"Indeed we did not. We went straight home.”

"Then why do you speak of a late night?"

"We were not in bed till one o'clock."

"That late," he said, laughing. "Three or four might be considered late-hardly one o'clock."

She looked at him as if he were mad. "I only had five hours' sleep. I feel like a dishrag this morning."

"You most assuredly do not look like one, if that is any consolation. Personally, I don't mind a touch of fatigue in my models. A slight drooping of the eyelids is romantic, if it is done right. And even a little shadow under the eyes."

"You may find those tokens in the baroness. My eyelids are not only drooping, but will be closed as soon as you begin work."

He mixed the pigments for the skin tone and selected a clean brush. "It was my understanding that ladies slept all winter, to be rested for the exertions of the Season."

"We do not quite hibernate at Whitchurch."

"A lively spot, is it? It stands to reason. If it has kept you from London all this time, it must have some peculiar charm."

As it had nothing of the sort, Laura did not pursue this topic. "Did you bring any coffee today?" she asked, looking for the thermos.

"In that hamper." He nodded at it.

"Would you like some?"

He shook his head and watched her as she poured. Hyatt was always looking for a new type of model. He had taken Miss Harwood for the typical older, experienced lady he often painted, but he was beginning to realize he had erred. She was older than a deb, and of course wiser, but he was beginning to doubt her experience. That thin veneer of town bronze faded at times to reveal the naive girl beneath. He soon decided he wanted to paint Miss Harwood and was considering what pose and what expression he would use to suggest that intriguing combination of-what was it? Innocence and something else that he could only call common sense. "No, but I'd like to paint you," he said, and watched for her face to light up in delight.

He seldom said this to a lady. More usually, they were begging for the honor. To his considerable astonishment, Miss Harwood appeared unmoved.

"I have already had my portrait done," she said.

"Lawrence?"

"A Mr. Wiggins, from Whitchurch. He made me look like a Methodist. I have sworn off having my portrait taken, but I thank you for offering, Lord Hyatt. I realize it is a great honor," she added as an afterthought.

Hyatt stood, momentarily stunned into silence. She had declined! Miss Harwood did not want him to paint her picture. He had refused to do the Prince Regent until he was all but threatened with treason, but a Miss Harwood from Whitchurch cavalierly dismissed his offer.

"I would not make you look like a Methodist," he said, when he had recovered from the shock of refusal.

His astonishment brought a very natural smile to her lips. "I know it well! You would, no doubt, transform me into a beauty, but still I must decline your extremely generous offer."

He couldn't make sense of it. "There would not be any charge, if that is what…" He could construe no other possible reason. Perhaps she had heard of the Prince paying him a thousand pounds, but that was really a donation to charity.

"It isn't the money. You are busy and have to work in these extra assignments at the crack of dawn. Much as I appreciate the offer, I cannot envisage rising at six for the remainder of the Season.”

He was about to suggest afternoon sittings, but he recovered his wits in time. He did not have to beg for models after all. Olivia resumed her pose, holding the hem of her skirt up, with her arm poised in the air, and Hyatt began to paint.

Laura sat with Meadows, considering Hyatt's startling offer. Why did he want to paint her? He only painted celebrities-and his mistresses… Lady Devereau was not precisely a celebrity, or had not been one before Hyatt painted her. What would people think if a portrait of Miss Harwood suddenly appeared at his exhibition? Olivia was different-she was to be the Season's star. But an unknown Miss Harwood from Whitchurch? Hyatt obviously had no serious interest in her. She was a passing fancy of the moment. A flirt, in other words. No, it would not do. He might get out of hand, and she knew she could not cope with a Lord Hyatt bent on romantic mischief.

She had observed people gossiping behind Lady Devereau's back at Lady Morgan's ball. Hyatt had hardly spoken to her. If that was the fate of his flirts, she was not eager to join them.

The painting session proceeded without interruption until after eight o'clock, at which time Mr. Yarrow arrived. He was casually outfitted in a belcher kerchief and a waistcoat of a strident canary yellow. The buttons on his jacket were not much smaller than saucers. Hyatt looked up with a scowl but said nothing. Yarrow nodded to Mr. Meadows and Laura but went to stand at Hyatt's elbow.

"A jolly fine picture, Lord Hyatt. But don't you think the baroness's hair is a little too dark?"

