A Perfect Scandal (12 page)

Dinner was finally over. Isabel marched out of the dining room like an irate general—head held high, chest thrust forward, and back ramrod stiff. The battle of wills between her and Marcus, combined with too much liquor, had inflamed her senses. She itched to confront him, to continue sparring. But manners prevailed, and she found herself following Victoria into the parlor while the men stayed behind to drink their port.

Isabel chose a seat opposite the countess in a comfortable leather chair. It was a chilly May evening, and a bright fire blazed in the grate of an overlarge fireplace, warming the room.

Victoria leaned back in her chair, hands splayed over her swollen abdomen, and smiled casually at Isabel. “We have much in common.”

Puzzled, Isabel looked up. “In common with what?”

“You’re attracted to him despite yourself.”

Isabel blinked in surprise. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I realize we have just met, but Marcus is like a brother to my husband. May I speak plainly with you?”

Isabel nodded, her ire dissipating beneath the countess’s green gaze.

“You find Marcus Hawksley attractive, and he in turn clearly desires you, but for reasons I have yet to learn, you are fighting your feelings,” Victoria said.

“Why would you believe that?”

“Because it is precisely how I felt before the earl and I were married.”

Isabel looked at Victoria with utter disbelief. “But Ravenspear adores you! His admiration is written all over his face whenever he looks at you. And you appear to love him. Any woman would be envious of your marriage.”

Victoria shook her head. “It wasn’t always so. There was a time that I had despised Blake as much as I had desired him. My emotions were so confused, I regarded my attraction for him a weakness, and I loathed myself for it.”

“Why?”

“Because Blake forced me to become his mistress.”

Isabel gasped, momentarily speechless in her surprise.

“I don’t speak of it,” Victoria said, “but since you are to marry Marcus, I feel you should know the truth.”

“Why would Ravenspear do such an awful thing?”

Victoria threaded her fingers over her distended stomach. “Blake hated my father for past unspeakable sins, and he sought to ruin him socially as well as financially. Blake purchased my father’s outstanding notes and called in the loans. When my father could not make the interest payments, Blake offered to extend the loans only if I lived with him as his mistress for one year.”

“How ghastly! How did you ever forgive him?”

Victoria sighed. “I did not at first. I was infatuated with him in my youth, and despite his unspeakable actions, I fought daily not to succumb to his seductive efforts. But Blake was fighting his own personal demons—a festering need for revenge, hatred for my father, and his desire for me. He never once forced me to bed him, and he even swore not to touch me until I willingly came to him. As you can surmise from my current condition, I eventually did.”

Isabel held her breath, her mind racing. Blake’s promise not to touch Victoria reminded Isabel of the arrangement she and Marcus had made. Only
she
had insisted Marcus agree to the farce, and
she
—unlike Victoria—had no intention of ever breaking their agreement.

“Now that I have told you my secrets, will you tell me what is going on between you and Marcus?” Victoria asked.

Isabel experienced a sudden desperate urge to confess all to the countess and seek her advice. Victoria, unlike Charlotte, had experienced the frustrations of a perilous attraction.

Isabel sat in her chair, her fingers tense in her lap. “You are correct in your observations, Lady Ravenspear. I do not want to marry Marcus Hawksley or any man for that matter. What I want, what I have always wanted, is to move to Paris for formal art studies.”

“I see. And after the ludicrous scandal at Lord Westley’s estate sale where your testimony saved Marcus, your father insisted upon you two marrying.”

“Yes, and Marcus stubbornly agreed with my father,” Isabel said.

“You feel that by marrying Marcus, you are forced to sacrifice your dreams?” Victoria asked.

Isabel shook her head. “I refuse to. I still plan on going to Paris.” She left out the pertinent fact that she and Marcus would never consummate their marriage.

A twinkle of mischief shone in Victoria’s eye, as if the older, more experienced woman suspected the truth. “Ah, you seek to hold yourself apart to protect yourself. It may be harder than you think. You adored Marcus Hawksley as a girl, just as I did my Blake.”

“That was over eight years ago.”

“Yes, but I suspect you are battling old feelings now.”

