"Do you know him?"

"Not personally, but my cousin attends his musicals. I'll have George introduce us."

"Now?"

Edward McDonal frowned. "I thought we were going to the Marlborough Club."

"How long can it take to stop at Leighton's and find out her name? Besides, I want to buy the painting."

"There's a Not for Sale sign prominently displayed under the title," his friend pointed out.

A faint cynicism raised the viscount's dark brows. "Everything's for sale, Eddie. You know that."

An hour later, an imposing butler ushered them into Frederic Leighton's studio, despite the inconvenient hour and the artist's custom to receive by appointment only, despite the fact the artist was working frantically because he was fast losing the sun. The butler knew that Leighton, ever conscious of his wealth and position, particularly now that he'd been knighted, cultivated friendships with the aristocracy.

The room was enormous with rich cornices, piers, friezes of gold, marble, enamel, and mosaics, all color and movement, opulence and luxury. Elaborate bookshelves lined one wall, two huge Moorish arches soared overhead, stained glass windows of an Oriental design were set into the eastern wall, while the north windows under which the artist worked were tall, iron-framed, utilitarian.

Leighton turned from his easel as the men entered, and he greeted them with a smooth urbanity, casting aside his frenzied air with ease, recognizing George Howard with a personal comment and his companions with grace.

Lord Ranelagh hardly took notice of their host, for his gaze was fixed on Leighton's current work-a female nude in a provocative pose, her diaphanous robe lifted over her head. "Very nice, Sir Leighton," he said with a faint nod in the direction of the easel. "The lady's coloring is particularly fine."

"As is the lady. I'm fortunate she dabbles in the arts."

"She lives in London?"