Wallflower Most Wanted--A Studies in Scandal Novel by Manda Collins

Author:Manda Collins
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

Chapter 15

After dinner that night, still rattled from the murder of Mr. Framingham and not wanting to be alone, Sophia asked the other ladies to join her for tea in her studio. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt as if art itself were under attack. Especially after Thomas Ryder’s harsh words about her work, and seeing poor Framingham dead among the paintings and canvases of his workroom. Someone—maybe Ryder, and definitely others—was cheapening the heart and soul of what made art valuable by creating fakes. And though she was certainly in no way comparable to the great artists whose work had been forged, it chilled her to think of a fellow artist carefully stealing every brushstroke, every carefully plotted decision about composition simply to make a profit.

“I don’t think I’ve been up here since you finished your pieces for the exhibition,” Ivy said as she and Daphne followed Sophia and Gemma into the studio.

The natural light from the windows and skylights was absent now that the sun had gone down, and the room was somehow cozier in the glow of lamplight. Even so, it was bright enough for Ivy to spot the fallen woman painting from the doorway and she and Daphne made a beeline for it.

“Oh, Sophia,” the marchioness said with wonder and sadness in her voice, “it’s magnificent.”

Sophia never knew how to accept compliments about her work. She liked it, obviously, but there was also a sort of awkwardness that came from confronting the fact that another person—sometimes a stranger, though in this case a friend—was looking at something that had come directly from her soul. It was rather like having one’s diary read aloud in a crowded room.

Before she could respond, Ivy continued. “It’s heart-wrenching. The contrast between the gaiety of the theatregoers and the utter sadness of the dead woman just steps away. Have you seen something like this? How did you decide to paint it?”

They moved to settle around the low table in the corner where the servants had laid the tea service and a plate of cakes. Sophia’s maid had wrapped her ankle in the way the doctor had showed her and because it had swollen again in the wake of the day’s activity, she had it propped on an ottoman.

“It was a small article in the Times,” she answered once they each had a cup and saucer in hand. “Just a paragraph, really, about a woman found dead near the Royal Opera House. No details. Other than to say that she had died of exposure. Something about the juxtaposition of the dead woman and the site of so many of polite society’s evening entertainments struck me as particularly shattering. And my imagination did the rest.”

“Have you ever been to the Royal Opera House?” Daphne asked, brow furrowed. “I went once during my first season. This is a remarkably accurate depiction.” She sounded as if she suspected Sophia of some sort of witchcraft. “Though, there was no dead woman, fallen or otherwise, in that area.

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