Patience jigged Martin on her knee. “It is just one portrait.”

Gerrard shook his head. “That’s not how it works. It’s one of those great risks-choosing a subject. At present, my reputation is solid and intact. One truly ghastly portrait could incalculably damage it. Regardless, I refuse to pander to the expectations of my subjects, or their parents. I paint what I see, which means Lord Tregonning and his darling daughter are very likely to be disappointed.”

The children were growing restless. Patience rose as their nurse looked in; she beckoned to the matronly woman and glanced at the children. “It’s time for your tea. Bread pudding tonight, don’t forget.”

Gerrard hid a wry smile as the allure of bread pudding trumped the attraction of remaining with him. Both boys slid to the ground, reciting polite farewells. Therese, helped up out of her father’s lap, blew him a kiss, then ran to beat her brothers out of the door.

Patience handed the baby over, then shut the door on her departing brood and returned to her chair. “So why are you so agonized? Simply decline his lordship’s invitation.”

“That’s just it.” Gerrard raked his fingers through his hair. “If I decline, I not only lose all chance of painting the famous Garden of Night myself, but ensure that the only painter who’ll get the chance in the next fifty years will be some portrait dabbler who probably won’t even recognize what he’s looking at.”

“Which will be what?” Vane rose, stretched, then moved to another chair. “What is it about these gardens that makes them so special?”

“The gardens of Hellebore Hall in Cornwall were originally designed in 1710.” Gerrard had searched out the details after Cunningham had first called on him. “The area’s unique-a narrow protected valley angled southwest that captures the weather in such a way that the most fantastic plants and trees that grow nowhere else in England thrive there.