What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

with the ponderous effort one might expect of a fat, self-indulgent merchant. At the top of the steps, a door set with uncurtained small panes of glass showed him a large room lit with an unexpected flood of light by an abundance of large windows all, likewise, uncurtained. In the center of the room stood a young man, palette and brush in hand, his posture one of studied thought as he stared at a large canvas on an easel before him.
    Sebastian knocked, then knocked again when the young man continued to stare at his canvas. After a third knock, Sebastian simply opened the door and walked into a blast of warm, turpentine- and oil-scented air.
    “Hallooo there,” he said with hearty vulgarity, clapping his hands together in the manner of men coming in from the cold. “I did knock, but nobody answered.”
    The young man swung around, a lock of dark hair falling across his brow as he looked up, distracted. “Yes?”
    Romantic , Kat had called him. Sebastian had thought it an odd description at the time, but he understood it now. Tall and broad shouldered, the Italian was like a handsome shepherd, or a troubadour from a Venetian painting of two centuries before. Curly chestnut-colored hair framed a face with large, velvet brown eyes, a classical nose, and the full, bowed lips of a Botticelli angel.
    “I’m looking for a Mr. Giorgio Donatelli,” said Sebastian. There were not one, but three braziers burning in the room, he realized. Donatelli obviously missed the warmth of Italy. Already Sebastian was beginning to regret the second neckcloth and the padding around his middle.
    Reaching out, the painter rested his brush and palette on a nearby table. “I’m Donatelli.”
    “Name is Beaumont.” Sebastian puffed out his exaggerated chest and struck a self-important pose. “Silas Beaumont. Of the Beaumont Transatlantic Shipping Company.” He fixed the artist with an expectant stare. “You’ve heard of us, of course.”
    “I believe so,” said Donatelli slowly, obviously not willing to risk offending a potential patron with an affront to the man’s image of self-importance. “How may I help you?”
    The artist’s English was good, Sebastian noticed; very good, with just enough of an accent to increase that air of romance. He’d obviously been in England a very long time. “Well, it’s this way, you see. I was talking to the Lord Mayor the other day, about how I was wanting to find someone to paint my daughter Sukie’s portrait—she’s sixteen now, my Sukie—and, anyway, he suggested you.”
    “You needn’t have put yourself to the trouble of coming here,” said Donatelli, casting an anxious glance around the studio, like a housewife flustered to have been caught behind on her cleaning.
    Sebastian waved away the suggestion with one gloved hand. “I wanted to see some of your work—more than just the one or two pictures you might choose to trot out for my inspection. Never buy a horse without getting a good look at the stable, I always say.” He cast an inquiring eye about the room. “You do have more than this, I hope?”
    Donatelli reached for a rag to wipe his hands. “Of course. Follow me.”
    Still wiping his hands, he led the way through an open door to a large back room that was virtually empty except for the dozens and dozens of canvases, large and small, propped against the walls.
    “Aha,” said Sebastian, rubbing his hands together. “This is more like what I was expecting.”
    The painter was good, very good, Sebastian decided, making a slow tour of the room. Rather than the sentimental, flattering formality of a Lawrence or a Reynolds, here was vigor and iridescence of color. Sebastian’s steps slowed, his respect for the Italian’s talent increasing as he studied portraits and sketches, vast dramatic tableaus and small studies. Then he came to a stack of paintings, turned against the wall. Curious, he reached for the top canvas.
    “I don’t think that’s exactly the sort of thing you’re looking for,” said Donatelli, starting forward.
    Sebastian held him off with one outflung hand. He was looking at a painting of Rachel York. Not a portrait of Rachel, the actress, but a depiction of Rachel as Venus, rising naked and utterly desirable from the sea, her flesh flowing and contoured and so realistically depicted that one saw the sensuality of a woman rather than the idealized goddess of the myth.
    “No, but I do like this. It’s so very . . .” Sebastian paused. Erotic ,