Chapter 30
Portrait of a Nymph
“It’s been a long time since you came here in person, sir.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“I heard the exhibition gave you some headaches.”
The gallery owner knew about the Prime Minister’s hearings and the rumors circulating in high society, but having dealt with Belmore for years, he chose his words carefully.
“It’s not just because of the exhibition. I need to select a painting to gift to the Hobert family. It’s better to focus on reputation rather than artistry.”
The owner nodded. As he guided him through the carefully chosen artworks, he stopped when Belmore did.
“What are you looking at?”
“Whose work is this?”
His hand pointed to a small painting, standing on the floor—clearly not a valuable piece. Whatever had captured his attention was a work by an unrecognized artist.
“Edmund Rolland,” the gallery owner replied.
Recently, private paintings that fetched almost nothing had flooded the gallery, and this was one of them.
It depicted a beautiful woman sitting on the late spring steps of a temple, asleep, unaware of the world. She wore an orange dress, her abundant hair partially covering her face as she slept.
The artist had delicately rendered her full chest, the thin waist beneath, and the round contours of her hips, visible through the dress.
It was so sensual that a proper gentleman might hesitate to linger, but he paid no mind.
“Edmund Rolland… I think I’ve heard of him.”
“He’s nearly forgotten. His style is out of fashion now. This is supposed to depict a nymph in June.”
Christopher nodded at the explanation. June, warm and in full bloom, was a season for naps; the painting seemed fitting.
“There’s a rumor the model was the Duchess. Perhaps it arose because it was among her belongings after she passed.”
Christopher listened silently and nodded.
“I see why her face is hidden.”
“Yes, it’s a common way for a poor artist to hide their lover’s identity.”
“The duchess paid a poor artist to paint her lover’s naked body in the name of art.”
“Exactly. Perhaps conscious of the rumor, after the duchess’s death, her descendants sold the painting for a pittance.”
“How much?”
Belmore’s voice asked the price, surprising the gallery owner inwardly. Christopher, seemingly reading his reaction, added:
“I’ll buy it along with the painting for the Hobert family.”
The owner had planned to protest that it wasn’t suitable as a gift for an fiancée, but relaxed. Since this was Belmore’s first visit in a while, he intended to sell a very expensive piece.
“I can’t charge much out of conscience. The Duchess was a distant relative of Lady Noma; perhaps she would know if you asked.”
“My grandmother wouldn’t remember. I only saw her a couple of times as a child.”
It wasn’t about sentimental attachment; the owner repressed his curiosity and agreed.
He instructed them to send the painting to Artherhill and headed to the gentlemen’s club. He frequently visited the club to ensure nobles did not exercise their veto.
Of course, overturning Commons’ decisions rarely happened. With the rule that “to be Prime Minister, one must be without title,” the House of Lords had effectively become a ceremonial body.
The nobles refused to accept this and often acted threateningly.
Christopher did not openly point out their delusions. By going along with them, he could manipulate them.
“The main attraction has arrived, Lord Belmore.”
“Long time no see, Sir Douglas.”
He greeted casually. As in decadent noble culture, women were often invited to stir excitement.
“Julie Mitchell is here too.”
“Julie Mitchell?”
Douglas, intrigued, explained:
“Don’t you know the dancer Julie Mitchell? I was just saying if you arrived, she wouldn’t even glance at us.”
He knew of the dancer who stirred Londinium society, though he cared little for her.
“Hello,” she said, appearing as if expected. They exchanged greetings at the foot of the stairs leading to the second floor. The scent of perfume hit sharply. She flaunted the jewels given to her by a man.
“Oh, enjoy yourselves. I have things to discuss with another gentleman.”
Christopher responded curtly and attempted to pass her. But Julie Mitchell, with a stunned expression, stopped him. Few men ignored her.
“Don’t you know who I am? Or are you pretending to?”
Christopher stopped, giving her courage. Even with Sir Douglas’ backing, confronting this handsome man was a point of pride for her.
“Want to go upstairs?”
The floor above the restaurant was an inn, often used “for that.”
“No.”
She persisted. To Christopher, she had nothing appealing.
He had seen Julie Mitchell before. Her naive assumption that she could trick him because he acted unfamiliar irritated him.
Unfazed, she stroked his chest gently. Christopher’s expression soured instantly, but she smiled coquettishly.
“I knew Lord Belmore was proud, but I didn’t think he truly cared for that ugly Cecil Hobert.”
“Ah, Cecil Hobert,” he replied slowly. Mentioning her name meant nothing. Julie Mitchell’s ignorance that this tactic would fail made her provocation almost pitiful.
Seeing no reaction, she snickered.
“Or you won’t stand?”
Such words would anger most men, yet Belmore smiled as if knowing all her moves.
“Think what you will.”
Julie Mitchell was genuinely stunned. He spoke of his fiancée without anger and treated her as an object. Nervously, she lit a cigarette.
“Not Cecil Hobert?”
Christopher did not respond.
Apparently, he had the savvy to size up the situation. He crossed his arms, observing how far she would push.
“Even if she has a lover, I could still have you. Julie Mitchell says it plainly: she wants to sleep with Belmore.”
She placed his hand on her chest. Men who touched her chest inevitably went upstairs.
But he grimly removed her hand.
“Do more, and you won’t return here.”
Julie Mitchell shivered and nodded, pride wounded but forced to acknowledge her first failure.
“What kind of woman is she?”
It was genuine admiration. Julie Mitchell was sincerely curious about the woman who had captured Belmore.
Christopher paused, as if Elizabeth Gardner’s ghost had appeared before him.
She moved gracefully and stylishly, always standing out despite simple attire. Though uneducated, she was intelligent, and her dignity compelled others to respect her despite low birth.
Even in his shallow soul, a yearning for purity lingered.
He could have spoken at length about her charm.
What if the one demanding him now was her? He would have seized her immediately. The thought alone made his blood rush.
“Won’t you tell me?”
He ignored Julie Mitchell’s repeated question and walked on.
She glared at Belmore’s retreating back, pride wounded. Douglas approached silently.
“Do you like someone like Cecil Hobert? Belmore?”
Douglas shrugged.
“They say he showers her with gifts.”
“Impossible to be Cecil Hobert,” Julie Mitchell replied.
Douglas leaned closer, intrigued.
“How do you know?”
“If he’s a man, you can tell. A man who doesn’t get angry when his fiancée’s name is mentioned is dating someone else.”
Julie Mitchell paused, curiosity fading. What kind of extraordinary woman had captured him?
“Still, Belmore doesn’t seem impotent.”
Douglas couldn’t suppress a laugh.
“Belmore is cautious. He doesn’t roam to pick up women. If he has one, he hides her in a country villa or…”
He trailed off. Almost in unison, they finished the sentence:
“Leaves her at the hotel.”
They both grinned. Julie Mitchell extended her hand.
“You still have to give her something, right?”
“I was going to, young lady,” Douglas said, offering a heavy pouch of gold coins. She gauged its weight and took another puff of her cigarette.
“Why are you so obsessed with Belmore?”
“He pretends to uphold noble dignity while secretly undermining the class system.”
“So now Sir Douglas is inferior to Belmore… right?”
“Better see for yourself,” Douglas replied.
They laughed and shared a kiss at the foot of the stairs.
