Constance paused inside the doorway of the dark art studio to let her eyes adjust.
How on earth did Turnstable paint in here without proper lighting? No wonder he had to make his living primarily as a forger if this was how he practiced his technique. Dear God, the countless hours she’d spent bored to tears from simply waiting around in Dom’s studio for the sun to emerge from behind a cloud, for the hour to grow late enough that the sunlight cast whatever special glow he’d wanted—madness. But she’d tolerated it because he’d made her look beautiful, then made her feel beautiful when he finally took her to his bed.
Now he would make her rich, or she would end him.
“Can I help you?” A middle-aged man in paint-splattered clothing approached from the shadows in the rear of the room, wiping his hands on a filthy towel. An assessing glance told her that the artist was just as squalid as the studio. Not that it mattered, as long as his finished canvas was good enough.
“I’m looking for Turnstable.” Constance smiled flirtatiously, knowing to use her charms on him even though she would never allow him to lay a finger on her. “I was told this was his studio.”
“It is.” He flung the towel over his shoulder and put his hands on his hips in a posture that was part casual, part confrontational, and all paunchy gut. He raked a gaze over her from head to toe, his mouth drawing down as he discovered that she wasn’t at all his usual customer. “You looking to buy a painting?”
“To have one painted, actually.”
“I’ve got other commissions in front of you.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t get to you until the spring.”
“No. I need the painting to be finished by mid-January.”
He barked out a laugh. “You’re daft!”
“I’m wealthy.” She arched a brow. “And I will pay you well for your time.”
Without invitation, she crossed to his worktable. The wooden bench was covered in spilled paint, with pre-made colors carelessly arranged in coarse stoneware containers and other painting supplies scattered haphazardly across it. Ignoring it—and trusting in Lord Alfred’s assurances that this man was the best forger in London—she turned toward him to make certain that he was watching as she removed one of the gold rings from her hand and placed it onto the table.
That would surely prove how serious she was.
“I understand that you have certain highly crafted skills that make you unique among London’s artists.” A polite way of saying that she knew he made forgeries to supplement his living. From what she’d seen of his work, he had excellent technique but no sense of creativity. No vision. He couldn’t compose compelling subject matter on his own, but he could mimic the masters. Which was exactly what she needed. “I want to hire those skills.”
He approached her warily. “For what?”
“An original painting in the style of Domenico Vincenzo. Thirty-six inches by forty-eight. A nude, similar to his more scandalous compositions. You know the ones I mean.”
“Aye. His old Venetian works.”
“No. I want it to look as if he created that painting new, right here in London.” She removed a second ring and held it up the way a stable groom would use a treat to train a dog. “So recent that the paint isn’t yet cured.” Then she placed it onto the table. “Understand?”
He gave a curt nod, his attention on the jewelry.
“That should be enough to get you started.” She tapped a finger to the table to indicate the rings. “You’ll get the same amount when you finish. If you’re late finishing, you get nothing.”
“Agreed.” He reached for the rings.
Constance placed her hand over them, pinning them to the table. “And I want you to sign the painting as Vincenzo.”
He stiffened. “That’s fraud.”
“That’s work,” she countered, removing her hand.
He hesitated only a moment before snatching up the rings with a glance over his shoulder at the door to make certain no one was there, watching.
She untied her bonnet and set it aside with her reticule and parasol, then reached up to begin to unbutton her dress coat to remove her clothing. “Let’s get started then, shall we?”