“Vaguely. Back when I was a child,” Lady Scattergood said dismissively. “Our families did not ‘know’ each other, of course—my mother would not have dreamed of receiving hers, for instance—but we attended the same church and I could not help but become acquainted with her. Even then she was trying to push herself into my world.”
The visitors tsk-tsked and the conversation continued on the problem of mushrooms andarrivistes. Zoë went back to her painting. The conversation was sobering. Lady Scattergood and her friends might be treating Zoë like a favored pet at the moment, but not everyone would see her in the same way. There would be people in society who would be as ruthlessly exclusive toward her, just as they were toward Lady Bagshott.
A few minutes later the ladies left to take tea in thedrawing room, and as soon as they’d gone, Zoë retrieved Lady Bagshott’s card from where it lay against the grate. She felt sorry for her and wanted no part of Lady Scattergood’s unreasonable exclusivity.
Zoë put the finishing touches on her most recent portrait, then set it aside to dry. Two other completed paintings were sitting on a ledge, waiting to be framed before going to their new owners. She’d painted so many since returning to London that she’d lost count.
She cleaned her brushes, tidied her work area and washed her hands. Lady Scattergood had several more commissions awaiting her. Which one to do next? Her gaze drifted to the card left by—what was her name again?—oh yes, Lady Bagshott.
Lady Scattergood’s exclusivity and hostility toward the woman just because of her background in trade bothered her. Art was for everyone. And if this lady was so keen to have Zoë paint her portrait, why shouldn’t she?
She wrapped up the completed paintings and rang to have the carriage brought around.
“Where are you off to?” Lady Scattergood asked when she came downstairs.
Zoë indicated the wrapped bundle. “To the framers.”
“Take your maid and Jeremiah with you.” Lady Scattergood was always nervous when people went outside and insisted on Zoë being accompanied.
After meeting with the framers and deciding on the best frame style for each painting—and subject—she returned to the carriage and showed the card to the coachman. “Take me to this address, please.”
He gave her a narrow look. “Are you sure, miss?” Clearly she was not the only one who knew about Lady Bagshott’s unsuccessful attempts to storm Lady Scattergood’s bastion.
“Quite sure.”
A few minutes later the carriage drew up outside an imposing white three-story house. The doorbell was answered by a very correct butler.
“Miss Zoë Benoît to see Lady Bagshott,” she said.
He hesitated, and seeing she was about to be refused, she added, “Lady Bagshott left this card. I am returning her call.”
He took it, scrutinized it with a skeptical air, then said in a dampening manner, “I will inquire as to whether m’lady is at home.” He left Zoë cooling her heels in the hall. She looked around her. The furnishings and decorations were too ornate for her taste, but the lady clearly did not lack money.
Fifteen minutes later, the butler returned. “M’lady will see you now.”
She was ushered into rather a grand drawing room. Lady Bagshott received her seated in an ornately carved chair. She did not rise, nor did she invite Zoë to sit.
Instead of greeting Zoë, she held up the card Zoë had given to the butler. “Where did you get this card?”
“You left it with Lady Scattergood’s butler last week.”
The old lady sniffed. “And who might you be? Some maidservant, I suppose.”
Zoë said composedly, “I am Zoë Benoît, and I am Lady Scattergood’s artist in residence.”
Lady Bagshott snorted. “A likely story. You’re far too young and pretty to do the portraits I’ve seen.”
Tired of standing, Zoë sat down on a hard chair next to a small rosewood table. “Nevertheless, I painted them.” She took out a small sketch pad and pencil, and while Lady Bagshott shot questions at her, trying to ascertain whether she was indeed the correct painter, her pencil flew over the page.
“In the portrait of the Dowager Countess of Fenchurch, what was at her feet?”
Zoë frowned. “Was that the one with the little dog, or the one with the cat on her lap?” Having watched Reynard work, she was a lot more skilled at painting animals, but she’d been working so fast, on so many portraits in quick succession, she’d forgotten the various ladies’ names.
“It was a dog, but anyone could guess that. I suppose you were dusting the room and saw it.” The old lady raised her lorgnette and peered at her. “What are you doing, gel, scribbling away while I’m talking to you? It’s very rude.”
“Drawing.” Zoë turned the page and started another quick sketch.
“I haven’t agreed to allow you to do any such thing! Stop it at once! And I never gave you permission to be seated in my presence!”
