene, and his smile mellowed, his face softened. If possible, it made him even lovelier than before, added a gentleness that was more real than his smooth charm, more insidiously captivating. "Miss Imogene," he said softly. "Jonas would like to see you. Please come."

She wanted to. Oh, Lord, she wanted to, but it was dangerous to want to go to him so badly. Say no. She opened her mouth to say the words.

Then she looked at Childs, really looked at him, and the refusal died in her throat. She saw the urgency in his eyes, an urgency cloaked in smiles and nonchalance, and it made her think again of Whitaker alone in his studio, staring out the window while the others pounded on the door. Her reservation died, forgotten in the strength of compassion and concern. There was no question; of course she would go to him.

Imogene crumpled the paper in her hand. "Very well," she said. "I'll get my mantle."

Katherine's frown deepened. "I don't know—"

Childs glanced at her. "I promise to keep her safe, madame. You have my word she'll come to no harm."

Imogene heard her godmother's hesitation. "Perhaps in the daytime," Katherine said. "But at night ..." Her words trailed off uncertainly, her eyes studied Imogene for a moment before she sighed and nodded. "At least let me send you in our carriage. Henry can wait for you then."

"By all means." Childs spoke with smooth, unemotional courtesy, but Imogene thought she saw relief in his expression when he turned to her, as well as a slight impatience. "Shall we go then, Miss Imogene?"

She nodded, hurrying to the small armoire at the back of the stairs. She grabbed her mantle and glanced down at her gown, wishing for a brief moment that she had something fancier than the thick bayadere silk with its stripes of darker lavender velvet and its unadorned flounces. She banished the absurd thought quickly. Lord knew Whitaker wasn't summoning her for her looks. She doubted he would even notice what she wore.

She closed the frogged fastenings of her mantle and grabbed her bonnet by its ribbons as she hurried back down the hall.

Childs looked up and smiled. "Ah, there she is," he said. His blue eyes sparkled when he glanced back at Katherine. He took her hand and bowed over it. "It has been a delight talking to you, Mrs. Gosney."

"And you," Katherine answered. Her voice was slightly breathless, the way it always was when she was enjoying herself. "I shall talk to Thomas this evening about commissioning you."

"Madame, you are too kind. I await your word." He released Katherine's hand with a smile, and then he straightened, shaking back his hair with a quick, graceful movement before he turned to Imogene and held out his arm. "Chérie?"

Imogene nodded and clutched the arm he offered— in her haste grabbing a little too hard. He raised a brow at her, and she smiled weakly and forced her fingers to loosen, feeling the hard warmth of him through her gloves and his heavy coat, smelling his rich, spicy cologne. When the front door shut behind them and they were standing on the stoop, the cool, damp autumn air brushing against her skin, threading through his hair, Childs turned to her with a smile.

"Don't be so afraid, chérie," he whispered. "You look as if you've just handed your soul to the devil for safekeeping. I assure you I am not so dangerous."

She looked at him in surprise. "I'm not afraid," she said. "Should I be?"

He blinked, and Imogene realized that he had expected some witty or clever remark. She glanced away again, feeling embarrassed and foolish, wishing once again that she was the practiced flirt her sister had been, that she knew anything at all about captivating a man. She half expected Childs would abandon her there on the step and take back his offer of escort, but he only chuckled and led her toward the waiting carriage.

"I don't know," he said. "Perhaps you should."

His words only added to the strangeness of everything she was feeling, the anticipation edged with worry. But Childs's steadying hand on her arm as they entered the brougham was reassuring and soothing, and Imogene found herself trusting him despite the fact that she hardly knew him.

"You are kind to do this, chérie," he said, looking at her somberly. His voice was quiet and even, but there was an undercurrent in the words, the same undercurrent she'd heard when he asked her to come, and she thought of Peter's story, felt the keen stab of worry.

"What's wrong with Whitaker?" she blurted.

"Wrong?" Childs looked at the window, resting his elbow on the narrow sill and his chin in his hand. She could see nothing but the curtain of his hair and part of his profile. "Things are never 'wrong' with Jonas. They are only more or less normal." There was an edge of something in his voice—grief maybe, or perhaps nothing more than simple sarcasm.

Imogene frowned. "I don't understand."

He gave a small laugh and looked back at her, a bitter smile on his lips. "No, I don't imagine you do," he said, and this time he didn't look away, but stared at her thoughtfully. Imogene flushed beneath his scrutiny, feeling as if he were searching for something, as if he expected to find something in her face, and when he spoke again she wasn't sure if he'd found it or not. "Ah, but you're such an innocent," he murmured—the words so quiet it was as if he were talking to himself. "Why has he chosen you, I wonder?"

His question startled her, Imogene felt the soft seduction of fear. "Chosen me?" Her voice sounded harsh and too sharp. "What do you mean?"

His gaze stayed on her for another moment, and then he smiled—a light, self-mocking smile—and turned away. "It's nothing," he said, shrugging. "I have known Jonas a long time. Too long, perhaps. There are things you don't know about him—"

"I know he's mad," she said, wanting suddenly to show him she was not as naive as he thought.

He only laughed. "Mad?" he asked. "Who told you this?"

"Peter McBride."

"Ah, Peter. Well-intentioned, well-heeled Peter." Childs looked at her, his gaze piercing. "What else has he told you?"

Imogene licked her lips, feeling as if she'd said something stupid, as if she'd misunderstood something, though she didn't know what it was. "He told me about last spring."

Childs leaned his head back on the padded wall of the brougham, saying nothing, letting the silence fill the carriage until Imogene's head pounded with it.

The carriage slowed. Imogene looked out the window to see the familiar buildings lining West Tenth Street, and concern tightened her chest so it was suddenly hard to breathe. She leaned forward, half turning to look at Childs, and found herself touching his arm to get his attention. "Please," she said, hearing the urgency in her voice. "Please tell me—is he like that today?"

Childs's expression was so somber and questioning it took her aback. "If I told you he was," he said slowly, "would you run away?"

The words were familiar. She heard Jonas Whitaker's deep timbre in her mind, the haunting rhythms of his voice. "What is it you want from me, Miss Imogene Carter? Why don't you run away . . . ?"

She didn't take her eyes from Childs. She shook her head. "No," she said. "No. I wouldn't run away."

The brougham lurched to a stop. She heard the wheels splash through mud, the groaning squeak of carriage springs. Frederic Childs sat up and leaned forward, reaching for the handle on the door. He opened it and stepped down, holding out his hand to help her. Imogene put her gloved fingers in his palm.

"Well?" she asked hesitantly. "Is he . . . ?"

Childs glanced at the building, at the top story, where the fading sunlight glinted off the windows of Jonas Whitaker's studio. Imogene felt his hand tighten around hers.

"I think you'll find him changed."

It was all he said as he led her to the stairs.