Diane Gaston - Gallant Officer, Forbidden Lady

Jack maintained a steady gaze. ‘My business will not concern you.’

Jack would wager Tranville’s theatrical interests were in fostering liaisons with the actresses, not fostering national culture. Actresses and dancers encouraged the attentions of wealthy lords who wanted to indulge them with jewels and gowns and carriages.

He frowned. He had nothing to offer Ariana.

He told himself he merely wanted to renew their brief acquaintance. He wanted her to know he had been the artist whose work she so admired.

Two gentleman approached the door and Tranville was forced to step aside for them. Jack took the opportunity to follow them.

Tranville grabbed his arm. ‘You cannot go in there, Jack. You do not have entrée.’

Jack shot him a menacing look. ‘Entrée?

Tranville did not flinch. ‘Not everyone is welcome. Do not force me to have you removed from the building.’ He glanced towards two muscular stagehands standing nearby.

Had Tranville forgotten Jack had also been on the Peninsula? His was the regiment that captured the Imperial Eagle at Salamanca. Jack would like to see how many men it would take to eject him from the theatre.

More gentlemen approached, however, and Jack chose not to make a scene. It would not serve his purpose.

Tranville smiled, thinking his intimidation had succeeded. He dropped his hand. ‘Now, if you wish me to speak to Mr Arnold on your behalf, you will have to tell me what it is about.’

The other gentlemen were in earshot, the only reason Jack spoke. He made certain his voice carried. ‘A proposition for Mr Arnold. To paint his actors and actresses.’

‘Paint them?’ Tranville’s brow furrowed.

‘I am an artist, sir.’ Jack wanted the other gentlemen, now looking mildly interested, to hear him.

With luck one of them might mention to Mr Arnold that an artist wanted to see him. That might help gain him an interview with the manager when Jack called the next afternoon.

Convincing Mr Arnold to hire him to publicise his plays would serve both Jack’s ambitions: to earn new commissions and to see Ariana again.

Tranville made an impatient gesture. ‘Well, give me your card and I will speak to Arnold.’

Jack took a card from his pocket. ‘Tell him Jack Vernon has a business proposition for him. Tell him my work was included in last summer’s exhibition.’

The most curious of the onlookers appeared satisfied. They had heard Jack’s name, at any rate.

Jack nodded to the men. He was resigned. These men would see Ariana tonight. He would not.

And all because of Tranville’s interference. Jack’s hand curled into a fist.

Tranville snatched the card from Jack’s other hand and stuck it in his pocket without even looking at it. Jack turned to leave.

Tranville stopped him. ‘Tell me, Jack—how is your mother?’

The question surprised him. ‘In good health.’ He added, ‘She was at the performance. Did you not see her?’

Jack meant it as a jibe, to show his mother doing well without Tranville’s company, but instead the man cocked his head in interest. ‘Was she?’ He spoke more to himself than to Jack. ‘So Mary is in London.’

Another man walked past and opened the door to the Green Room. Tranville emerged from his brief reverie. ‘I must go.’

Jack was more than ready to be rid of him.

Still, he would have tolerated even Tranville’s presence if it meant seeing Ariana again. Instead Tranville had prevented him.

Another reason to despise the man.

The next day, Jack, wearing only an old shirt and trousers, both spattered with paint, put the finishing touches on Mr Slayton’s portrait. There was a rap on the door.

Before he could put down his palette and don a coat, the door opened and Tranville strode in.

‘Jack—’ Like many military men, Tranville apparently had not lost the military habit of rising early.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Jack stepped out from behind his easel. ‘You cannot just walk in here without a by your leave.’

Tranville, looking perfectly at ease, removed his hat and gloves and placed them on a table by the door. ‘You work in this place?’ He glanced around with disdain.

White sheets covered the furniture, wooden boxes and rolls of canvas littered the floor, but Jack had no intention of apologising to Tranville for the clutter. He tidied the place when he had sittings scheduled.

‘Tell me why you intrude or leave.’ Jack crossed his arms over his chest.

Tranville wandered over to the easel and examined Mr Slayton’s portrait. He shrugged and turned back to Jack. ‘You do seem to have some skill. More than one fellow told me so after I left you last night.’

He’d been discussed? Remembered from the exhibition, perhaps? Jack hid his pleasure. He hoped these admirers mentioned him to Mr Arnold as well. ‘You have not told me why you are here.’

Tranville’s lips curled. ‘I want to hire you for a commission.’

Jack did not miss a beat. ‘No.’

Tranville’s brows shot up. ‘You’ve heard nothing about it.’

‘I do not need to hear. I am not interested in painting you. The reasons should be obvious.’ He headed to the door.

Tranville, remaining where he stood, laughed. ‘If I were to commission a portrait of myself, I’d hire Lawrence or someone of his calibre. No, this portrait would be of someone else. A woman.’

Jack’s eyes narrowed. He ought to have guessed. ‘Most emphatically no.’

It sickened Jack that Tranville would ask him to paint a woman. Who else could it be but Tranville’s latest conquest? Not if he were down to his last shilling, would Jack do such a thing.

He opened the door, but Tranville ignored the demand to leave. ‘I checked with my man of business this morning—’

Rousing the poor man from his bed, no doubt.

‘He gave me your mother’s direction. A few doors up from here, eh?’ Tranville’s tone was pleasant, but Jack did not miss the hint of menace beneath it.

He gripped the door knob. ‘Speak plain, sir.’

Tranville smiled, and Jack recoiled in disgust. ‘Why, I thought I would call upon her. That is all.’

Jack’s nostrils flared.

Tranville’s smile fled. ‘Surely you have no objection.’

Jack had a barrelful of objections, but none he could voice. As much as he despised the idea, his mother would desire the visit. ‘It is my mother’s decision.’

Tranville sauntered towards the door, retrieving his hat and gloves. As he passed Jack, he paused and leaned close. ‘I always get my way, Jack.’

The rumble of imaginary cannon fire sounded in Jack’s ear. A battle loomed, Jack would wager, this time in his London rooms and not on the battlefield.

It took Jack an hour before he could again focus on Mr Slayton’s portrait, attending to its finishing touches. Better to concentrate on the tiniest brush stroke than to dwell upon Tranville visiting his mother.

He peered at the painting before him. He’d posed Mr Slayton at a desk with a pen in his hand. It would have been faster to merely paint the banker’s head on a dark background, but Jack preferred some context to his painting, some sense of movement. Whether it had emotion, he could not tell. The emotion Ariana had seen in his two paintings at Somerset House had been unconsciously done.

He picked up a small brush and stared at the painting, but saw Ariana instead. Thoughts of her were the best antidote to the encounter with Tranville. He might see her today. He planned to visit the theatre this afternoon.

Another knock sounded at the door. Jack braced himself for a further intrusion by Tranville, but the person knocking apparently did not feel entitled to burst in as Tranville had done. The knock came again. Jack put down his palette, wiped his brush and crossed the room to open the door.