Isabel shifted in her seat. She was uncomfortable with Victoria’s uncanny ability to read her mind. “It matters naught. I am no longer a child and can control my base emotions.”

Liar!
she thought.
You still think about him, only now it is as a grown woman fantasizing about a man, not a twelve-year-old girl doting over a rogue.

Victoria looked at her with understanding. “I will not pry deeper, Isabel, but I want you to know you can speak to me without fear of my revealing our discussions to Blake or Marcus.”

“If I may be so bold, why would you do that?”

“I had a woman—a worldly baroness—befriend me when I first came to reside with Blake at Rosewood, his country estate. I was scared, confused, and in desperate need of wise feminine advice. Although our personalities differ—you are impulsive, bold, and blessedly unconcerned with what society thinks, whereas I was reserved and feared scandal—I sense that you could use a friend. You see, I believe you are exactly what Marcus needs in his life.”

Isabel chose her words with care. “Marcus does not need anyone, most certainly not a wife thrust upon him.”

A thoughtful smile curved Victoria’s mouth. “You are an intelligent and independent woman who gives naught for society’s rigid expectations. You seek freedom, and Marcus’s reputation amongst the haut ton doesn’t give you the slightest hesitation as it has many other flighty debutantes. You are not intimidated by his fierce countenance and stand up to him. He will find you irresistible.”

Isabel felt a thrill at the woman’s words. What would it feel like to have a man like Hawksley find her “irresistible”?

“What of his past? Why has he never married?” Isabel asked.

“There were dark years that I know had to do with a woman’s betrayal, but as to the details, only he knows. Marcus has never spoken of it.”

“Is that why he became a stockbroker?”

“Blake befriended Marcus at a critical time in his life and introduced him to the Stock Exchange. Marcus has an instinctive shrewdness for business and is very good at what he does. Blake considers his talents irreplaceable, and Marcus takes great pride in his work. That is why it is so important to Marcus to determine the true identity of the man who attempted to frame him for the theft of the painting. Marcus wants to maintain his stellar business reputation at the Stock Exchange,” Victoria explained.

Leaning forward, Isabel lowered her voice an octave. “He says he has hired a private investigator. I understand they can charge exorbitant fees, yet Marcus declined my dowry. How can a working broker afford such an expense?”

Victoria threw her head back and laughed. “You think Marcus Hawksley is impoverished?”

Isabel was taken aback. “Perhaps not impoverished, but certainly not wealthy.”

“Have you seen his home? Where you will live after you marry?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Because, darling, once you visit him, you will see with your own eyes that he is filthy rich.”

Shock flew through her. “What?”

Victoria reached for a pencil and paper on an end table and began scribbling. “This is his address. He purchased Blake’s former town house on St. James’s Street after Blake and I married. Go see him tomorrow.”

Isabel took the paper and stared down at it with a dumb-founded expression on her face. “Are you sure?”

“Marcus Hawksley has more money than many of the members of the ton. He is a virtuoso when it comes to investing and it is not only his clients whom he has made fabulously wealthy. As an experienced investor myself, I am awed by his talent. He is a highly sought after broker who can choose his own clients.”

Isabel looked at Victoria with renewed interest. “Marcus had mentioned that you were a successful anonymous investor in the London Stock Exchange. When I visited the place, I did not see a female face. How bold of you to fool the men and work in their world.”

“I do have investing savvy, Isabel, but I am the first to admit that Marcus Hawksley’s talent puts mine in the shade. He is obsessive about his work.”

“And I am just as passionate about studying art.”

Victoria chuckled. “I’ve witnessed the sparks fly between you two. I soon predict that both of your obsessions will turn sharply in a different direction.”

The artists’ district was vacant at the crack of dawn. It was a Sunday, and most artists—who were, by nature, free sprits—were recovering from a night of indulgence, drinking cheap ale with their fellow creative comrades.

Dante Black pulled the collar of his frock coat about his neck and the curled brim of his hat down to shield his face. It had rained last night, and puddles had collected in the depressions between the cobblestones. He walked swiftly, scanning the street for signs of life. The old boots he was forced to wear had cracks in the leather, and rainwater penetrated the openings and saturated his threadbare stockings.

