The Harlot Countess by Joanna Shupe Page B

allow her greater freedom to admit her passion to the world. She would no longer need to keep her work a secret. But would Society accept her? Women artists were not as well received as their male peers. Patrons were harder to come by and commissions were scarce enough as it was. It was easier in France, where a few women, such as Vigée-Lebrun and Ducreux, had already succeeded. The English had not been as quick to embrace female artists, however.
    Still, if she could do her own pieces and continue on as Lemarc as well . . . But who would purchase art by the Half-Irish Harlot? Hard to guess whether her reputation would make the art more popular or herself more of an outcast.
    â€œI will think on it. When does this event take place?”
    â€œA few months yet.”
    â€œIf I start working under my name, there is a chance of social recrimination, which could affect you and Marcus.”
    â€œI shan’t mind a bit. You have a gift, Maggie, and it should be celebrated, not hidden away. Let them gossip all they like. You know the talk only leads to the sale of more pieces.”
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    â€œAfternoon, Quint. Nice of you to tidy up for me.”
    Simon stepped over the usual stacks of papers and books along the floor on the way to the viscount’s desk, where his friend was studying something. Quint straightened, giving Simon a good look at today’s sartorial transgression. A violet coat over a green striped waistcoat, topped with a cravat so loosely tied it more resembled a sash. Simon cringed. He loved Quint, but the way his friend dressed would have Brummell fainting dead away in the street.
    Last evening, Quint had revealed he’d made progress with the birds and asked that Simon call today. Even still, it seemed Quint was entirely taken off guard by Simon’s arrival.
    â€œWinchester! Glad you’re here. I’d offer you a chair, but . . .” Quint gestured to the two across from the desk, which were filled with books. “Hold on and let me just get the—” Quint shuffled about, then carefully laid out seven framed portraits on the desk. When he was done, he waved a hand. “Your bird engravings.”
    â€œWeren’t there almost twenty of them?”
    â€œYes, but I’ve eliminated all of the usual birds. Ones found anywhere in England, such as the partridge, magpie, woodpecker, and the like. What we have here are the only seven that matter in narrowing down where our famed artist might reside.”
    â€œOr once visited.”
    â€œPerhaps,” Quint allowed. “But as you’ll see, some of these birds span seasons. So if the artist only took a short vacation, he likely wouldn’t have seen summer birds and winter birds. In my opinion, the artist spent a considerable amount of time in this area, watching wildlife.”
    â€œYes, that makes sense.”
    â€œNow, let’s study the remaining lot. The top row”—he pointed—“are the male golden oriole, female dotterel, and nightingale. All summer feathering, mostly located only in eastern England. The second row, the bar-tailed godwit, plover, redwing, and dunlin, are depicted with their winter feathering. All can be seen in eastern England during the winter.” Quint slid two of the frames down to separate them. “What’s interesting is that both the godwit and the dunlin are coastal birds, specifically living around estuaries all throughout England.”
    â€œWe’re thinking somewhere in eastern England, near the coast or an estuary?”
    â€œWell, that was my conclusion until I landed upon this one.” Quint bent, produced another framed painting from his desk drawer. “This appears to be, at first glance, a type of grouse, which you find up north on the moors. But I can’t place it.”
    â€œSo what is it?”
    â€œThe devil if I know. It’s no bird found in England.”
    They both stared at the painting for a long