Artful Deceptions (6 page)

Rhys watched him go with a glare that had nothing to do with the company of the young woman presently trying to climb onto his lap. It didn’t take a blind man to notice that Galen had chosen the one woman in this place that resembled Lady Melanie Griffin. Rhys wanted to reach up and grab the other man’s collar and jerk him back for a serious blow to the jaw.

The irrationality of that thought brought Rhys to his senses. There was absolutely no resemblance between that prostitute and his best friend’s sweet-natured sister. The fact that Galen had gone off with the best-looking whore in the house was scarcely unusual. Rhys had never particularly resented Locke’s easy charm and wealth. Actually, he liked the man, as much as he could like the man who would no doubt marry Lady Melanie. Doubtless Evan and Gordon felt the same way. It was a damn good thing that he had no younger sister of his own. A damn good thing.

With that return of his own problem, Rhys abruptly set his disappointed companion back to the floor and rose. There was no point in wasting good coins tonight when he was only in a mood to punch and throttle. He would do better to clear his head in the night air.

It was a long walk back to his rooms near the market at St. James’s, but he needed the exercise to work off his anger. Not that anything ever completely disposed of it. It was just that sight of that painting had stirred up old injustices and hurts, pains he had thought long since buried under acceptance. And after seeing that painting, he could never completely accept again.

He would have to do something about it. He could no longer go on believing what he had been told. When he was younger, it had been emotion that had led him to deny what they said. Over the years, their reason and logic and evidence had won out. But now there was one bit of evidence to support his soul’s howling fury. One tiny little shred to give him the impetus he needed.

He had gone screaming off to war last time, but a quick and merciful death had been denied him. Now, faced with the reality of a long life stretching ahead of him, a life that he had never expected to face, Rhys could not do it without knowing in his heart that it was the life he was meant to live.

He had learned to live without fine wine and elegant food during the war. Uniforms had easily replaced fashionable clothes. And when they had become little more than tatters, anything at all had been comfort enough. So he fitted well enough into his life now, content with a full belly and a warm coat on his back. He could do it without complaint.

But the life that he had lost still nagged him. Remembering an enchanting face, a lilting smile, a soft hand, he groaned, and walked faster. There were women enough in the workaday world that he frequented now. Few had the charm and education that wealth could bring, but there were certain to be a few good sober women he could choose among. Supporting a wife might be some difficulty for a while to come. His writing might bring in an extra pound or two, enough for a wife. But of necessity, children followed acquiring a wife, and he would have to think about that for a while.

But he didn’t have to think for long. His feet had already carried him past his lodging and into streets that he had come to know this week. As Rhys recognized where he was unconsciously heading, his thoughts took a relieved upswing.

He could ask for no finer lady. She was as sensible as he, had an eager intelligence that he craved, and she had no better expectations than he did. He had deliberately kept her at a distance, as he did with everyone now, but in this case there was no real need for it. She would not expect to be kept in grand style, nor would she look for a title. She might, perhaps, require an honest name, but he had a feeling Miss Arianne Richards might be a little more open-minded than the
haut ton,
even if his search could not provide one. She would give him the purpose that he needed to root out the truth. For her sake, he would find out once and for all who was the liar and who was the bastard.

* * * *

A row appeared to be in the making when he knocked on the panel door to the Richards home. Rhys hesitated, but now that he had made up his mind, nothing would stop him. He brought the knocker down firmly, and was rewarded with an Indian war whoop on the other side.

A moment later the door flew open and a carrot-haired youngster gave what could only be a death cry, but the vowels and consonants came together in such a manner as to be almost a name. Or a chant. The boy certainly didn’t look to be in the throes of death as he grinned and flew down the hall, leaving the door open and Rhys standing on the step.

A stampede of feet clattered through some distant room, a cat appeared and wrapped itself around his ankles, and a lanky man wearing spectacles and a bemused expression on his face appeared at the rear of the hall. Somewhat intimidated by this chaos after his own quiet quarters, Rhys removed his hat and contemplated disappearing into the night. Only the fact that the man in the hall had finally discovered him kept him from carrying through his retreat.

Before the gentleman could come forward, a rush of skirts sounded on the stairway between them, and a pert brunette bounced a curtsy as she reached the bottom. From above, a boyish voice piped, “I told you so!” and the little lady suddenly turned hoyden by sticking her tongue out at her unseen antagonist.

The gentleman finally made it close enough to replace his daughter and offer a proper greeting. “Good evening, sir. How may I help you?”

Deciding this had to be the elusive father who was never at home or never appeared whenever he had come to the door, Rhys held out his hand. “Rhys Llewellyn, sir. I know it is an improper time, but I had hoped I might see Miss Richards for a moment. There was a matter we were discussing earlier, and I have come to give her the settling of it.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Llewellyn. Arianne seems to have a quantity of suitors at the door recently. Won’t you please come in? Llewellyn. Why does that name sound familiar?” Vaguely making way for the visitor but not indicating the direction of the parlor, Mr. Richards puzzled over the name while his younger daughter dutifully opened the room reserved for visitors and ran to fetch Rainy.

“I have had an article or two appear in the
Gazette
and the
Times.
Perhaps that is what you are remembering.”

Richards made an indecipherable noise resembling “hmpf” and stood in the parlor doorway shaking his head. “Never read them. Useless lot. Well, it will come to me. Good to meet you. If you ever have any artwork you wish appraised or cleaned, remember me. Good evening to you.” With that, he ambled out and back down the hall, leaving Rhys standing in bewilderment in the musty front parlor.

