Scandal

Nick managed a smile. Lightly he said, “If everyone in this family were an artiste like you, you’d have no pretty dresses, there would be holes in our shoes, our stomachs would be empty, and we’d all be living in a shack in the middle of the woods.”

“You stole that from Father. I’ve heard him say that a hundred times.”

“Yes, well, he’s right. Don’t waste your time worrying about me. I’ve decided that if it’s my destiny to mind the store, at least I’ll do a good job of it.” Nick purposely changed the subject, both because he was bored with that one and because he was still trying to figure out what mischief Isabella was up to. “What are you working on, Bella? Haven’t seen much of you lately. Must be something big.”

“Not that big,” she murmured.

She unbuttoned her smock and tossed it on top of her cloak, revealing a frilly green dress with a nipped waist and the huge, pouffy sleeves that were all the rage. Isabella might consider herself a rebel and an artist, but she still liked to wear the latest fashions.

“Did you hear that, Nick? The grandfather clock in the hall just rang five. That means it’s not late. Why, it’s positively early. Almost time for you to do your duty and report to the store to play Lord High Pooh-bah.” She raised an eyebrow as she picked up his still-burning cigar resting in a cut-glass ashtray. “Mother will have your hide for smoking up here.”

“Mother never comes up here,” he said coldly, rescuing the fine Cuban before she snuffed it. “Besides, cigars are a mere misdemeanor in the record book of my crimes.”

“Ah. Ducked out of the Trents’ dinner party early, did you?” She made a sympathetic face. “Father won’t like that. He’s determined to deliver you to Lydia Trent all wrapped up like a Christmas package.”

The idea sent Nick straight to the brandy decanter again. “Yes, well, he has visions of a department-store dynasty. Tempest & Trent, purveyors of fine luxury goods, a step ahead of anything Marshall Field can come up with.” Nick scowled, knocking back his drink. “All he needs is for me to marry Lydia.”

“So that’s what’s got you up here at all hours, swimming in brandy and cigars? The specter of a future hog-tied to Lydia Trent?”

“I suppose. It was a dreadful party. Dreadful people. I stayed approximately five minutes past dinner before I pleaded a headache and got out of there.”

“And then what?”

Putting aside his drink for the moment, Nick swung his legs off the music table and took a long puff on his cigar. “And then what, what?”

“Well, you can’t have escaped from the Trents and come right here. You’d have been drinking for, oh, the past seven hours. Even you don’t hold your liquor that well.”

“I checked in at the club, played a few hands of poker, won an outrageous amount of money, tried again to convince Freddy Montgomery to sell me his new horse, tried again to convince Freddy Montgomery to buy my old carriage…It’s so dull, I’m boring even myself.” Nick tried not to sigh. “Someone’s got to find something more interesting to do in this town or I’m going to lose my mind.”

“Face it, Nicky,” his sister said, fingering the strings of a violin no one ever played. “You’re just not cut out for the workaday world. You need to take me to Paris again. We’re overdue for an adventure.”

He eyed her warily. “When are you going to tell me what your new project is?”

Her lips curved into a very smug little smile. Now he knew he was in for trouble. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean whatever it is you’re working on that has you so excited. So excited you lost track of time and came wandering in at 5:00 a.m. with your hair all disheveled and smudged like a chimney sweep.”

“Nonsense. And it’s not new. If you must know, I’ve been working on it forever,” she said saucily, her smile widening. “That’s why I’m excited. I’m finally finished, Nick. I’ve finished my masterpiece.”

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. “I take it you’re not talking about another statue of my hand.”

“It’s an excellent hand, but I’ve moved on to bigger projects.”

“Such as?”

Isabella giggled, covering her mouth with one hand. He didn’t like the sound of that. Finally, she whispered, “I don’t think I should say.”

“Why not?”

Her glance skittered away from him. “Maybe I want it to be a surprise.”

Nick narrowed his eyes. “How big a surprise?”

“About six feet.”

