Zoë kept a straight face. “You probably ate a spider.”
“Urgh!” Milly spat again. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
Zoë shrugged. “It’s your garden, I thought you would have known. There are loads of spiders in the garden. There are webs all over the place, so pretty with the morning dew on them, like strings of crystals.”
Milly pulled a face. “You are so strange! Everything about spiders is disgusting—everyone knows that.”
Ignoring her, Zoë kept picking while Milly watched, glowering, her mouth puckered. Then she said, “People really eat these things to improve their complexion?”
“You have to suffer for your beauty.” A crow cawed from the rooftops, and Zoë cocked her head. “Isn’t that your mama calling you?”
Milly scowled. “I didn’t hear anything. You’re just trying to get rid of me.”
“Am I? Your mama won’t mind if you don’t come, then, will she?”
“Oh, you!” Milly hesitated, grabbed a couple more rose hips and flounced off.
Zoë grinned to herself and kept picking rose hips.
Chapter Ten
That afternoon, Izzy and Clarissa went out to make morning calls. They explained that they’d rather Zoë not go out into society until she’d been presented—not to the Queen; illegitimate girls, even pretend French cousins, didn’t do that. They were terribly apologetic, but they wanted her to meet all their friends and acquaintances at the reception Leo and Izzy were organizing for after Christmas, and since Lucy and Gerald had brought her back to England earlier than expected, it had caught them out.
Especially since it was winter and the Season wouldn’t really start until spring.
Zoë assured them that far from being disheartened at the delay, it suited her down to the ground. It was, after all, what she’d done when she’d first come to live with Clarissa and Lady Scattergood.
Her sisters put her reluctance to move in society down to shyness, or perhaps anxiety about the masquerade as aFrench cousin. But Zoë wasn’t shy, and she knew she could handle society events with ease—Lucy had trained her well. She simply wasn’t interested in society life. And far from being disappointed, she was secretly delighted because the delay would give her more time to paint.
She was keen to start establishing a reputation as a portraitist, and she knew she’d have Lady Scattergood’s approval.
She started by painting another portrait of the old lady. The one she’d painted of her three years ago was promising, for a beginner, and Lady Scattergood liked it very much, but Zoë knew she was much better now and was keen to paint something that showed off her new skills.
Lady Scattergood was, of course, delighted. Zoë painted her seated like some kind of Eastern potentate in her peacock chair, wearing one of the large, flamboyant turbans she’d taken to wearing to disguise the thinning of her hair, and draped in multicolored shawls, with her beloved dogs around her. In the background were some of the fascinating and unusual objects her late husband had sent her from his travels to the far-flung corners of the world.
Her time painting people with Reynard had given Zoë experience in painting people who moved and talked and came and went, and so she told Lady Scattergood that she would be quite happy for her to receive visitors while she painted. Which, of course, she did.
It brought an unexpected bonus. The old lady’s visitors were fascinated by the painting process and returned again and again to watch the portrait emerge. Before it was even finished, she had several more commissions. All were of old ladies, but Zoë didn’t mind that at all. She wasn’t the kind of portraitist who wanted to paint only beautiful people. She preferred evidence of character and personality in a subject, and she found old people endlessly absorbing and frequently beautiful.
“We’vemade an appointment with Daisy Chance for you to be fitted for your new dress,” Izzy told Zoë at dinner one night at the home of Clarissa and Race. “It’s for quite early in the morning, so nobody will see you.”
Zoë was bemused by the secrecy. “You do know that dozens of Lady Scattergood’s visitors have already seen me, don’t you?”
“Yes, but they don’t count.”
“Izzy is talking about the leaders of the ton seeing you,” Clarissa explained. “Will you try some more of this berry ice? It’s delicious, don’t you think?”
Zoë agreed and allowed the butler to fill her a tiny crystal cup with the frozen berry confection.
“You see, we want to make a splash with you at our reception,” Izzy said.
“Yes. Which is why you need this dress,” Clarissa said.
Zoë had no idea what it was all about—her sisters were being so mysterious, but all she said was “Very well. What time do you want me to be ready?”
The House of Chance was a small, elegant establishment, just off Piccadilly. It was clear to Zoë that her sisters were well acquainted with the proprietor, Miss Daisy Chance, a short, elegantly dressed woman who, to her surprise, had a bad limp and spoke with an unashamed Cockney accent.
After the greetings and introductions, the small elegant woman scanned Zoë from top to toe. “So this is your French cousin, eh? Yep, you and her are two peas in a pod, just like you said, Lady Salcott.” She gave a brisk nod. “Perfect.”
