"I had best write the letter,” I said. “I know which sketchpad is required, and where it is. Brodagan will not like to be disturbed at such a late hour. I shall hint that the sketch might inconvenience Steptoe. That will ensure her compliance."

Mama agreed to this and we parted, Weylin to speak to his footman, I to write the note, and Mama to sit waiting impatiently for Weylin's call, so that she might undress and go to bed. Shortly after nine he came tapping at the door.

"There is a band playing on the Pantiles,” he said, pocketing my note. “Would you ladies like to take a stroll and hear it? It is a bit early to turn in."

"Very kind, Lord Weylin,” Mama said, “but I could not make it down those stairs again. I am a martyr to the rheumatism."

"I am very sorry to hear it, ma'am.” Then his gray eyes turned to me, with a question. “Miss Barron? Are your joints up to tackling the stairs?"

"I should enjoy a little exercise after that large dinner,” I said, looking to see if Mama objected to being left alone in a strange hotel.

I think she was glad to be rid of me. “Try not to make a racket when you come in, Zoie. I shall be sleeping."

"I shan't be late,” I promised.

"Not very late,” Lord Weylin said in an undertone. There was laughter in his eyes as he settled my shawl around my shoulders and offered his arm to lead me out.

The idea flashed into my mind that Lady Margaret was not the only one of his family who could be naughty when she felt like it. And Uncle Barry might not be unique in that respect in my own family either. There is some charm in being away from home, some slight relaxing of the social constraints. Perhaps it is no more than the knowledge that friends and neighbors are not watching, and so one can cut loose a little. Was that why Barry and Aunt Margaret came here?

Chapter Nine

Lord Weylin's footman, rigged out in dark green livery with gold trim, was waiting in the lobby. His eyes opened wide as a barn door to see me there with his master. It would not be long until the whole neighborhood at home heard about it. Weylin gave him the note for Brodagan, and he left.

"You realize that being seen here alone with me puts your reputation in jeopardy,” Weylin said, in a joshing way.

I replied in the same manner, “So I assumed when your servant's chin hit the floor. This is too dainty a morsel for him to keep to himself."

"I shall expect you to do the right thing by me if I am cast out of polite society,” he said, and we began walking toward the door.

"Are you referring to a character reference, sir? A sworn affidavit of your unexceptional behavior-or an offer of marriage?"

After the heedless words were out, I feared Weylin might think I was making a premature leap at the altar, but he laughed lightly and changed the subject.

"Lovers would have to be naive indeed to think they could get away with clandestine meetings in a public hotel. A love nest is more usual.” He inclined his head toward mine and added, still in that laughing way, “Or so I am told. Naturally a well-behaved gent like myself has no firsthand knowledge of such carrying on."

"Of course not. And fish are but inferior swimmers, too, having heard of it only at second hand."

The doorman held the door for us, and we went out into the warm evening, along the path to the Pantiles. It was a particularly clear night. The moon shone as brightly as a lantern, and a myriad of stars twinkled all across the heavens.

"June is a lovely month, is it not?” Lord Weylin said, in a pensive way. “Summer looms before you, always promising more than it delivers."

"April is my favorite month. I prefer the coming of spring, after a long, cold winter. If it promises more than it delivers, at least it does deliver summer."

"Spring is too uncertain. One never knows whether he will awaken to frost or rain or sunshine. Rather like a visit with Miss Barron,” he added mischievously.

This was the nature of our conversation as we continued along to the Pantiles. There was a definite whiff of romance in the air. It seemed strange to see the colonnade lit up as brightly as daytime, with some of the shops still open for business, and the streets full of strollers. We continued along to where a band was playing. A crowd of holidayers had gathered around. Ladies-and I do not mean the word satirically-were flirting quite openly with gentlemen.

I noticed Lord Weylin was looking at them and said, “There is something about being in a strange town that encourages loose behavior."

One brow lifted and he replied, “I have not observed our little trip having that effect on you, Miss Barron."

"I daresay if those young ladies were accompanied by their mamas, they would not be working their fans so assiduously."

"Your mama is not with you now,” he said, while his fingers tightened possessively on my arm.

If his lordship had some notion of instituting a flirtation while away from home, he was out in his reading of my character. I did not want a clandestine romance, carried on behind society's back.

