Alongside the pier was a barge, white-painted and beautiful. In it four oarsmen sat erect, their white-bladed oars upright, as if on display or under the watchful eye of a harsh master. In the boat’s stern was a wide, cushioned thwart where she imagined Sir Grenville sitting in state.

She turned from the tall, velvet-curtained windows. The room, though rich, was sparsely furnished. In front of the window was a huge table, covered in papers which she supposed was Sir Grenville’s desk. Behind it, facing the room, was an immense chair, its arms splayed, the whole upholstered in shining leather. In the room’s center, facing the desk, was a single, spindly chair that looked out of keeping with the rest of the room which was dominated by a huge, carved marble fireplace on the wall facing the window. Logs were laid for a fire that would not, she guessed, be lit till autumn. The room’s single picture was vast above the fireplace.

It was a picture that could be concealed by wooden shutters, limewashed oak like the panelling of the room, but which now were folded back to show the large, gorgeous, and shocking portrait. A young man sat naked in a sunlit glade of a dark forest. His body was slim, muscled, and hard. His skin was tanned by the sun. Campion found herself thinking that Toby’s naked body would look as tough and beautiful, and she was embarrassed by the thought. It shocked her, as much as it pleased her, but then she forgot such speculations for she was entranced by the face of the young man.

It was an extraordinary face, a splendid, arrogant, pagan face. That face, she thought, ought to be framed by a gilded helmet and be staring at a conquered land. The young man had golden hair, falling either side of a wide, cruel mouth. She had never imagined that any man could be so handsome, so frightening, and so desirable.

The naked man was not looking out of the picture, but rather staring down at a pool hidden among rocks. The painter had showed the pool by letting its reflections gild the fine face, just as the sun was reflected by the Thames in liquid light ripples that moved on Sir Grenville Cony’s ceiling.

The face still held her. She wondered if she would want to meet such a man, and then she tried to tell herself that no man could be so handsome, so golden, so arrogant, so perfect. This was a painter’s fantasy, no more, yet still she could not take her eyes from the startling features.

“You like my painting.” She had not heard the second door, the door by the desk, open. She turned, startled, and in the doorway was one of the strangest figures she had ever seen. She was staring at a grotesque man, of stunning ugliness, who seemed to smile derisively at her.

Sir Grenville Cony, she supposed it must be he, was short. His monstrously fat belly was supported by thin, spindly legs that looked unequal to the task of holding such obscene grossness. His face was uncannily like the face of a frog, with a wide, mirthless slash of a mouth beneath bulging, pale eyes. His hair was white and curly. His brown, rich clothes were taut on his huge belly. He looked from her to the painting, to the life-size naked figure above her head. “It is Narcissus in love with himself. I keep it to remind myself of the dangers of self-regard. You would not want me, Miss Slythe, to turn into a flower?” He chuckled. “It is Miss Slythe?”