"I have not put in the highlights yet."

"And her gown-why is she wearing that old thing? Supposed to be an heiress. I should think a few diamonds-”

"Go away," Hyatt said, through thin lips.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to disturb you." He ambled over to Meadows and Laura. "The baroness invited me," he said.

"Lord Hyatt doesn't like a crowd when he is working," Laura said coolly.

"The baroness told me. I am hardly a crowd. I haven't told a soul." He looked hungrily at the coffee. "Hyatt is a bit of a grouch, ain't he?"

"Perhaps you had best run along, Yarrow," Meadows said.

"I'll just wait and have a word with the baroness. She told me I could come." He strolled off, but when the session was done, he was back, and Olivia seemed troublesomely happy to see him. She joined him at his carriage, while Meadows went to discuss the intrusion with Hyatt.

"I told him to shab off. Seems the baroness invited him," Meadows said.

"Tell her to uninvite him. He's the worst sort of distraction, a clapperjaw."

"I'll give him the hint."

Laura stayed sitting where she was, her attention on Olivia and Yarrow. She thought Hyatt might join her when Meadows went to speak to Yarrow, but he did not. She put his air of annoyance down to Yarrow's interruption and was happy that the question of painting her again did not arise. They all parted soon after.

"Same time tomorrow?" Hyatt said, as they got into the carriage. "Or would the ladies prefer eight o'clock?" He looked at Laura, who looked to Olivia for guidance, though she noticed that Hyatt had taken note of her complaints.

"Now that Yarrow knows, we had best come at seven again," Meadows said. "He'll never keep it to himself. We'll have half the town here if we do it late in the morning.”

Hyatt said, "If that happens, we'll remove to my studio."

The two carriages left. The ladies returned to Charles Street to prepare for afternoon callers. Several gentlemen had asked permission to call, and every one of them came, some with friends. The afternoon was a regular squeeze. That evening, the ladies were to attend the opening play at Drury Lane. Mrs. Aubrey was invited to make up the sixth in their party, the others being the full contingent from Charles Street, and Mr. Meadows. Hettie Traemore felt she could tolerate an evening of sitting, so long as she had her recliner to console her.

A lively rendition of The Taming of the Shrew was enjoyed immensely by the audience. For Laura, the evening's greater thrill was the invasion of their box by a throng of gentlemen met at Lady Morgan's ball. At intermission, she had the unusual sensation of occupying the most crowded box in the theater. People were queued up in the hallway, waiting to get in. It seemed the whole polite world was there-except for Lord Hyatt. He was not present. Mr. Yarrow, by dint of pushing and shoving, managed to squeak through and gain a private word with Olivia.

"By the living jingo, Baroness, I am glad you recommended this play to me. There was never anything like it. It is famous good sport. I am sheering off before the next act. A bunch of fellows have been hounding me to sit down to a game of cards. Hyatt was pretty miffed that I went to watch him work this morning. Making a dashed mess of your picture, if you want my opinion. You look like a bran-faced country lumpkin-in the picture, that is to say. Very pretty in the flesh. I should think he could paint out your freckles, at least."

"Oh, no. He said he would paint them in, even if I managed to fade them with lemon juice.’

"The man is a lunatic. Not a doubt of it. Where are you going tomorrow night?"

"To dinner and two routs," she said, naming them.

"Save me a dance at the first rout. The fellows will never leave me alone. By midnight, they will have me off somewhere, winning my money from me."

"You should not gamble so much, Mr. Yarrow."

"I hate it, to tell the truth. I only go because the polite parties are such dead bores. Now if you would come to the Pantheon with me some evening, I would forgo my game of cards. Will you do it?"

"Surely the Pantheon Bazaar is not open at night!"

"Ha, ha, that is famous, Baroness. The Pantheon Bazaar. As if I would invite you there, where the cits and commoners shop. No, I mean the Pantheon Dance Hall, where the masquerade parties are held."

"I don't believe I have received an invitation there," she said uncertainly.

This too roused Mr. Yarrow to hoots of appreciative mirth. "An invitation-that is famous, Baroness. You are as droll as can stare. You don't need an invitation. Anyone who has the price of admission may go to the Pantheon. You will find more lightskirts than anything else."

"That sounds horrid, Mr. Yarrow!" she exclaimed.