The same height as a man. Oh, no. Not again. When she was studying in Italy, Isabella had done several nude torsos of one of her beaus. When she brought the pieces back to Chicago, they’d set every tongue in the city wagging. Now he suspected she’d moved on to the entire body of a naked man, complete with genitalia. Maybe Nick could convince her to add a fig leaf…

“Who’s your subject?” he asked. He wasn’t sure which would be worse—an anonymous naked stranger or someone recognizable by Chicago society. If she’d sculpted the son of a prominent family without his trousers, the entire Tempest family might have to pick up and move far, far away.

“Apollo, Zeus, Eros…” Her words trailed off dreamily. “They’re all there. And they’re spectacular.”

He allowed himself a sigh of relief. Greek gods didn’t sound so bad. Representing them in stone was quite popular, as a matter of fact. Except…Except he knew his sister. “What have you done with these Greek gods? Are they clothed?”

She shrugged, looking pleased with herself. “I told you, they’re spectacular. Stunning. I’ve added something new this time. I’ve added passion . Far and away my best work ever.”

Given the fact that she had sidestepped his question about clothes, he could only conclude that all these Greek deities were, in fact, naked. That wasn’t unusual, either, as far as classical or modern sculpture went. He’d seen enough of it on his travels with his sister to know that much, and also to know that she was fascinated by the human form.

“Is this a commissioned piece?” he inquired, trying to pin her down. “Is someone going to pay for this and hopefully whisk it away to Outer Mongolia?”

“Of course not. My art is intended to be seen. I want people to experience it, to feel and change because of it. This sculpture is definitely going to change people.” Isabella swished her skirts as she began to pace back and forth. “I’m counting on this piece to make my name.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

She shot back, “Don’t mock me, Nick. You wait and see! By morning, when it’s on display, people from around the world—artists and collectors and scholars—will be smitten. I wouldn’t be surprised if potential patrons waving huge sums of money were breaking down my door tomorrow, begging me to create pieces just for them.”

“Where?” he asked suspiciously. Isabella had no gallery, no studio, where buyers could see this supposed masterpiece. “Where is it on display?”

After stewing for a moment, she confessed, “It’s at the Women’s Building. At the fair.”

“But I thought…” Nick stubbed out his cigar. “I thought they didn’t want you there.”

“Well, they didn’t.” She shrugged again. “But Mother got me in.”

Isabella and their mother had argued about this very subject for months. The last Nick had heard, Mother wasn’t budging and was not going to use her influence as a member of the prestigious Board of Lady Managers to find a spot for Bella’s work, specifically because she didn’t approve of her daughter’s preoccupation with nude male torsos or female faces with a lascivious look in her their eyes. So far, thank goodness, Isabella had not combined the strapping males with the provocative females, because that would…

“Good God, Bella, you didn’t.”

All innocence, she inquired, “Didn’t what?”

“What exactly is the theme of this work, this masterpiece with all the Greek gods and goddesses? Have you named it?” he asked impatiently, standing up and advancing on her.

“It doesn’t have a name yet, actually. Maybe you can help me with that, Nick.” Eagerly, she perched on a stool near him. “At first I thought I would call it Erotikos , but then I thought perhaps Sexdecim would be the right name. It has an intriguing ring to it, don’t you think? It’s Latin, though, and I’d prefer Greek, since my figures are Greek.”

“ Sexdecim just means sixteen,” he told her. “How can the same statue fit either Erotikos or Sixteen? Good Lord.” He’d just had a horrifying thought. “You’re not sculpting erotic sixteen-year-olds into a statue, are you?”

“Heavens, no.” Isabella twirled the other way on her stool, avoiding his eyes. “It’s not exactly a statue, anyway. It’s an arch. I’ve intended it as a stand-alone work, something like a mantel for one’s fireplace, but much more beautiful than that. It’s marble. I love working in marble. It’s so unforgiving, and yet so stunning if you get it right. Father had a fit, of course, since it was also wretchedly expensive. But I think it was worth every penny.”

“Sixteen?” he prompted.