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looked away, feeling my face flush again.
    Mr. Rodin and I walked leisurely through the park to the line of carriages awaiting passengers. He assisted me into a two-seater, settling in close beside me.
    â€œCheyne Walk,” he told the driver.
    The open-air carriage jerked forward and I popped up my parasol to stave off the afternoon sun.
    â€œWill your brother be at the studio?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the road ahead. I dared not look at him. Already I felt brazen at accompanying him without a proper chaperone.
    â€œIf he isn’t, he will be shortly. He did mention meeting with some of the brotherhood this afternoon.”
    â€œDo you live at the studio with your brother?” I gave him a brief side look. He had a handsome profile, and I noted a cleft in his chin that I had not seen before.
    â€œWhen I’m in London, yes, I stay with Thomas. It was a little hard at first getting used to his quirks.” He chuckled. “Thomas paints when the mood strikes him—night or day.”
    I smiled pleasantly. I had apparently much to learn about the eccentric Thomas Rodin.
    The carriage jostled down the cobblestone street, the sun overhead causing me to grow warm. I had bathed and dressed in one of my best gowns, donning a hand-me-down corset I had received as a gift from one of the girls at work. Still, the heat beneath the layers of clothing was suffocating.
    At last, the carriage came to a stop in front of a tall, narrow, two-story stone flat. A small balcony looked out over the street from a set of French doors. It was simple, clean and neat, and appeared to be in a good district, putting my mind at ease in that regard.
    Mr. Rodin helped me from the carriage and ushered me up a few steps to a painted red door.
    â€œHere we are.”
    Inside, I allowed my eyes to adjust to the murky foyer. The entry was narrow, with a small room off to the right. I peeked inside, finding the room void of furnishings, but its floor-to-ceiling shelves were filled with books.
    â€œThe brotherhood are voracious readers,” Mr. Rodin said, leaning over my shoulder. “Come, I’ll show you the studio. It’s upstairs.”
    He placed his hand on the small of my back, gently guiding me to the dark mahogany stairwell. Allowing me to go first, we walked up a short flight to a landing and took a sharp right turn to proceed up another set of stairs.
    I brushed my palm over the ruby-red wallpaper. It had a raised, velvety texture that I had never seen before. “This design is lovely.”
    From behind, his hand reached up to rest beside mine. “Do you like it?” he asked.
    I tried to ignore his close proximity, how the sound of his rich voice reverberated inside me. “The color is so elegant, like a red wine.” I looked over my shoulder and caught his pleased smile.
    â€œThat was my inspiration.”
    â€œ Your inspiration?” I asked, surveying the beautiful wall covering.
    â€œThis was one of the first designs I sold to a manufacturer right here in London. Granted, it’s for a very limited clientele, but it’s a start.” He chuckled good-naturedly. “Doubtful my designs will ever hang in the academy.”
    â€œThere are more homes in this world than museums or galleries, Mr. Rodin,” I responded without hesitation. He lowered his hand, brushing it against mine in the process.
    â€œThank you, I’ve never thought of it that way.”
    I moved onward, more aware than ever of his presence behind me. At the top of the stairs was a wide hallway. Directly across from me was an open archway leading to a large room. To my right the corridor stretched past four more doors to the end of the hallway and a window festooned with delicate lace curtains. A putrid smell came from the larger room ahead and I lifted my hand to my nose. “Oh, goodness, what is that smell?”
    Mr. Rodin laughed. “Thomas would tell you that’s the smell of