An Experienced Mistress by Bryn Donovan Read Free Book Online

said when she emerged from the studio and came downstairs. The maid knew better than to disturb her while she worked. “There’s some mail for you.”
    “Oh? Is it—” Genevieve stopped herself. She didn’t want to admit how much her odd encounter with William Creighton, and their upcoming next meeting, lingered on her mind. “Anything from Ruth?” she said instead.
    “Why, I didn’t look, ma’am.”
    The first letter was from Brace’s, the shop in London, and Genevieve knew what it said before she opened it and scanned the neatly written lines.
    They hoped that she’d soon pay for the muslin and wool she bought on credit a few months ago. Despite the patronage of her father, they unfortunately would be unable to extend more credit to her until she did pay. Reasonable enough, Genevieve admitted to herself. They wrote they were sure it was simply an oversight on her part. Of course, they were sure of no such thing, since they’d sent two almost identical letters already.
    She’d obtained the fabric the week before her chimney had been damaged in a storm, and she had to pay a bricklayer what seemed like a small fortune to repair it. Since it was the middle of winter, she hadn’t much choice, but Genevieve still regretted owing money to the shop.
    The next letter was of a similar kind, but not so civilly worded. A doctor who’d treated Flory for headaches. Or rather, he tried to treat her. He’d given her some pills, but they’d done nothing, other than making the maid queasy. The real cure came from an old friend of Flory’s, who recommended feverfew tea.
    Doctor Perkins still demanded payment, naturally. If the matter is not resolved at once , he wrote, I shall have no choice but to take legal action .
    Genevieve groaned. Why had she chosen now to break things off with Cage? She wondered if she’d have to find a cheaper place to live. Or would she have to help Flory find a position with someone else? But she’d miss the maid terribly.
    She put the letters down. She had to stop thinking like this. With any luck, she’d be able to take care of the bills.
    She would travel into Town the very next day to pay a visit to Mr. Valerio, the man who commissioned a painting of the Biblical woman at the well. Of course, the collector believed that Cage was going to paint it, but he’d commissioned one of her paintings through Cage before.
    All will be well. She simply had to knock on the Italian’s door, enter his drawing-room, and explain that she was the artist the collector so admired.
    ****
    “ You are the artist?” Mr. Valerio chortled. “What do you mean?”
    Genevieve sat up straighter in her ornate chair in the man’s equally ornate drawing room—the sort of room that made her worry that she had dirt on her face.
    “I mean precisely what I say.”
    The collector opened his mouth to speak.
    “This is very interesting,” the girl perched on the arm of Mr. Valerio’s chair murmured—the first time she’d spoken.
    When Mr. Valerio introduced the girl as a friend, she’d nodded serenely in Genevieve’s direction. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, an English dark-haired beauty who wore a ruby-red dressing gown even though in the middle of the afternoon. Her lips were painted a shocking red to match.
    Mr. Valerio had to have been past fifty, with his graying Van Dyke beard and creased Latin face. He was not a big man, but had a big voice and enough pride to dominate any room.
    “Mr. Visser has not painted for two years,” Genevieve explained. “I paint the pictures and he pretends they are his.”
    “Why?” he demanded. The skepticism in his eyes made it clear he didn’t believe her.
    “Because men are paid more for their paintings—”
    “No, no. Why would Signor Visser stop painting?”
    “He is a drug addict.” He peered at her. “Opium,” she added.
    Mr. Valerio laughed. He laughed, in fact, a bit more than seemed necessary or even natural.
    “No. You are not the