“Thanks for helping,” Ruby said as Bennett put the bags near the door. “I really appreciate it.”

“You’re quite welcome. Enjoy your evening,” Bennett said, turning to leave.

“Wait. Would you like to go out to dinner with me on Saturday night? I promise I won’t forget my wallet or slam the door in your face.”

“Now who’s making presumptions?”

Ruby laughed. “Okay, so no promises on that last part.”

It was Bennett’s turned to chuckle. “Understood, and actually, I think I’d…I’d very much like to have dinner with you again. Unfortunately, though, I have a previous engagement on Saturday. My gallery is having a showing, and my attendance is mandatory.”

“You own an art gallery?”

“Yes. It’s called Fine Arts. It’s just off Massachusetts Avenue.”

“Oh, I’ve seen that. I never went in though. It looks kind of pricey.”

“It is,” Bennett said, glancing at her watch. “And now I genuinely need to go. There’s lots of work to be done before we’re ready to open for the show. Perhaps you and I can figure out another night for dinner. Will that work?”

Ruby beamed. “That absolutely will work.”

***

In 1841, Maximillian was invited to attend a private art showing in Paris. Known as a connoisseur of fine arts, he brought along his protégé, who was equally adept at recognizing talent when she saw it.

The exhibition was held in a studio on a slightly seedier side of town. Found at the end of a dark and dank alley, its nondescript door was lit by a single lantern and guarded by one gargantuan man. Those who flashed their invitations were permitted entry, and once inside, their mouths would water, and their billfolds would open. Without fear of rebuke or arrest, they were free to peruse and purchase the finest in erotic art.

It wasn’t Bennett’s first introduction to erotica. Max had quite an assortment ranging from compendiums of poetry by John Wilmot, drawings by Thomas Rowlandson, several ancient Peruvian artifacts depicting phalluses or men in the throes of sodomy or fellatio, and a collection of various editions of the Kama Sutra, the pages of each filled with different artists’ interpretations of the sexual positions.

Years before, Bennett had embraced her homosexuality and her androgynous appearance, so dressed in a top hat, fitted waistcoat, and twill trousers, she roamed the tiny studio, drifting from one piece to the next. The art displayed impressed her, as did those in attendance. Somewhat astonished they weren’t hidden under masks meant for masquerade balls, aristocrats and bureaucrats milled about admiring what they couldn’t afford and coveting what they could.