Chapter One
London, Early June 1831
"Mr. Cunningham, as I've already made clear, I have no
interest whatever in painting a portrait of Lord
Tregonning's daughter." Gerrard Reginald Debbington
lounged elegantly in an armchair in the smoking room of
his select gentleman's club. Concealing his mounting
frustration, he held Lord Tregonning's agent's gaze. "I
agreed to this meeting in the hope that Lord Tregonning,
having been informed of my refusal of the commission to
paint the portrait, had agreed to allow me access to the
Hellebore Hall gardens."
He was, after all, the ton's foremost landscape painter;
Lord Tregonning's famous gardens were long overdue a visit
from such as he.
Cunningham blanched. Clearing his throat, he glanced down
at the papers spread on the small table between them.
Around them, a discreet hum held sway; Gerrard was
peripherally aware of occasional glances thrown their way.
Other members saw him, but on noticing Cunningham, they
checked; recognizing that business was being conducted,
they refrained from intruding.
Cunningham was in his mid-twenties, some years younger
than Gerrard's twenty-nine. Attired in sober, rusty black
over serviceable linen and a biscuit-colored waistcoat,
his round face, faint frown, and the intent attention he
gave to his papers marked him clearly as someone's
business agent.
By the time Cunningham deigned to speak, Gerrard had a
sketch assembled in his head, titled "Business Agent at
Work."
"Lord Tregonning has instructed me to convey that while he
appreciates your reservations over committing to a
portrait of a subject you haven't yet seen, such
reservations only strengthen his conviction that you are
indeed the painter he needs for this work. His lordship
fully comprehends that you will paint his daughter as you
see her, without any obfuscation. That is precisely what
he wishes -- he wants the portrait to be a faithful
rendition, to accurately portray Miss Tregonning as she
truly is."
Gerrard's lips thinned; this was going nowhere.
Without looking up, Cunningham went on, "In addition to
the fee offered, you may take as many months short of a
year as you deem necessary to complete the portrait, and
over that time you will have unfettered access and
unrestricted permission to sketch and paint the gardens of
Hellebore Hall. Should you wish, you may bring a friend or
companion; you would both be accommodated at Hellebore
Hall for the duration of your stay."
Gerrard stifled his exasperation. He hadn't needed to hear
that offer again, no matter how sweetly laced; he'd turned
it down two weeks ago, when Cunningham had first sought
him out.
Stirring, he caught Cunningham's eye. "Your employer
misunderstands -- I do not, indeed, have never painted on
commission. Painting is an abiding interest, one I'm
wealthy enough to indulge. Painting portraits, however, is
no more than an incidental pastime, successful perhaps,
but not in the main of serious attraction to me, to my
painterly soul if you will."
Not strictly true, but in the present circumstance, apt
enough. "While I would be delighted to have the
opportunity to paint the Hellebore Hall gardens, not even
that is sufficient incentive to tempt me to agree to a
portrait I have no inclination, or need, to paint."
Cunningham held his gaze. He drew in a tight breath,
glanced briefly down, then looked up again, his gaze
fixing over Gerrard's left shoulder. "His lordship
instructed me to inform you that this will be his final
offer ... and that should you refuse it, he will be forced
to find some other painter to undertake the portrait, and
that other painter will be accorded the same license in
respect of the gardens as was offered to you.
Subsequently, Lord Tregonning will ensure that during his
lifetime and that of his immediate heirs, no other artist
will be allowed access to the gardens of Hellebore Hall."
Suppressing his reaction, remaining seated, took all
Gerrard's considerable willpower. What the devil was
Tregonning about, resorting to what amounted to
extortion ... ?
He looked away, unseeing.
One thing was clear. Lord Tregonning was bound and
determined to have him paint his daughter.
Leaning his elbow on the chair arm, his clenched jaw on
his fist, fixing his gaze across the room, he searched for
some acceptable way out of the well-baited trap. None
immediately leapt to mind; his violent antipathy to
allowing some portrait panderer to be the only artist to
gain access to the fabulous landscapes said to surround
Hellebore Hall was clouding his perception.
He looked at Cunningham. "I need to consider his
lordship's proposal more carefully."
Given the clipped accents that had infected his speech, he
wasn't surprised that Cunningham kept his expression
carefully neutral. The agent nodded once. "Yes, of course.
How long ... ?"
"Twenty-four hours." If he let such a subject torture him
for any longer, unresolved, he'd go insane. He rose and
extended his hand. "You're at the Cumberland, I believe?"
Hurriedly gathering his papers, Cunningham stood and
grasped his hand. "Yes. Ah ... I'll wait to hear from you."
Gerrard nodded curtly. He remained by the chair until
Cunningham had left, then stirred and followed him out.
He walked the parks of the capital -- St. James, Green
Park, then into Hyde Park. A poor choice; his boots had
barely touched the lawn when he was hailed by Lady
Swaledale, eager to introduce him to her daughter and her
niece. A bevy of matrons with bright-eyed damsels in tow
leaned from their carriages, hoping to catch his
attention; others hovered, parading along the grassed
verge.
Spotting his aunt Minnie, Lady Bellamy, in her carriage
drawn up by the side of the Avenue, he excused himself to
a particularly clinging fond mama on the grounds of paying
his respects. The instant he reached the carriage, he
grasped Minnie's hand and with an extravagant gesture,
kissed it. "I'm throwing myself on your mercy -- save me,"
he implored ...
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