“At certain times one ought to be lost to shame,” Jeremy said.
“Only if other people aren’t hurt.” Betsy was trying to think her way into an understanding that would encompass shameless pleasure and babies and a husband.
“I can agree with that,” Jeremy said. “Loyalty outranks shameless pleasure.”
“Are all rooms frequented by men decorated in this fashion?” Betsy whispered to Jeremy. She had discovered a pair she’d overlooked. She’d like to ask what they were doing; perhaps she could mention it later, in private.
“Only the good ones,” he responded. “This ceiling is particularly creative.”
“I have very little with which to compare,” Betsy said.
“Nicely put,” Jeremy said. “‘With which to compare,’ indeed. I like a man who maintains grammar in the face of erotic art.”
She frowned at him.
“Men can become incoherent when presented with a plethora of erotic activities.”
Suddenly, a head poked between their shoulders. “A plethora implies too much, an extravagance, a superfluity, or a surfeit. Are you discouraging your young friend from engaging in such heavenly activities?”
Betsy jumped and let out a squeak. Then she quickly cleared her throat. “A good question,” she said, pitching her voice as low as she could.
The man who had been seated behind them and apparently eavesdropping had coarse gray hair that frizzed from under a carelessly positioned wig. He wore a striped coat and a lace-trimmed cravat. His eyes were very bright, and his eyebrows very bushy.
“Good afternoon,” Jeremy said.
“I apologize for intruding,” the gentleman said. “I am extraordinarily precise by nature. It’s practically agony to hear a word misused.”
“I did not misuse it,” Jeremy replied. He waved his hand at the ceiling. “This activity is entertaining, but it reminds me of morning prayers in a chilly chapel: too much of a good thing.”
“Very clever to contrast one heavenly activity with another that claims to lead to clouds, cupids, and the rest,” the gentleman said approvingly.
Whatever he might have said next on the subject was lost when the auctioneer announced, “And now for the miniatures of the renowned Samuel Finney, portrait painter to our beloved Queen Charlotte, member of the Royal Academy of Arts.”
The room went silent. Lady Knowe snapped to attention as the auctioneer’s assistant began unwrapping the first miniature from a silk cloth.
“Aha!” the gentleman said, and flung himself back in his chair so that it creaked in protest.
“Do you intend to acquire a miniature, sir?” Jeremy asked, turning.
The man snorted. “Absolutely not! I’ve come along to see what they sell for.”
“Do you own some of Mr. Finney’s artworks?” Betsy inquired.
He looked at her, and one of his bushy eyebrows sprang up. “You could say that.”
She turned about quickly and faced the front, feeling certain that he knew she was a woman.
“I painted them,” said the man, in a more disinterested than boastful fashion.
Betsy couldn’t stop herself from turning about again. “How do you do, Mr. Finney? I’ve admired your work.”
Then, as his eyes crinkled in amusement, she realized that she’d forgotten to pitch her voice to a lower register.
Mr. Finney leaned forward and tapped her on the shoulder. “I don’t paint any longer. I’m justice of the peace for the parts around here, and it keeps me busy. But damned if I wouldn’t like to paint you, my dear.”
Jeremy’s face suddenly grew dark. “Mr. Peters is not ‘your dear,’” he said, managing to sound pleasant yet threatening.
“Mr. Peters, is it?” Mr. Finney beamed. “I’ve got the best of references. Why, I painted several people in this room, though they haven’t yet recognized me. Growing old is an excellent disguise, better than breeches.”
Betsy managed to choke back a laugh.
“I only occasionally dabble these days, but I’d take you on, Mr. Peters.”
The auctioneer held up a small oval painting in a gold frame. “Portrait of a Lady in a White Dress and Matching Under-Dress,” he announced. “Starting at twenty shillings.”
The painter snorted, but settled into silence.
Betsy had hoped to buy a miniature, but she quickly realized that Mr. Finney’s miniatures cost far more than she could afford. Jeremy glanced at her a few times, but she shook her head. Aunt Knowe, on the other hand, bid with gusto and won two miniatures, one of a young boy and another labeled The Virgin Mary, which led to robust snorting from the row behind.
“The baker’s wife,” he said. “Eight children, if she had one!”
“A Young Man,” announced the auctioneer. “Verso reads, ‘To P, with all my love.’”
Betsy looked down at her catalogue. It was her favorite among them; not only did the boy have a longing expression, but his eyebrows suggested a Wilde.
Her aunt must have thought so too, because she leapt into bidding with a frenzy, and when she realized that the duchess had bid against her, she pointed at Her Grace and bellowed, “Cease at once, sir!”
“Your aunt plays an excellent man,” Jeremy murmured in her ear. “Surely you wish to bid against both of them?”
Betsy saw that the duchess was backing down with a great waggling of her eyebrows. “We should have arranged among ourselves which paintings we wished to buy. Thank you, but no. These are far too expensive.”
“I agree,” said a grumpy voice behind her. “That’s an early effort, and it isn’t even enameled.”
“Money is not a concern,” Jeremy told Betsy.
His father leaned from his other side. “Neither of us has anyone to spend money on.” He began to lift his catalogue.
“Make him stop!” Betsy whispered, laughing. “Just imagine how angry my aunt will be if your father outbids her.”
“I shall paint Mr. Peters with enamels,” Mr. Finney said conversationally, hitching his chair forward. “That’s the great thing now. I might as well turn out a few more of them between quelling riots and jailing malcontents and the like. Enamels catch the tender gloss of a beautiful woman’s cheeks as mere paints can never do.”
Betsy smiled at him. “Stop,” she whispered.
But the old man was irrepressible. “I’ll paint you in breeches,” he whispered back, “but perhaps with an overskirt? In a rose garden.”
“Sir,” Jeremy said, turning to him with a ferocious scowl.
“You are lucky to have such a protective companion.” Mr. Finney reached over to tap on Aunt Knowe’s shoulder.
She startled on seeing him and smiled. The moment she won the miniature of the boy, she rose and beckoned to Mr. Finney. They left the room together.
“You’re going to be painted by a famous miniaturist,” Jeremy said. “What do you think of that?”
“He wants to paint me in breeches,” Betsy breathed into his ear.
“So do I,” Jeremy said. “I don’t know how to paint so you’d have to pose for hours. Days.”
Another miniature was knocked off, but without Mr. Finney’s exclamations and Aunt Knowe’s excitable bidding, the auction was less interesting. The duchess managed to win a portrait, A Lady in Brown.