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she'd agreed to sit for him exclusively. What she did with her share he'd never asked, although she would hardly be the first highborn woman to have secret money troubles.
    "You show a remarkable talent for bringing out your subject's underlying vulnerability."
    Hadrian looked away from Lady Katherine's striking visage, the dark intelligent eyes openly defiant and subtly sad, and thought,
you, sir, could be a very dangerous man.
"I doubt the lady in question would take kindly to hearing herself described as vulnerable. Lady Katherine is one of the most independent-minded women I've ever known."
    Beneath the overhang of salt-and-pepper brows, Dandridge's wintry eyes hardened to chips of ice. "You speak of female independence as though it is some sort of virtue. Pray do not tell me you are one of those dewy-eyed idealists who would see the vote handed over to a pack of hysterical, ranting women?"
    So Hadrian wasn't the only one set on edge by the suffragist protest in the square. Hoping to steer their interchange toward a possible commission, he shrugged and said, "Politics have never interested me."
    "Yet you must have some convictions, some principles you wish to see advanced?"
    Why a man such as Dandridge should care about the state of his conscience was a mystery to Hadrian but regardless he answered honestly, "I leave principles and convictions to men with the money and time to pursue them. For those of us who must work for a living, the only interest we can afford to serve is our own."
    The lined face relaxed measurably. "So, St. Claire, you are a pragmatist at heart. How refreshing."
    The MP resumed walking about the room, pausing to examine the framed photographs lining the studio walls. Tempted as Hadrian was to inform the arrogant bastard he was closed for the night, he strained for patience. He needed money, he needed it desperately, and if a potential patron with influence and tin-lined pockets had a mind to keep him standing about after hours, there was nothing to be done but bite back his ire, smooth the scowl from his face, and await his pleasure like the lackey he'd sworn never again to be.
    Dandridge stopped before an eight-by-seven-inch platinum print of a female nude lying supine atop a bed of fringed pillows and Oriental carpeting, a cone of chiaroscuro light playing with the shadows framing the curve of one alabaster breast.
    "Very fine," he said at length, his back to Hadrian. "The clarity of the foreground is impressive and the setting shows a far greater attention to detail than one normally sees."
    At least there was no faulting the fellow's taste. The classically inspired scene had been a true labor of love, the fruit of a fortnight of experimenting with various props and lighting effects and poses until he finally hit upon the composition that matched the mental picture he'd been carrying about in his mind. At one time he'd thought to enter it in the Photographic Society's annual exhibition, but now it occurred to him that the picture might be put to a more practical purpose.
    Biting back his pride, he ventured, "If you'd care to purchase it . . ."
    With a shake of his head, Dandridge dispelled any hope of that. Turning to Hadrian, he remarked, "I can't help but notice that your subjects are all females."
    Hadrian shrugged but inside he was wary. "I like working with women for many reasons, not the least of which is that they are generally better disciplined about keeping still."
    "I see. And do they, in turn, like
working
with you?" When Hadrian didn't immediately answer, Dandridge turned back to the nude, his gloved finger stabbing the spot where her drape dipped to reveal that perfect breast. "That woman must have liked you very much indeed to allow you to photograph her in such a . . . vulnerable state."
    "Justine is a professional model and accustomed to posing for painters."
    "Yet I wonder, has any portraitist before managed to elicit from her such a sweetly dreamy countenance, such unaffected