The Duchess, it was easy to see, enjoyed being looked at.This was just as well. As the most scandalous woman inEngland, it was her fate to be the centre of attention wherever she went, whether she liked it or not.

At thirty-four, she was long past her prime. Even in the flickering candlelight, more lines were visible around her eyes than had been there when she last sat – more precisely, stood– for Tom, and she wore a thicker layer of paint on her face. Nevertheless, her allure remained immense. Her eyes, behind those legendarily long lashes, spoke of love to any beholder lucky enough to have them rest upon him. Her mouth seemed permanently organised into a pout of such coquettish power that strong men were enfeebled. Today she wore a gown of sensuous crimson silk, in the same shade as the ermine-trimmed robe strewn ornamentally over the tall plinth next to her, alongside her coronet. Her petticoats exploded out of the front of her gown in a dazzle of silver brocade. Her hair, powdered a fashionable iron grey, towered majestically towards the ceiling, and her gleaming white arms and breasts nestled in teasing lace flounces. She was ravishing still, and she knew it, which was undoubtedly why she was content to stand nearly an hour in the same pose, her rouged cheek resting on one slender finger, her eyes fixed somewhere over Tom’s right shoulder, as he worked barely a foot away.

The Duke, her husband, had also arrived in full royal fig, the gold chain around his neck clanking against the gold buttons of his waistcoat. Two or three years younger than his wife, he had put behind him his days as the worst rake in town, and his regard for her was absolute. That they had arrived in tandem was a mark of this devotion.

Unlike his wife, the Duke was a fidget, unable to stay still for more than a few moments at a time. In the past hour, he had paced around the studio, causing havoc in his wake ashis sweeping velvet train knocked over boxes, jars and a pile of empty frames. Eventually, the Duchess had successfully enjoined him to remove his cloak, and since the couple had not brought their own footman, she had taken it upon herself to lay it neatly on a side-table. But still the Duke had tripped over an easel as he persisted in trying to peer at the faces looking back at him from their shadowy frames on the walls. Every time he knocked into something, he cursed loudly at the darkness thatTom insisted on maintaining in the studio, even though it was bright noon outside.

‘Can’t you open the blasted curtains, man?’ he demanded. ‘A feller can’t see a perishing thing in here.’

Tom stood firm. Years of experience had taught him that it was easier to capture a precise likeness when only the face was lit, and all its surroundings were in the deepest possible gloom. If that meant a member of the Royal Family tripping over everything because he could not remain at repose for more than a few seconds, so be it.

The Duke of Cumberland was the younger and more disgraceful of the King’s two surviving brothers, although both were too much for His Majesty. The middle brother, the Duke of Gloucester, had already visited the studio, as Cumberland now discovered with a shout of surprise.

‘Damn me, if it isn’t Brother Billy! It’s so damned dark, I didn’t notice him before.’

The full-length canvas was leaning against the wall just behind where Tom stood, which meant that this cry was delivered very close to his left ear. He hoped the Duchess did not notice his own involuntary wince at the outburst. She was still looking over his right shoulder, but her pouting lips twitched in amusement.

‘How is it, my dear? Is it very like?’

‘Hard to see in this damned gloom.’

Tom could sense the Duke peering closer towards the portrait.

‘What the devil are these trees? A child could do better!’

Tom coughed discreetly. ‘The picture is unfinished, sir. It is customary to finish the setting last.’

‘What of the face, my dear? Is it like?’

‘Behhhh...passing like,’ the Duke conceded.

Tom sensed that his visitor did not bestow compliments lightly.

‘Damned tricky for you, though,’ he continued, prodding Tom on the shoulder with his cane.

The jolt made Tom’s hand jump, so that a dab of crimson from the Duchess’s right cheekbone now spilled onto what ought to be the distant background.

‘How is that, sir?’ he asked, mopping away the rogue colour with a damp piece of sponge from a saucer beside him, and hoping the irritation did not sound in his voice.

‘Let’s face it, he’s an ugly blighter, and ye’d be mad not to try and pretty him up a little, wouldn’t ye? Eh? Ha!’