He swore beneath his breath.

The run-down studio came into view. Dante took the rickety wooden steps to the second floor two at a time. Using a key, he opened the door, which creaked on its hinges as it slowly opened.

Vacant.

He exhaled in relief. Lord, how he hated this place. It was where he met his criminal contact, Robby Bones. Where he received “his lordship’s” orders.

And what good had come of the bloody mess?

Dante had been in hiding since the debacle at the Westley auction. It didn’t matter that his lordship had paid Dante a hefty fee for his underhanded services. Dante could not spend a farthing of the money.

He was a hunted man.

Damn Marcus Hawksley.

Dante shut the door behind him and walked into the room. He took a seat by a crate of dried paint cans. The filth and stink of the room made his skin crawl. He had once been used to fine clothing, food, and wine. Now he scurried about London in hiding like a common street rat and had given up his previous luxuries.

I must stay calm,
Dante thought.
When this ugly business with Hawksley is settled, I will be able to resume my previous lifestyle.

The door creaked once again, and Dante’s head snapped to attention.

Robby Bones entered the room. Lanky and gaunt with greasy black hair shielding his eyes, he walked with a slight limp, and his right boot scraped across the dirty wood floor.

Dante stared beneath lowered lids. The injury was new, and he wondered if it was due to Bones’s criminal activities or from his part-time occupation as a gravedigger.

Robby Bones spotted Dante seated in the corner. He shot Dante a twisted smile, which revealed his tobacco-stained teeth, the front tooth sheared clean in half.

“I ’ave new marchin’ orders for ye, Dante,” Bones said.

Dante stood, his spine stiff. “I’ve done everything asked of me, and I’m in hiding because of it. What else could the man want of me?”

Bones pulled out a cheap cigar from the inside pocket of his coat, bit off the tip, and spit it at Dante’s feet. “Yer in hidin’ because ye failed to ’ave Marcus Hawksley arrested. ’Tis no fault of ’is lordship.” Bones struck a match against a splintered easel and lit the cigar. He blew smoke in Dante’s face.

Dante stood stock still, hatred twisting his innards. “I told you before, the circumstances were beyond my control. The Cameron girl vouched for Hawksley.”

“Ye can fix yer mistake. Get rid of Hawksley fer good. ’Is lordship is willin’ to pay ye more fer yer services.”

A fissure of interest pierced Dante’s wall of reluctance. Despite everything, the prospect of more money appealed to him. “What do I have to do?”

“Move the painting.”

“The Gainsborough painting? To where?”

“To Hawksley’s office.”

“Is he mad?” Dante’s voice rose in surprise. “The
Seashore with Fishermen
is large—over three feet tall and four feet wide. How on earth does he expect me to sneak it into Hawksley’s office unnoticed?”

“Ye ’ave delivered paintings to places of business before. Ye can do it again.”

“Yes, but never one that was stolen, and never when I have been hiding from Hawksley and his hired investigator,” he argued, his voice sounding shrill to his own ears.

Smoke curled around Bones’s face. “’Is lordship ’as faith in ye.”

“Say I do manage to move the painting to Hawksley’s place of business. What purpose will that serve?”

“I’ll make certain Bow Street searches there. When they find the painting, Hawksley will be arrested fer the theft.”

Dante had to give Robby Bones credit. He was a creative criminal.

“But the painting is no longer here,” Dante pointed out. “The last time we met, you said his lordship wanted it and planned to move it.”

“’E did, but it will be returned ’ere. Ye are to wait fer the package to be delivered tomorrow. ’Is lordship wants ye ’ere when it arrives so that ’tis never left alone. Understand?”

With effort, Dante kept his features cool and composed. “This is no easy task. I have to find a way to get the painting inside Hawksley’s office unnoticed. How much will he pay?”

“Ye have already been paid a ’efty fee—”

“How much?”

“Two hundred pounds.”

Two hundred pounds!

Dante licked his lips in anticipation. “Tomorrow then.”