Charmed and Dangerous by Jane Ashford Page B

bed and washstand in the far corner. To the right was a table and chairs and a small coal stove. But most of the space was taken up by painting equipment and a massive canvas that rested against the left-hand wall. It had to be ten feet long, Laura thought, and half as high. The partially finished painting showed a vaguely classical background, with a great deal of blue sky and some picturesque pillars. In the foreground, human figures were sketched in, but they showed no detail. Signor Oliveri was of the historical school of painting, Laura concluded. She also noticed that the canvas was rather dusty, as if it hadn’t been touched in some time.
    â€œYou see there is one central figure here,” Oliveri pointed out in Italian, bustling to stand in front of the unfinished painting. “He will hold a scroll, representing the treaty.” He gave her a brilliant smile. “I am still assuming the congress will produce a treaty, you see. These others will be pointing to it, showing that all are in accord.” His smile broadened. “This is the artistic imagination, to bring harmony to chaos.”
    Laura had to smile. The delegates were certainly exhibiting very little harmony in reality.
    â€œBut who is it to be?” Oliveri gestured toward the central figure. “You have a guess, perhaps?”
    His gaze was very sharp. Laura shook her head.
    â€œCome, come. You must have some opinion.”
    â€œI am simply an interested observer.”
    â€œBut you have extremely…reliable sources of information.”
    Laura gazed back at him blandly, as if she didn’t know what he meant.
    â€œYou hear things, perhaps? You are a sympathetic listener.”
    â€œGeneral Pryor never speaks about his work,” she replied. “Have you been painting long?” There were no other canvases in the room, she noticed as she looked around. And the tubes of paint scattered over a battered table looked dusty as well.
    â€œSince I was a boy,” Oliveri claimed. “But I am rude. You must sit down. A glass of wine?”
    â€œNo, thank you. I don’t want to keep you from your work.”
    If he heard the irony in her tone, Oliveri ignored it. “No, no. You must stay a little. You haven’t told me how you are enjoying Vienna. You have met many interesting people?” His dark eyes sharpened. “George Tompkins, for example?”
    He must be terribly eager to know, Laura thought, to ask so baldly and directly. It must be even more unusual than she’d realized for Mr. Tompkins to receive someone like her. “I don’t believe I know that name,” she lied.
    Oliveri looked frustrated. He frowned in the ensuing silence. “You…you live in London? You have traveled a great deal, perhaps?”
    Laura shook her head, rather enjoying this game. “This is my first trip outside England.” Let him make what he could of that, she thought.
    â€œAh. You have family there, I suppose. Perhaps your father, or your brother, is in the government.”
    â€œOh, no. My father cares for nothing but horses.”
    â€œHorses.”
    â€œAnd what about you, signor? Your family is in Italy?”
    Oliveri spread his hands. “Alas, I have none. I am alone in the world.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter. Art is my family, and my country. I care for nothing else.”
    â€œNaturally. But it is a hard life, is it not? The efforts of an artist are so seldom rewarded as they deserve.”
    Oliveri’s eyes blazed. “Imbeciles! Do they think we can live on air? But a great artist can rot in the gutter for all the world cares.”
    Here was the crux of the matter, Laura thought. Oliveri was after money. Probably he sold whatever information he could glean to anyone who would buy. He was no more complex than that. “I must go,” she said, moving toward the door. The maid, who had understood none of their conversation,