“I’m known for my strength of will.”
“Only because I’ve never really tried to tempt you.”
“How is it that you’ve managed to construct a game in which my default position requires denying everything that I want?”
“You’re too loyal to your queen, my dear,” I said.
“It’s not that. I’ve already tried her patience once, when I refused the O.B.E. She handled it well enough, blaming my eccentricity on my family. She knows I come from a long line of gentlemen who turned their backs on royal attention. But I would hate to test her again.”
“You turned down being made a knight?”
“I’ve no desire to be ranked above anyone else. We have not earned our positions, Emily. We hold them because of luck.”
“I do, certainly, but not you. The queen wanted to knight you because of the work you do for the Crown.”
“Work I would never have been able to undertake had I not been born to a privileged life. It’s my duty to serve my country, but the manner in which I fulfill that obligation makes me no better than the lowest sailor in the Royal Navy. We are both doing what we can for Britain.”
There is something about watching a gentleman who is not only passionate about what he does, but very good at it, too. Every nerve in my body was tingling as I listened to Colin speak.
“You’re flushed,” he said. “Are you unwell?”
“Quite the contrary,” I said. “You’re lucky we’re in a public place.”
“Or unlucky.” He traced the rim of his coffee cup with a finger. “Though I don’t believe you’d speak with such restraint were we alone.”
“You underestimate me.”
He shifted in his seat. “That’s quite enough temptation, my dear.”
“All right.” I flashed him a smile. “I’ll change the subject entirely. When can you get me something for Herr Schröder?”
“I’ll send a set of papers to you at the Imperial. Let me know what your anarchist friend says after he sees them.”
The next morning Cécile, Jeremy, and I breakfasted at Klimt’s studio. Cécile had ordered the staff at the Imperial to pack up and send over a stunning assortment of pastries, fruit, and even hot dishes. The only flaw was that the hotel’s coffee had not traveled well; it was entirely too cold. Undaunted, my friend prepared some herself on Klimt’s small stove.
“She’s all energy,” Jeremy said, watching Cécile bustle about. I began to think that his manner towards me had thawed.
“You’re quite right.” I passed him a nut-filled pastry. “Do you want anything else?”
“No, thank you.”
“Have you spoken with Rina recently?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“How is she?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“I—I’ve heard that you found a house for her. I—”
“I’d prefer not to speak with you about this. Forgive me.” He stood up and walked away from the table, crossing to the far side of the studio and staring blankly at the pictures on the wall.
“You must go easy on him,” Klimt said, leaving Cécile to manage the coffee on the stove.
“I haven’t done anything,” I said, rubbing the soft fur of the cat that had taken up residence on my lap.
“You let him fall in love with you. You can’t expect there to be no consequences.” He stepped back from his canvas, tilted his head to one side, and studied his work.
“Consequences?”
He did not answer for a moment, still looking at the painting in front of him. Then, all at once, he touched a brush to his palette and went back to work. “I’m an expert when it comes to such matters. It’s delicious to have people adore you, but it’s exhausting, too. Particularly when your own feelings don’t match theirs.”
“Is that how it is between you and Cécile?” I asked.
He laughed. “She would never allow that.”
“No, I would imagine not.” The cat slunk off my lap and stalked after Jeremy, who took no notice of it brushing against his legs.
“She and I are well suited. We understand one another,” he said.
Jeremy did not speak to me for the rest of the morning. I hoped this would change on our way to Herr Schröder’s house that afternoon.
“It’s colder today, don’t you think?” I asked once we were bundled into a fiacre.
“I hadn’t noticed.” He did not look at me, focusing instead on the buildings we passed. So intent was his stare I found myself following it, half expecting to find something stunning outside the coach rather than another row of elegant shops.
“It always feels colder here when the sun’s out. Why is that?”
“I’ve not the slightest idea.”
“You’d think it would warm the air.” I watched him closely; he did not move, nor did he reply. “Have you plans for the evening?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Are you adamant about refusing to engage me in conversation?” I asked.
“I’m tired and don’t feel like talking.”
We sat in silence for twenty more minutes before we reached our destination. As we approached the house, Jeremy spoke at last. “It’s unlikely your friend is going to want to talk in front of me. If that’s the case, I shall stand directly outside the door of the room you’re in, eavesdropping in the most obvious fashion. Shout for me if you feel threatened in the least.”
“Thank you, Jeremy,” I said. He did not return my smile.
Herr Schröder’s house was not at all what I expected. It was in a fine neighborhood, elegant and graceful, nothing like the areas in which his compatriots lived. I could have imagined myself in Mayfair until I’d knocked on the door and Herr Schröder answered it himself.
“You look surprised,” he said, ushering me into a cavernous entrance hall. No carpet covered the polished marble floor; our footsteps echoed as we walked. “And you’ve brought your favorite chaperone. How charming.”
I ought to have introduced them, but stumbled over the words. How to announce a duke to an anarchist? Our host held out his hand.
“Gustav Schröder.”
“Jeremy Sheffield.” They shook hands.
“Lord Sheffield?” Herr Schröder asked.
“I’m a duke, actually, so it would be Your Grace, if you’re the sort of man who insists on standing upon ceremony. Otherwise you can call me Bainbridge.”
Herr Schröder laughed. “In other circumstances I think I might like you, but as it is, I’ve no time to form a new acquaintance. You’ll forgive me if I don’t allow you to join me and your companion while we speak?”
“So long as you’ll forgive me for hovering outside the door. I will not leave her alone.”
“I’ll get you a chair.” He dragged an elaborately carved chair across the hallway and put it next to a doorway that led into a well-appointed sitting room. “We won’t be long.” He ushered me in and closed the heavy door behind us. The room in which we stood was furnished in the style of the Napoleonic era, much of it with an Egyptian flair, as had been popular after the Frenchman’s adventures in the land of the pharaohs. I was drawn at once to a spectacular stone panel that hung on the wall.
“Is this authentic or a copy?”
My host shrugged. “For the price my grandfather paid, it had better be genuine. Do you read hieroglyphs?”
“No, but I wish I did.” I reached up, longing to touch the worn stone, to feel the words carved by ancient hands. “Your grandfather was a collector?”
“I don’t know. I never knew him.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and turned to take in the rest of the room, full of shades of gold and green.
“You don’t like my house?” he asked.
“Why would you say that?”
“You have an odd expression on your face.”
“I confess to not having expected to find an anarchist living in such luxury.”
“I come from a good family.”
“You’re a man of contradiction. It’s fascinating. What do your peers think of your wealth?” I asked. “I’m surprised they haven’t demanded that you renounce your fortune. Or at least divide it equally among them.”