Page 14 of Infamous

‘Thank you,’ she said to Valentine, who handed her a glass of wine and then disappeared into a corner of the room.

Eddie tried to make eye contact with Rose on the sofa opposite, but she was speaking to Mr Rednock at her shoulder, leaning back in her seat. They made absolutely no sense together – him practically middle-aged and portly, her radiant with youth as she sipped at her drink and twisted her fingers through the strings of her reticule – but nobody could look at them and think they weren’t thoroughly enjoying each other’s company. It made Eddie want to pinch someone, so she settled on pinching herself on the knee through the fabric of her dress.

‘He keeps telling me,’ Nash was saying to the lady next to him, ‘that anovelis nothing but a very long poem and you don’t even have to concern yourself with rhyming, and then he throws his hands up like he’s just solved the whole damn thing for me, the bastard. As if it’s that simple just towriteanovel.’

‘It tends to be simpler if you actually put pen to paper, darling,’ said a woman’s voice from behind Eddie; she turned to see a very tall and thin woman with an olive complexion and thick, dark waves of hair, holding a glass of wine in each hand. She leaned forwards to offer one, and Nash took it from her, looking slightly dazed by her appearance. A pleasant, musky perfume wafted over Eddie as the woman withdrew.

‘Somebody keeps hiding all my pens,’ he said, and she laughed.

‘Hidingthem in the pen drawer.’

‘Well, I didn’t say it was a particularly inspired hiding spot. Say, Liza, you haven’t met Miss Miller, have you?’

‘Obviously not,’ said the woman who must haveactuallybeen Nash’s wife. ‘Have you doneanyintroductions, Nicks?’

Nash froze comically before his face fell, and he turned to Eddie, looking anguished.

‘I can only apologise, sometimes I just .?.?.Right.’ He cleared his throat, and to Eddie’s mortification, everybody in the room ceased speaking to listen. ‘Everybody, this is Miss Edith Miller, a young writer. Her companions are Miss Rose Li and Mr Albert Rednock here, whom some of you have already met.’

‘He breeds rabbits,’ said Valentine from behind a very full glass of wine, barely concealing a smirk.

‘He— Do you now?’ Nash said, swivelling around in his seat to look at Mr Rednock, who shrugged amiably. ‘I didn’t know that, Albert.’

‘I have told you quite a few times,’ Mr Rednock replied.

‘Well. Fantastic. Miss Miller, Miss Li, this is .?.?. everybody.’

There were general noises of greeting and a couple of raised glasses; Eddie raised hers in response and shot a look at Rose, who looked as mortified by the attention as Eddie felt.

‘Liza Nicholson,’ said Nash’s wife, offering a hand to be shaken. ‘I hope you aren’t too scandalised by the goings-on in my house. Usually, I’d have been here to see it cleaned, and I certainly would have insisted on proper introductions, but I arrived back from visiting my sister only an hour ago.’ She let out the tiniest of exhalations, looking very tired, and then fixed a pleasant smile on her face. ‘This gentleman to your right is Oluwadayo Akerele, writer and abolitionist. Mr Akerele, as I’m sure you heard, this is Miss Miller.’

The short, Black gentleman who had been speaking to a lady on his other side inclined his head in greeting.

‘Call me Dayo. A pleasure to meet you. What do you write, Miss Miller?’

‘Oh,’ said Eddie. ‘Short stories?’

‘You do not seem entirely sure,’ said Mr Akerele, but he was smiling at her, so Eddie smiled back.

‘I’m not,’ she answered truthfully, and he laughed.

‘Well, I shall be interested to hear more once you are firm in your decision. This fine lady,’ he said, nodding to the woman he had been speaking to, ‘is Miss Catherine Stuart.’

‘God!’ Eddie exclaimed before she could help herself. ‘But you’re .?.?. not theartist, Catherine Stuart?’

‘If you believe the rumours,’ said the large, lightly tanned woman of about five-and-thirty. She had green eyes and dark curls, most of which were falling loose down her back. ‘And Kitty, please. None of thisMiss Catherinehell.’

‘You are just the mostwonderfulpainter,’ Eddie said, aware that she was gushing but unable to stem the flow. ‘I saw one of your portraits a few years ago, and I’ve been desperate to see your more recent work – I read the descriptions, of course, in the papers.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Kitty Stuart, raising an eyebrow. ‘Effusive in their praise, were they?’

‘They said you were an affront to God and man, and that had it been but a couple of hundred years ago, you would have been burned as a witch,’ Eddie said reverently. ‘They seemed quite disappointed that burning was no longer considered a proportional response to art they didn’t like. Art that’s .?.?.courageous.’

‘“Courageous” wasn’t the word they used, though, was it?’

‘No,’ said Eddie. ‘They saiddangerous.’

Dayo Akerele snorted quietly. ‘When was the last time one of your paintings put somebody indanger, Miss Kitty?’