before the portrait. “Channing was not an old man when he died, alas. I have several of his better works.”
“Channing is barely cold in his grave, Longacre. I knew him, I attended his funeral. Copying a Channing isn’t like copying some relic from the last century.”
The token show of reluctance was part of de Beauharnais’s dance. Perhaps Tolliver found that appealing in bed. Richard found it tiresome.
“You are certainly free to decline my business at any time,” Richard said. “I understand your reservations, and I know I am fortunate to be able to call upon you.”
Just as de Beauharnais was fortunate not to be in Newgate awaiting the hangman’s kind attentions. Forgery was a felony, and nobody back at Hogtrot Hall was of sufficient standing to intercede for de Beauharnais should he be taken up by the magistrate for forgery—or for buggery.
Such charges were nearly impossible to prove without witnesses. One of the participants had to confess to the deed, and confession itself could result in a death sentence. Fortunately, the scandal of the charges alone would be ruinous.
Fortunately for Richard.
“Replicating Channing’s style will take considerable skill,” de Beauharnais said, “considerable effort. He was said to ruin his brushes in a single session, some of them sable and quite dear, and he was fanatical about details—as you are, de Beauharnais. You attended Dirk’s funeral.” Half the extant artists in the realm had. “I have a work I’d like you to study in detail before you begin, but you doubtless saw other examples of Channing’s art when at his home.”
“I was a guest at Merlin Hall on two occasions, a protégé of sorts. Channing was happy to instruct those who had ability, and all he required in return was adoration and flattery. At the time, I was eager to provide both, particularly when I was also receiving free meals and a comfortable guest bed.”
“Then you’ve met Channing’s widow?”
De Beauharnais studied Richard as closely as he’d been examining Channing’s rendering of a child’s smile.
“Mrs. Channing was substantially younger than her husband, and prettier than she knew. I liked her, but I was merely one of a regiment of houseguests, and she was taken up with making Channing’s life exactly as he wished it to be.”
“She’s still pretty,” Richard said. “Prettier than ever. Channing called her his maid of the shires, but she had another side, not so maidenly. Did you know she modeled for Channing?”
De Beauharnais took a considering sip of his brandy, then put the drink down unfinished on the desk. “I suppose modeling is a cross an artist’s wife must bear, particularly if she’s attractive.”
“Verity Channing is beautiful, but she also had a delightfully naughty streak, though is it naughty if a man is painting nudes of his own wife?”
“You want me to paint a nude of Verity Channing?”
“Nudes—plural. Channing did a whole series of nudes earlier in his career—I have one you should inspect—and Mrs. Channing doubtless came in for the same thorough study on his part.”
De Beauharnais considered the painting on the wall, then consulted his watch, a plain little piece that had doubtless been given to him by some doting auntie.
“Such a painting will cost you, Longacre. Cost you enough that I needn’t accept another of your projects ever again. They are beneath my talent, in the first place, and in the second, you have graduated from taking modest advantage of some old beldame with a work purporting to be from a bygone era, to ruining a young widow who never did anything to harm you.”
“You don’t know that,” Richard said. “You don’t know how Verity Channing has comported herself, toward me or toward anybody else. She’s a jumped-up dairy maid who got her hooks into Dirk and will be comfortably situated into old age for her efforts.”
De Beauharnais snapped his watch closed. “Isn’t that precisely what women are taught to do? Find a fellow and make the best possible life with him, hoping all the while that his babies don’t kill her? I rather admire the ladies for their courage, fellows in general being an unreliable and difficult lot.”
“You don’t even like women. Stop being contrary.”
“I like women quite well, better than I like most men.” His gaze went to the happy child, who’d been half orphaned as Dirk had painted her likeness. “Pay me for the general.”
Richard opened the desk drawer and counted out the agreed-upon sum plus a bit more. One could be generous in victory.
“I will cheerfully part with five times that amount