Zoë ignored her. “I believe Lady Scattergood informed you of my fee.” Before she’d met Lady Bagshott she’d been more than half-inclined to give her a substantial discount, but having met the arrogant old battle-ax, she’d changed her mind.
“Hah! And I suppose you want me to pay you up front and then you’ll take my money and disappear.”
Zoë put the finishing touches to the second sketch and said in a bored voice, “My clients pay Lady Scattergood, not me. I would expect you to do the same.”
Lady Bagshott regarded her sourly. “If you are that artist—and I don’t for a minute believe you are—why would you paint so many raddled old women? Why not beautiful young ladies or handsome men?”
“I paint all sorts of people. And while you might call some of my subjects ‘raddled’ and ‘old,’ I see faces that are full of character. And that’s what I paint. In any case, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
“Hmph! Trotting out rubbishy old clichés, are you now?”
Zoë ripped two pages from her sketch pad and rose from her seat. “As the painter, I’m the beholder, and beauty comes in all sorts of guises. So I could portray you likethis.” She passed her the first sketch, which was quite a flattering portrait.
The old lady peered at it through her lorgnette, and from her expression Zoë could see she was both surprised and pleased.
“Or I might portray you like this.” She passed her the second sketch, which was more of a caricature—a cruel but accurate portrayal.
The old lady gasped. “This is outrageous!”
Zoë glanced from her drawing to the old lady and back again. “No, it’s quite accurate. They both are.”
“How dare you! I’ve never met such an insolent chit!” She kept looking from one sketch to the other.
Zoë said indifferently, “Not surprising. I hear you don’t get out much.”
Lady Bagshott stamped her foot. “You brass-faced hussy!”
Zoë shrugged. “I just thought I’d give you an idea of your choices if I decided to paint you.”
Lady Bagshott lurched from her chair and in two steps flung the sketches into the fire. Unmoved, Zoë watched them blacken, curl and burst into flame.
“Hah! See?” The old woman gloated. “I choose no portrait at all—not from you, you impudent baggage!”
“Very well, but I think I’ll paint you anyway. You have an interesting face.”
“Nonsense! I won’t sit for you, no matter how much you beg! I absolutely refuse!”
“Oh, I don’t need you to sit for me. I have it all up here.” She tapped her head.
She glared at Zoë. “I won’t pay you a penny!”
Zoë shrugged. “I don’t need your money. Apart from a waiting list of commissions, I have a private income. I’ll put the portrait in an exhibition. Someone might buy it. We’ll see.”
The old lady’s voice rose in outrage. “Putmyface? Inanexhibition? Have every Tom, Dick and Harry staring at me?”
“Yes, it’ll be fun, won’t it?”
“It’s not fun at all! It’s an outrage. An appalling liberty! I refuse to allow it.”
“It’s not up to you, though, is it?” Zoë said pleasantly. “You’ve refused the commission, so I’ll paint you how I wish, and it’ll be mine to do whatever I want with it.”
The old woman huffed and puffed in frustration and outrage and muttered under her breath. Zoë slipped her sketchbook and pencil back into her reticule and turned to leave. She had almost reached the door when Lady Bagshott ground out, “Very well, then, you dreadful gel, I agree.”
“Agree to what, Lady Bagshott?” Zoë said innocently.
The old woman narrowed her eyes. “You know perfectly well what. I’ll commission the dratted portrait and I’ll even pay your exorbitant price. But I tell you this, young woman, it won’t leave this house, not while you’re painting it, and not once it’s done—is that understood?”
“It will need to go to the framer.”
