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  The Gentleman’s Muse

  The Gentleman’s Muse

  Summer Devon

  Smashwords Edition

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  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  The Gentleman’s Muse

  Copyright © 2017 by Summer Devon

  Cover by Fantasia Frog

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Dedication

  To Jennifer, Jennifer, Alyson, and Betsy, and of course, (dis)Grace! Thank you, thank you, beta-readers.

  Chapter One

  London, 1880

  David had set out with purpose that morning. He’d thrilled at the sight of the gold dome of the cathedral and the magnificent Blackfriars Bridge. He’d gawked at the organ grinders, the throngs of gentlemen in suits, the elegant ladies in lace. Even the cats slinking along the iron fences seemed more exotic in the city than the cats back home.

  Now he only wanted to trudge back to the inn and take off his uncomfortable shoes. His money would run out in a couple of days, and he felt only relief at the thought of returning home—until he imagined facing Bethie again.

  He was making his way down a narrow street with brick-terraced houses when a man’s voice rang out. “Here, you! I need you.”

  David stopped and looked around. A wild figure, with no hat or coat, raced across the pavement toward him in what must have been a black-and-red smoking jacket, tails flapping.

  David considered racing away from the crazed gentleman, but that would look absurd, especially since several passersby and a dray cart had stopped to watch the exciting action.

  “Sir?” he asked nervously.

  “You…” The man bent and put his hands on his knees. He held out a large bony hand palm up and panted. After a few deep breaths, he straightened and pushed his other hand through his dark hair, leaving a streak of blue across his forehead.

  David considered escape again. He took a step backward.

  “No, wait. I beg your pardon.” The man had a plummy, upper-crust accent.

  David took another step back, even more wary. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “I would like to hire you. Immediately.”

  The dray cart driver clicked to his horse and the pedestrians turned away—obviously disappointed there wasn’t to be something more dramatic going on.

  David’s mouth opened and closed. He almost asked the gentleman if he wanted a carpenter, but remembered his ambitions in time. “You require a clerk?”

  “No, no, I need a model, and you’re bloody perfect.”

  David winced at the bad language.

  The man didn’t notice. He was looking David up and down, like a cabinetmaker examining a load of lumber. Better that than the predatory look David had imagined when he’d first noticed the man.

  The blue stripe on his forehead moved as the man raised his impressive eyebrows. “I saw you hours ago and thought about going after you then, but I was entirely too lazy, and then here you came in the other direction.”

  “Ah,” David said. The man could recall David from all the people walking down the street? That seemed doubtful in a city of men in dark suits and hats.

  “Come back to my studio, and we’ll talk.”

  A year ago, David would have smiled and happily gone wherever the fine gent took him. Now he folded his arms over his chest and said, “No. I don’t think so.”

  The man’s icy blue-gray eyes widened. “Good Lord, I’m not out to rob you. I’d attack someone who seems more prosperous if I were.”

  David was wearing his Sunday best and had his grandfather’s silver watch. He’d felt entirely grand as he’d set out that morning.

  And now this gentleman called him shabby. David wanted to walk away and maybe throw a curse over his shoulder.

  And then tomorrow, he’d go home to Bethie—and no, that wouldn’t do. He had to find work, even if it was from this sort of man who oozed wealth and arrogance.

  “Modeling,” David said. “For a picture, you mean?”

  “Yes, that exactly.” The artist straightened the waistcoat under his odd silk jacket, then apparently noticed he’d smeared it with blue. “Bother. There’s another one ruined. Are you coming? I pay well.”

  “How much?”

  “Seven shillings.”

  That settled the matter. David couldn’t possibly say no. During his busiest time with his uncle, he made twenty shillings—a whole pound—a week, but after the incident with George Hucksley, he didn’t get that sort of work.

  He really shouldn’t have broken George’s fingers.

  Without waiting for more, the gentleman turned and walked away. David hesitated only a moment before following. “What’s your name? Sir?” he said when he caught up with him.

  “Isak Jensen. Yes, I know I don’t look Nordic.”

  The hair was dark and the skin more toast than white milk, but there was something about Mr. Jensen’s face, a boniness that seemed Viking.

  “I’m heartily sick of painting my own face,” Jensen said as he walked along. “Too raw. You have precisely the look I want. The jawline, the eyes are refined.”

  “I hope I can be of service.” Only because I want the money, he finished silently.

  “Hmm.” Jensen sounded uninterested, which was reassuring. David didn’t trust eagerness.

  The man led him past the squat terraced houses, around the corner. He’d run a great distance, and thinking of the man running after him, wanting him that much, almost made David stop, refuse the job, and walk away.

  They walked to another, far grander, row of houses, red brick behind the usual black wrought-iron fence—the place where David had seen and greeted a cat that very morning.

  The entrance, with a single shiny red door under a canopy, wasn’t as grand as the manors back home, but close enough to make the back of David’s neck prickle.

