Petticoat Rebellion by Joan Smith Page A

the name Brannigan under the yellow paint. It did not quite cover the darker blue beneath. I showed Algie. I wager he is having it out with O’Leary this minute. He was looking for O’Leary when he left the dancer. He was likely turning her up sweet with some trinket, as Mama suggested.”
    “I trust he did not give her any of the entailed jewelry,”Lady Susan said.
    “Egad, no. Algie is no flat. He would never part with the good jewelry, and as his pockets are to let at the moment, he could not buy her anything valuable. A box of bonbons or a pretty scarf is more like it.”
    Abbie made amental note of all this. It confirmed her wretched opinion of Lord Penfel, and added an interesting point: His pockets were to let.
    Lord John suggested a ride to pass the time until dinner. Kate and Lady Susan agreed. As there were only two ladies’mounts in the stable, it was arranged that Mr. Singleton would take Annabelle for a hurl in John’s curricle.
    Singleton braced himself to arrange it with Abbie. “Perfectly safe,”he gasped. “Would not harm a hair of her head.”
    “Have no fear,”Lord John added. “Singleton is a bang-up fiddler.”
    As his shyness made it unlikely he would be any sort of romantic menace, Abbie allowed the ride, so long as they were back within the hour. She went abovestairs with the girls while Kate and Lady Susan changed into their riding habits and Annabelle got her bonnet and pelisse. It was a relief to be rid of the unruly youngsters.
    Abbie decided to continue her work on the Chardin and went below with her brushes, paints, canvas, and easel. She met Penfel at the bottom of the stairs as she descended.
    “You should have rung for a footman,”he said, taking the easel to carry for her.
    It was not until they were in the gallery that it occurred to Abbie she was once again in an isolated place with Penfel. As he was helping her and generally behaving very well, she did not mention it. She felt she had trimmed him into line. He set her equipment up in front of the Chardin and brought her a chair.
    “This is the picture O’Leary offered to sell for you?”he asked, studying her work.
    “Yes, he has great faith in my talent, for as you can see, it’s far from finished.”
    “But what is done is well-done,”he said, cocking his head to study it from various angles. “Yes, I think you might give Chardin a run for his money. But why copy? Why not paint one of the girls?”
    “One copies to discipline her hand. I do paint from the live model as well, of course. As to painting one of the girls, I would as lief try to paint a squirrel. They cannot sit still for a minute. Actually, I have a model in mind, but I doubt the one I want to paint would allow it.”
    Penfel wore a little smile of satisfaction. “Why do you not ask him?”
    “Him? I was referring to Lady Penfel. I like to paint faces that have character. Older faces!”she added, when he looked offended.
    “The milk is out of the bottle now, miss! Lack of character indeed. Is that really your assessment of me? I meant no harm this morning, truly. It is just that you looked so—”
    “I was not referring to any moral deficiency, milord,”she said hastily, “but to those lines and pouches that only come with age, and add expression to the physiognomy.”She wondered how she had looked, that had urged him to kiss her.
    “Is there no expression on this phiz, Miss Fairchild?”he demanded, pushing his finger into his chin for emphasis.
    “Indeed there is,”she replied, using the question as an excuse to study him. How bright his eyes were! And that strong chin. She would like to paint him outdoors, perhaps mounted on a horse, like a hero. When she realized her lips were curving in a smile, she drew herself back to business. “But do you really want that childish petulance put on canvas for posterity?”she asked.
    “Shrew!”he said, smiling an intimate smile that robbed the word of offense.
    “Spoiled brat,”she replied