The komtesse glanced over her shoulder. “ ‘The Absinthe Drinker’ by Manet. One of my favorites.” She stopped and came shoulder to shoulder with Winston and Poppy as they looked up at the painting. “The public hated it when Manet first presented it. They thought it vulgar, as if life should only be portrayed as tidy and perfect. It is the richness of color and the man’s expression that draws me into this piece.” Her voice turned soft. “What do you suppose he’s thinking? Does he wonder if his life is slipping away?”
Win swallowed past the thickness in his throat. It was like looking at his younger self, that sad, hopeless wretch who’d bargained with the devil. A bead of sweat rolled down the valley of his back, so slow and steady that he could track its progress. “Perhaps he was thinking of what he could not have.”
Poppy’s voice, quiet with contemplation, touched his ear. “He looks a bit like you. When you were younger.”
He could not breathe. His collar hugged him too tightly. Two sets of feminine eyes bore into him and another trickle of sweat rolled down his back. The moment pulled, vibrating like a plucked bow, then the komtesse stirred.
“There is another portrait I want to show you. Come.” She opened a door, and they stepped into a room done up in vibrant shades of peacock blue. Four large, low slung couches of saffron and gold silk, covered with purple and red pillows, made up a sitting square in the center of the room. It hurt his eyes just looking at them so he glanced about at the paintings on the wall instead, lest he be overcome with indigestion.
“Have a seat,” offered the komtesse.
Not bloody likely. Those horrid couches were meant to be lain upon, drink in one hand, a smoke in the other. Winston was damned if he’d put himself in a prone position in an unknown house. Poppy didn’t seem to mind, though, and reclined with surprising finesse. The sight of her long, lean body uncoiled upon that harem couch, her booted feet tucked beneath her skirts and one hand at her nape to support her head, did strange things to his equilibrium. Winston shifted his stance with a surge of irritation. He supposed that was rather the point of the couches. The twinkle in the komtesse’s eyes confirmed it, and that she knew all too well the effect Poppy had on him. But her voice was even and gentle as she pointed toward the far wall. “That is what I wanted to show you.”
When he looked, his blood stilled. It was a large portrait, dominating the wall and encased in a heavy, gold frame. Done in tones of black and grey, the pale countenance of Lord Isley smiled down at them. It was a smug smile, full of knowing and trickery, as if even then, he was planning mischief. Isley wore the very same suit and scarlet cravat that he’d donned when meeting Winston, and Winston wondered for a moment if Isley ever changed, if the suit was even real but yet another illusion.
“Lord Isley as I knew him in eighteen sixty-five,” said the komtesse.
By the pale tinge of Poppy’s skin, Win realized that she recognized this man as well. Her eyes narrowed upon the painting with such hatred and determination that his skin prickled. The komtesse’s gaze, however, was serene, perhaps a touch wistful.
Win walked closer. Nestled in the elaborate folds of Isley’s cravat was a golden cartouche. Win did not know hieroglyphics but he made note of the symbols. “If I may, Komtesse,” he asked, turning back to her, “how well did you know Lord Isley?”
Her lips curled a touch. “Given that I have his portrait hanging upon my wall, you mean? We were lovers as I gather you already suspected.” She sighed, letting her chin fall into her cupped palm as she smiled up at the portrait. “He was lovely though. Always made me feel a queen even when I was close to rags.” Deep-lidded eyes returned to study him and Poppy with equal measure. “I was on the verge of ruin before he came into my life. My protector had left me alone in Paris, and I’d not found another.” She fiddled with the tasseled end of a vermilion pillow. “In truth, I was quite desperate, wishing for a quick death or a miracle, which at that point might have been one and