Page 36 of The Duke Undone

She wanted something from him now, wanted it enough to play along.

His fingers drummed the chair arm.

“He’s never been able to stay still,” said Lavinia, with a pointed look at his drumming fingers. “When we were children, he couldn’t sit through a game of whist, or a little melody by Mozart, and he’s no better now. I wouldn’t want him for a painting pupil.”

Now that Lavinia had managed to put both Anthony and Miss Coover in their places, she looked happier. Miss Coover glanced at her and then at Anthony, rather coolly. She didn’t want him for a painting pupil either. Before she could say something to that effect, he sprawled in his chair, aping carelessness. Physically restless, quick-witted but slow to decipher words and sums—as a boy, he’d practiced buffoonery as self-protection. And maybe Lavinia was right. He was no better now.

“I can already see the horse I want to paint, so that should make the task go quicker.” He shut his eyes. The sudden darkness soothed him. What a relief, to escape, however briefly, this cursed sitting room.

“Describe the scene,” came Miss Coover’s voice. Listening to her voice with his eyes closed . . . it felt . . . intimate.

He opened his eyes.

“A horse on a dusty plain,” he said. “Midstride. A large gray Arabian charger, saddled, no rider.”

He cleared his throat, reached for his teacup. He hadn’t expected the words to emerge with such earnest force. He’d bought Mizoa from a horse dealer in Bombay and lost him on the road to Kandahar. Days he didn’t think of that long, bloody road were days he counted lucky.

He could count those lucky days on one hand.

He felt Miss Coover’s gaze on him as he blew—needlessly—across the surface of his tea. The sip he took was lukewarm.

After a moment, she nodded.

“Very good. You’ll start, though, with anatomy. They use a plaster cast of a flayed horse as a teaching aid at the Royal Academy. It’s a wonderful tool but for students only. You’ll have to make do with drawings.”

“A flayed horse!” Lavinia shuddered. “I’d rather look at anything else.”

“The Antique School keeps a cast of a flayed man as well.” Miss Coover considered Lavinia for a moment before continuing. “The man was first nailed to a cross, to settle a debate about the position of the crucified body.”

Lavinia took this in. She looked personally aggrieved by the information.

“Are they training artists or ghouls?” she demanded.

“He was a notorious murderer in his time,” said Miss Coover. The hint of a smile tilted the corners of her mouth.

Anthony frowned. She had no right to enjoy herself.

Yardley leaned forward with interest.

“You’re a student in the Academy Schools? I attended the Schools myself. In my day, of course, things were very different.”

Miss Coover bridled slightly. Anthony supposed she represented the chief difference, and resented it.

“The ladies make good students, I’ve heard.” Yardley smiled as he confirmed Anthony’s suspicion. “Especially the pretty ones.” His wink was avuncular. “At the very least, I imagine the presence of ladies in the halls checks the unrulier impulses we men indulged from time to time, at whichever unsuspecting Visitor’s expense.”

He wore a fond expression, recalling some bit of youthful raillery. Miss Coover, Anthony noted, appeared less pleased.

He remembered the two very pretty young ladies he’d met in the Schools, their interest in him, their seeming ambivalence about their instruction. Prettiness, he was willing to guess, was not the modifier most important to Miss Coover when assessing the merits of female students. Nor would she think taming indocile males their chief function.

“Tell me,” said Lavinia, giving Miss Coover a sly smile, “what do you think of Weston Hall?”

Miss Coover hesitated, puzzled.

“Weston Hall,” she said. “This Weston Hall?”

“There’s no other.” Lavinia raised her thin brows.

“Should I respond as a social caller?” asked Miss Coover. “Or do you want my opinion as an artist?”