"Shall we continue our walk?” I said coolly. “The reason we came out was to get a little exercise. We are not making much headway standing here."

"I noticed the lack of headway,” he murmured, and we continued on toward the church. “How does it come you and I are not better acquainted, Miss Barron, having been neighbors for years?"

"I blame it on the infrequency of elections,” I replied. “The only time I am at Parham is when an election is called."

"But as we are neighbors, surely it does not require a national election to get you to call?"

"You forget, milord, I called on you twice this very week. There is just a little something in a threat to call the constable that makes one think twice before calling again. The road travels both ways. You have never called on me."

"I have apologized about the vase. Can we not forget it?"

"You are the one who asked why I do not call at Parham."

The air of flirtation was noticeably lacking in the remainder of our walk. After a longish pause, Weylin said, in the hearty way of a bored gentleman making conversation, “So you are interested in sketching, Miss Barron."

"Yes, I always enjoyed it, since I was a child. A few years ago I began taking lessons from Borsini. He is an Italian conte,” I added, and wished I had not, for it sounded like vulgar boasting.

Weylin's lips moved unsteadily. “I have heard of him."

"Perhaps you are familiar with his painting of the Prince Regent?"

"Very familiar. He tried selling one to me. He paints Prinney with monotonous regularity, and it is a pity the prince has never accepted any of the likenesses."

"Are you saying Borsini was not commissioned? He just painted the picture for his own amusement?"

"No, for money. He runs a profitable sideline hawking copies of Sir Thomas Lawrence's profile of Prinney, but of course, that was not the one he tried to sell to the prince. I do not mean to disparage the man. One has to make a living, after all, and the copies are good enough in their way. There is such a surfeit of art teachers at the moment that he has trouble getting students."

I felt quite deflated, and very vexed with Count Borsini. He had certainly given me the idea he was commissioned to do that painting of the prince. He had also claimed it was a great favor that he condescended to take me on as a student. It was only my unique talent, he said, that convinced him to do it. I had always found it odd that he moved to Aldershot, if he was in such high demand in London.

I twitched my shawl angrily about my shoulders and said, “Shall we go back now? It is becoming rather chilly."

"I thought we might stop for a glass of wine at those tables they have set up around the bandstand."

"Two bottles of champagne were sufficient for me, thank you.” I set a brisk pace back toward the other end of the Pantiles.

"Is there some particular reason why we are running?” Weylin asked.

"It is chilly,” I repeated.

He made no reply, but he took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow, to show me his idea of the chilly weather.

We went directly back to the hotel. I kept thinking all the way of how Borsini had duped me. Even now I was having the tower room made into a studio. Vanity, all vanity. Borsini had half convinced me I was a genius, and I had gone along with it, paying him a fortune for his lessons.

As we entered, Lord Weylin said, “I am sorry if I have offended you in some manner, Miss Barron. If some of my remarks were slightly out of line, can you not blame it on our being tourists, and forgive me?"

"I am not offended by you, Lord Weylin."

"Then I should dislike to see you when you were offended! If you are not, then join me for a nightcap. I have a favor I want to ask of you. I have reserved the parlor for my use while I am here. We need not have wine. I am not trying to get you inebriated, after all. A posset, or cocoa… There can be no mischief in that."

Since I was curious to hear what favor he wanted, I agreed. My ire was not directed at him, but at Borsini. He ordered tea, and while waiting for it, I asked what he wanted of me.

He placed the miniature of his aunt on the table and said, “Would it be possible for you to do a sketch of my aunt as she looked before she died? Perhaps with this to assist your memory, you might fill out the cheeks, add a few chins, change the hairstyle, and so on. Then we would have a recognizable likeness of her to show around-ask at the various hotels if anyone had seen her. If she used an alias, just checking the registers will be of no help."

I examined the little ivory. “The jowls had sagged, and the eyelids had drooped somewhat when I knew her,” I said, really talking to myself. “The nose tends to become more prominent with age. Yes, I think I could do it quite easily.” Comparing my mental picture of Lady Margaret with the pretty girl in the miniature, I said, “It is sad, is it not, to think how short a time beauty lasts?"