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believe that anyone in London could rival Villemot. If, on the other hand, she made only a minor complaint, Sir Martin would feel obliged to challenge the artist and that, too, could result in the abandonment of the project.
    However she presented it to him, Sir Martin would be hurt and she wanted to spare him any pain. For that reason, she resolved to sort out the matter herself without involving him in any way. After all, Araminta consoled herself, there would be no more sittings to endure. Unless he called her back, she and Villemot might never be alone in the same room again.
    Having reached her decision, she felt much better. Her only concern now was to change out of the dress she had worn at the studio, ideal for the painting but not entirely suitable for a warm day in May. It was something she was more likely to wear to a formal event than put on at home for the day. When the carriage delivered her to her front door, she rang the doorbell. It never occurred to her that she was being watched by someone who stood on the opposite side of the road, partly concealed behind a tree.
    Let into the house, Araminta went straight upstairs to change with her maid on her heels. Eleanor Ryle was pleased to see her mistress return. A bright, open-faced, inquisitive young woman with a mop of brown hair, Eleanor helped her out of her dress.
    ‘Monsieur Villemot chose well,’ she said, stroking the material. ‘This has always been my favourite.’
    ‘Then you may get a chance to wear it, Eleanor.’
    ‘Me, m’lady?’
    ‘Monsieur Villemot does not need to keep me sitting therefor hours while he paints the dress,’ said Araminta. ‘Someone else can wear it in my stead and he suggested you.’
    ‘But he doesn’t even know that I exist.’
    ‘Yes, he does. He noticed you when he called here.’
    Eleanor giggled. ‘Really?’
    ‘He thought that the dress would fit you perfectly.’
    ‘Oh, I could never wear it as you do, m’lady. It becomes you. On me, it would not look the same at all.’
    ‘I wonder,’ said Araminta, weighing her up. ‘Let me see. Hold it against you, Eleanor.’
    ‘Yes, m’lady.’
    Taking a step back, the maid held the dress up against her, grinning happily as she did so, as if a private dream was just being fulfilled. Eleanor was short enough and slim enough to wear it even though the dress was not the ideal colour for her. Araminta studied her for a full minute.
    ‘I believe that it will do,’ she said.
    Eleanor was overjoyed. ‘Then I am to wear it?’ she cried.
    ‘We’ll see. I need to discuss the matter with my husband.’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Where is he, by the way?’
    ‘Smoking a pipe in the garden,’ replied Eleanor. ‘He asked me to call him as soon as you returned.’
    ‘Well, let me dress quickly,’ said Araminta, crossing to the wardrobe. ‘I don’t want to keep him waiting.’
     
    Sir Martin Culthorpe was a creature of habit. Twice a day, he always liked to smoke a pipe and the garden was the place in which he preferred to smoke it. Even on cold days, or when it was raining, he would venture outdoors and shelter in the arbour while he puffed away. Only heavy snow or a violent thunderstorm could confine his pipe to the house. It was not merely the pleasure of inhaling the tobacco that he savoured. Sir Martin was a contemplative man and a stroll in his garden was the perfect time to reflect on the issues that preoccupied him.
    By comparison with the garden on his country estate, the one in Westminster was quite small but it was still large enough for him to promenade for five minutes or so without retracing his steps. Formal in design, it had endless trees and neat rows of bushes dividing it up and creating private corners where he could sit without being visible from the house. At the centre of the garden was a large pond with a fountain in the shape of Neptune, and there was a great deal of other statuary dotted here and there.
    Pulling on his pipe, he strode along