Cunningham held his gaze. He drew in a tight breath, glanced briefly down, then looked up again, his gaze fixing over Gerrard’s left shoulder. “His lordship instructed me to inform you that this will be his final offer…and that should you refuse it, he will be forced to find some other painter to undertake the portrait, and that other painter will be accorded the same license in respect of the gardens as was offered to you. Subsequently, Lord Tregonning will ensure that during his lifetime and that of his immediate heirs, no other artist will be allowed access to the gardens of Hellebore Hall.”

Suppressing his reaction, remaining seated, took all Gerrard’s considerable willpower. What the devil was Tregonning about, resorting to what amounted to extortion…?

He looked away, unseeing.

One thing was clear. Lord Tregonning was bound and determined to have him paint his daughter.

Leaning his elbow on the chair arm, his clenched jaw on his fist, fixing his gaze across the room, he searched for some acceptable way out of the well-baited trap. None immediately leapt to mind; his violent antipathy to allowing some portrait panderer to be the only artist to gain access to the fabulous landscapes said to surround Hellebore Hall was clouding his perception.

He looked at Cunningham. “I need to consider his lordship’s proposal more carefully.”

Given the clipped accents that had infected his speech, he wasn’t surprised that Cunningham kept his expression carefully neutral. The agent nodded once. “Yes, of course. How long…?”

“Twenty-four hours.” If he let such a subject torture him for any longer, unresolved, he’d go insane. He rose and extended his hand. “You’re at the Cumberland, I believe?”

Hurriedly gathering his papers, Cunningham stood and grasped his hand. “Yes. Ah…I’ll wait to hear from you.”

Gerrard nodded curtly. He remained by the chair until Cunningham had left, then stirred and followed him out.