Still wiping his hands, he led the way through an open door to a large back room that was virtually empty except for the dozens and dozens of canvases, large and small, propped against the walls.
“Aha,” said Sebastian, rubbing his hands together. “This is more like what I was expecting.”
The painter was good, very good, Sebastian decided, making a slow tour of the room. Rather than the sentimental, flattering formality of a Lawrence or a Reynolds, here was vigor and iridescence of color. Sebastian’s steps slowed, his respect for the Italian’s talent increasing as he studied portraits and sketches, vast dramatic tableaus and small studies. Then he came to a stack of paintings, turned against the wall. Curious, he reached for the top canvas.
“I don’t think that’s exactly the sort of thing you’re looking for,” said Donatelli, starting forward.
Sebastian held him off with one outflung hand. He was looking at a painting of Rachel York. Not a portrait of Rachel, the actress, but a depiction of Rachel as Venus, rising naked and utterly desirable from the sea, her flesh flowing and contoured and so realistically depicted that one saw the sensuality of a woman rather than the idealized goddess of the myth.
“No, but I do like this. It’s so very . . .” Sebastian paused.
Donatelli, who’d been watching him with anxious eyes, relaxed.
“Hold on,” said Sebastian with a sudden, pronounced start. He leaned forward, as if to study the painting more closely. “Goodness gracious, isn’t she that actress—the one who was recently killed?”
“Yes.” The word came hissing out on a pained exhalation of air.
“Sad business, that.” Sebastian shook his head and tut-tutted in the manner of old Mr. Blackadder, the apothecary his father used to call in whenever one of the servants took ill. “Very sad. One has to wonder what the world is coming to these days.” He shifted the canvas to one side and found himself staring, again, at Rachel York, this time as a Turkish odalisque with one toe dipped in a bath, her only covering a wisp of scarlet satin twining in and out of her bare arms.
“I say, here’s another painting of her. And another,” said Sebastian, shifting more canvases. “And another. She modeled for you frequently, did she?”
“Yes.”
“A remarkably beautiful woman,” said Sebastian.
Donatelli reached out one hand, his fingers hovering just above that vibrant, painted face, as if he might caress the cheek of the living, breathing woman herself. His hand shook. And Sebastian, watching him, thought,
But how much? Enough to kill her in a rage of passion?
“She was more than beautiful,” whispered Donatelli, his fingers curling into a fist as he let his hand fall to his side.
Sebastian brought his gaze back to the woman on the canvas. This particular painting was different from the others, the colors a swirling golden riot of greens and blues, with something of Tiepolo’s use of sharp shadow accents painted with vigorous gaiety against a wide, sunlit sky. Here, she sat upon a hillside bathed in the bright, vibrant light of spring. She had her legs drawn up beneath a flounce of petticoats, her posture almost childlike, her head thrown back, smiling, as if caught in the instant before an outburst of carefree laughter.
Sebastian looked down at the image of that vibrant, vital young woman, and he knew an unexpected stirring that was part sadness, and part outrage. “She was so young,” he said. “So young and full of life.” His gaze lifted again to the man beside him. “It seems difficult to imagine how anyone could want her dead.”
A quiver of emotion, dark and painful to see, passed over the man’s handsome, tormented face. “It’s an ugly world. An ugly world, with ugly people in it.”
“At least the police seem to know who did it. Some earl’s son, is it not? A Lord Devlin?”
Donatelli’s lips twisted in a savage grimace of hate and bitter, useless rage. “May he rot in hell for all eternity.”
“She knew him, did she?”
The painter shook his head. “Not that I was aware of. When I first heard what had happened to her, I thought it was that other one.”
“That other one?”
Donatelli sucked in a shuddering breath that lifted his chest and flared his nostrils wide. “He’s been following her for weeks—months maybe. Hanging around outside the theater door. Waiting across the street, whenever she came here. Watching her. Everywhere she went, he was there.”
“She didn’t report him?”
Donatelli shook his head. “I wanted her to go to the authorities, but she said it wouldn’t do any good. You know what they’re like, these
The vehemence of his words took Sebastian by surprise. He was remembering what Hugh Gordon had said, about heads on pikes and blood running in the gutters. And he wondered if perhaps Gordon was wrong, that Rachel hadn’t abandoned her more radical ideas after all. Ideas Donatelli obviously shared.
“What’s his name, this nobleman?” Sebastian asked.
He thought for a moment that the artist wasn’t going to answer him. Then Donatelli shrugged, his jaw thrust forward in a determined effort to control his emotions.
And told him.
“You’re lookin’ mortal queer,” said Tom when they met up at the local tavern for a pint of ale and steak and kidney pies. “What’d this Italian cove have to tell you, then?”
“It seems Rachel York used to model for him.” Sebastian pushed through the crowd around the bar and led the way to an empty table in a quiet corner. “So, how did you go on?”
Slipping into the opposite bench, Tom wrapped his hands around one of the pies and twitched his shoulder in a careless shrug. “ ’E’s a foreigner. People around ’ere don’t seem to ’ave much to do with ’im. Although they noticed the girl, all right. She musta been some looker, that Rachel.”
“She was.” Sebastian ate silently for a moment, then said, “Any other women visit his studio frequently?”
“Not so’s anyone noticed.” Tom took a large bite of pie, and spoke around it. “Think ’e was tupping her?”
“Possibly, but I’m not sure. Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
Tom swallowed, hard, his eyes widening with the effort. “So we didn’t learn nothin’ from all this?”
“Oh, we learned something.” Sebastian took a deep drought of ale and leaned his shoulders back against the wall. “According to our painter friend, a man was following Rachel about for months. A gentleman, to be precise.”
Tom polished off the last of his pie and set about licking his fingers clean. “Did he tell you this cove’s name?”
“Yes. His name is Bayard Wilcox.”
Something in Sebastian’s tone caused the boy to stop with his last finger halfway to his mouth. “Know the bloke, do you?”
Sebastian drained his tankard and stood up abruptly. “Quite well, as a matter of fact. Bayard is my nephew.”
Chapter 24