  He had worked in houses like this one, and had met George in one only slightly grander.

  He followed the Viking man inside and looked around with his trained eye. Some of the wainscoting had been dented. A few plaster walls could use some repair, though the curving mahogany banister under his hand was smooth and perfect. He trailed after Jensen up the stairs, and then up more stairs, and even more—into a room with skylights and windows. He walked to the broad window that wasn’t original to the building and put his hand on the glass. “We’re on top of the city here. Look at all those chimney pots.”

  Jensen said, “You’re not a servant, then.”

  David turned away from the window. “No. Why did you think that?” It was refreshing to speak to this gentleman with little or no deference. That was what came of being suspicious, discouraged, and hungry—the one advantage.

  “I suppose because the servants I know of sleep in attics and have fine views, though through smaller windows than these, of course. These are special.”

  Jensen stood near a giant canvas that faced away from David. Was he going to dig out a hidden tray of paints and work on the monstrous thing?

  As if he could read the unasked question, the artist gathered plain paper and pencils and said, “I’ll take some smaller studies. And take your photograph, if you don’t mind. You’re a very attractive man.” He said it almost disapprovingly, and again, David was reassured at the tone. He kn
ew too well how pretty he and his sister were.

  “I’ll hire you for at least a few days,” Jensen said. “Payment at the end of each day so I don’t forget. All right?”

  “Seven shillings a day, you said. Were you making a joke?”

  “Isn’t that enough? It’s a shilling more than I pay most models. But you’re…” He stopped, frowned, and seemed to look for a word. “You’re perfect. As I said.”

  It was more than twice what David had expected to earn. “No, no. That’s fine. I’ll take off my coat and jacket”—he raised his chin—“and waistcoat. But nothing more.”

  An odd look came to Jensen’s face. “That won’t be necessary. At first. Just stand, and I’ll start with some sketches. No, maybe some action poses.”

  David carefully draped his outer garments on a chair.

  “Hurry, please. I don’t have much daylight left.” Jensen’s foot tapped.

  As he lifted his pencil and a knife, his tone changed. “I hope you’ll have time tomorrow?” He sounded pleasant and undemanding for the first time, as if he extended an invitation.

  David nodded, then asked, “What shall I do?”

  Jensen stopped scraping at the pencil and frowned. “Just move about. Slowly. As if you were walking through some very thick mud.”

  Such a bizarre thing to pretend, but David soon found he rather enjoyed play-acting. He picked up a length of wood, left from a stretcher, he supposed, and pretended to duel an imaginary opponent.

  “Yes,” Jensen said. He hummed a little under his breath, then said, “You have such well-defined muscles. You’re not a clerk.”

  “Not yet. I am here in London to get a job as one.”

  “I hear there’s quite a demand.” Jensen spoke absently, apparently uninterested in his words or David’s. Most of his attention was directed to somewhere near David’s shoulders.

  David considered telling him what he’d learned earlier in the day, that with no proper references, firms wouldn’t hire him. The letter from his employer, his uncle, wouldn’t make an impression on any company’s manager. A good finisher and a strong back didn’t help make a man a clerk. And if only they’d have asked for a sample of his writing—but he never got past the first few minutes of any of the nearly dozen inquiries, including at two employment agencies.

  He found the topic too discouraging to think about, so David didn’t bother responding, and Jensen didn’t seem to notice, for all his attention seemed to be riveted on David. Jensen’s stare was unnerving, as if he memorized a meal he longed to gobble down and David was the food he salivated over—the wild-animal-chasing-down-prey look he’d first worn on the street.

  David turned away until that stare made his back prickle. He’d rather face the menace of the man’s gaze head-on.

  The time passed with only the scratch of pencil and chalk and something that looked like a stick of charcoal on paper.

  “You don’t talk much,” Jensen said.

  “I didn’t think you wanted me to distract you.”

  “Mm.” Jensen’s first sound of approval. “I don’t mind some talk as long as I’m not working on your face.”

  David wasn’t used to talking to strangers who were eccentric and clearly had too much money, and who looked at him with such interest.

  “Do speak; it’s too quiet,” Jensen ordered. “And sit if you want.”

  “Quiet? Not what I’d say.” David slumped in the chair, glad to rest his feet. “I can barely hear myself think here in the city, what with the sounds of costermongers and the clop of so many horses and all those rattling carts and carriages, and all that yelling. Now, in the country, Bethie and I sit outside in the evening, and we can hear the rustle of wings when a bird flies off in the distance.”

  Jensen paused for a moment. “Bethie?”

  David might have said, My sister; instead, he ignored the question. “Once I settle here, I’ll bring her.” He wanted this gentleman to think that he was married, though why it was anyone’s business—and why it mattered—he couldn’t say. “If I settle here,” he added, recalling his useless day.

  “Get up and walk about again,” Jensen said. A few seconds passed before he added, “Please.”

  As he rose, David’s stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  The artist scowled at him. “You are frowning. I want you to strike a heroic pose.”

