The Truth about Love

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Mr. Cunningham, as I’ve already made clear, I have no interest whatever in painting a portrait of Lord Tregonning’s daughter.” Gerrard Reginald Debbington lounged elegantly in an armchair in the smoking room of his select gentleman’s club. Concealing his mounting frustration, he held Lord Tregonning’s agent’s gaze. “I agreed to this meeting in the hope that Lord Tregonning, having been informed of my refusal of the commission to paint the portrait, had agreed to allow me access to the Hellebore Hall gardens.”

He was, after all, the ton’s foremost landscape painter; Lord Tregonning’s famous gardens were long overdue a visit from such as he.

Cunningham blanched. Clearing his throat, he glanced down at the papers spread on the small table between them.

Around them, a discreet hum held sway; Gerrard was peripherally aware of occasional glances thrown their way. Other members saw him, but on noticing Cunningham, they checked; recognizing that business was being conducted, they refrained from intruding.

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