  “I don’t feel heroic.”

  “How do you feel? From your slumped shoulders and that doleful face, I’d say a man who’s lost all joy.”

  At the moment, that didn’t feel entirely wrong. David didn’t answer. He began to do another slow circle, each step taking a few seconds.

  Jensen tapped the wooden board he used as a desk. “No, I am serious…er.” Jensen must have forgotten his name, but David decided not to help him. “You need to look less like a lost lamb.”

  David’s stomach growled again, answering the question.

  Jensen put down his chalk and the board. His long fingers were smeared with black. “Ah. I understand. You want your tea, I expect?”

  He was hungry, but David wasn’t going to beg for food. “I should leave,” he said.

  “No. I’ll order something. The sun is going down, but perhaps I might do some work by gas and candlelight.” Jensen swiped his hands together, then picked up a cloth and attempted a better job of cleaning himself. “There’s no way to summon the staff from up here, so I must go… You. Stay,” he commanded as if David were a dog.

  He left the attic room, closing the door behind him.

  David immediately walked to the large canvas, which was blank. There were sketches and smaller paintings stacked and piled against the walls. He gingerly lifted the board that held papers pinned to it. There was his own face, a slapdash version of it, but clearly David. And there was a picture of him sitting, standing, seeming to twist to the side.

  David leafed through the pages quickly. Whatever else he was, the peculiar Mr. Jensen was an artist with more skill than David had seen before.

  Jensen returned carrying a wicker basket. “Susan will be up with the tea shortly, but I grabbed some bread and whatnot. Look inside.”

  He put the basket on the floor near David, then walked back to his easel.

  David dropped to a squat to peer in at a heel of bread, a chunk of cheese, some thick slices of ham, and some sort of small meat pie, all wrapped in a white linen cloth. The smell of meat and bread made his mouth water.

  There was only the rather tattered basket, the cloth, and the food. He rubbed his hands on his trousers and supposed he would look ungrateful if he mentioned the lack of utensils or plates. He looked up at Jensen. “Do you want some?”

  “No, no.” Jensen sounded annoyed. He’d already taken up his board and chalk. “It’s all for you. Eat, and I’ll make more studies at the same time. But if you would stay in that position for another few minutes?”

  So David ate, kneeling over a basket, feeling rather like a wild animal or a very small child.

  The food soon distracted him again. The meat pie was the best he’d ever eaten, and not only because of his sharp hunger. The flaky crust and sauce made the food into something far more important and memorable than the word “pie” could convey.

  “You may sit if you wish,” Jensen said. “But if you could stay on the floor, that would be best. I think tailor style.”

  David obeyed.

  Before he’d eaten the rest of the food, there was a single tap on the door. “Enter,” Jensen said. Without looking away from David or his board, he spoke to the maid who came into the room. “Put it on the back table.”

  The maid deposited the tray and looked David up and down, her brows and mouth drawn into a fierce scowl. She was about his age of twenty-two, and pretty, despite her large hooked nose.

  She asked Jensen, “Anything else, sir?”

  “That’s all,” he said. “Tell Cook I might want you to pose tomorrow.”

  The maid’s face brightened at
once. “Glad to, sir.”

  “Some poses with this fellow, perhaps? But I promise nothing you’d object to,” he added.

  “No, of course, sir.” Her features had relaxed, and she even managed to nod to David before leaving. It was the nod of two equals, with no deference to him. But then again, his fingers were slick with the grease of the pie and he was sitting on the floor, eating like a savage.

  After the maid left, Jensen put down his chalk with a large sigh and went to the tray. He poured two cups. “Milk? Sugar?” he demanded.

  “Both, please.” He actually felt a ripple of excitement at the thought. When had milk and sugar become luxuries? After the incident with George, of course.

  Jensen brought a cup and saucer to David who hesitated. Should he wipe his fingers on the fine white cloth? He said, “I’m not sure I should handle that china. My hands are dirty.”

  Jensen laughed and held up his hand not holding the cup. His palm was smeared with colors and black chalk. “Just take the cup, would you?”

  For a few minutes, they sat, drinking tea, David on the floor, the artist on a stool next to the large canvas. The sun had turned pink and orange. David gazed out the huge windows. “If I were a painter, I’d do that rather than this.” He pointed at himself.

  “I’m no Turner.”

  The name was familiar, but David didn’t want to show his ignorance.

  “Besides, you’re more…interesting.” Jensen shifted his attention from David long enough to squint at the glittering light as if it offended him. “Bother. You look tired. I should stop. But only if you’ll be back in the morning?” He pulled a watch from his pocket. “I think at eight a.m.”

  David gulped down the rest of his tea. “That’ll suit me.” He put his cup and saucer on the tray and grabbed several cubes of sugar, slipping them into his pocket.

  Jensen pointed at his jacket pocket and scowled. “If you’re hungry, I can get you more food.”