Arianne rescued him some minutes later. Wearing her chestnut hair in soft curls over her ears, undisguised by bonnet or hat, she had the fresh, clean-faced appearance that Rhys needed after his visit to the bawdy house. She hastily lit a few lamps until the room took on a respectable golden hue and sent dancing highlights through the rather daunting blue of her eyes. Rhys knew at once that he had made the right decision, and he gave a smile of relief as she welcomed him at this hour without question.

“I wish we were somewhere that I could take you walking through the gardens. It is a night not to be wasted, and it could only be enhanced by your presence.”

Startled, Arianne studied her caller a little more closely. Rhys was obviously garbed for the evening. In his navy-blue long-tailed coat and white linen and gloves, he appeared every inch the gentleman, though the kind light of the lamp undoubtedly disguised the worn and mended places in his attire. But his swarthy face wore a look on it that she had never seen there before, and from the sound of his words she rather thought he’d had a little too much wine with his dinner.

But he did not seem at all dangerous, and she was more flattered than not. With a gesture of her hand she indicated the door. “Perhaps the night air would be refreshing. We are blessed with a small kitchen garden that promises a rose or two for future table settings, if you do not mind using the back door.”

“I am no stranger to back doors, I can assure you. Shall we promenade around the walk, then?”

Rhys held out his arm and Arianne took it, and with all the dignity of a couple descending into an elegant ballroom, they made their way through the dark hall, past the butler’s pantry and the back stairs to the kitchens, and out into the night.

Lacking any need for mews or carriage houses in this section of the city, the narrow alley between the buildings on one street and the one behind it had been converted to an assortment of uses. Someone had made a feeble attempt to erect a fence and convert this small patch of dirt into a living garden, not an easy task given the lack of light and air, not to mention arable ground. But in the dark, the attempt was successful enough, giving the impression of bushes in the rear and the scent of herbs underfoot. Arianne drew in a deep breath of air, trying not to cough as the wind carried a strong scent of sewage and coal smoke to fill the lungs.

“Have you ever lived in the country, Miss Richards?”

“For a while, when I was very young. My parents come from Bristol, but I was barely more than six when they moved here. City life is all I know. This garden is my mother’s attempt to keep a piece of the country with her.”

“You would not miss the hustle and bustle of the city should your parents decide to move back?”

“My father will never leave here, but I have always wished we could go somewhere where the air is fresh and clean for the summer months, as so many do. It must be nice to own the luxury of two houses. I would not wish the responsibility that accompanies them, I suppose. One household is more than enough to run.” The dry tone of Arianne’s voice indicated the difficulties involved.

“I would like to return to the country someday. It is a dream I might manage with a little hard work and time. But there is something I need to do right now, and it is going to take me out of the city for a little while. I have spoken to Locke about your painting, and he is to do with it as he thinks best. Whatever happens, will you allow me to call on you when I return?”

So many words at once from the taciturn writer. Arianne looked up where the stars ought to be, but they were eclipsed by roofs and houses. Perhaps his perception of the word “call” was different from hers. One paid morning calls, to be sure. But did a gentleman “call” on a lady to whom he did not mean to pay suit? She wasn’t in society much, but it seemed there were many interpretations to the word. It was only her own longing for company that made more of it than it was.

“By all means, Mr. Llewellyn. How long will you be gone? Or do you know? I shall rather miss our meetings.”

Those were encouraging words. Rhys couldn’t see much of her face in this light, but her voice was low and pleasant, and he liked the welcoming sound of it. “I shall try to make it as short as possible so you do not forget me. I’ve not had time to say my good-byes to Lady Melanie, if you would forward them for me.”

Arianne turned to face him in the dark, hearing something much like wistfulness in his voice. He must be alone in the world. It would be a terrible thing to be alone. As much as she cursed her younger brothers and sister, she would not do without them. “I’ll deliver the message with your regards. I’m certain she will miss your company also. Come back safely.”

He hesitated, then daringly, letting the wine speak, Rhys said, “There are things about me that you don’t know, that I can’t tell you without bringing shame to those who were once dear to me. I’m hoping to rectify some of that situation with my journey. Do you think ...? Could you possibly ...? I am not a whole man, but you know that. Does the thought put you off?”

Silently Arianne contemplated the dark face turned in her direction. Her heart had begun an erratic beat, but her head remained clear. Still, her reply was not a sensible one. “Could you kiss me? I have never been kissed, you know. I would rather like to know what it is like.”

Rattled by this announcement, Rhys took a step closer. A woman who had never been kissed was beyond the realm of his experience. But he rather liked the thought of it. And he definitely liked the idea that she had asked him to be the one to teach her. No shy miss, this. Miss Arianne Richards looked at the world through the same practical lens as he. She was overwhelmingly suitable and no doubt too good for a reprobate such as he. But he would try to earn her respect.

Gently Rhys touched a rough hand to her cheek, holding her safely in his palm while he bent to place an innocent peck on her lips. Her response was fluid and immediate, and he had some difficulty stepping away as a gentleman should when the kiss deepened into more than a promise.

When their lips finally parted, Arianne stared at Rhys blankly, feeling the heat and texture of him imprinted on her lips, absorbing the sense of wine and masculine musk and male linen. Men were very different creatures indeed, but she thought she might come to like the difference.

“Hurry back,” she whispered.

“You will be the first to know.” Not trusting himself more, Rhys whirled on his heel and started for the door. He had caused enough chaos for one night. Better to let it rest until he knew more.

Chapter Five

The furious pounding at the front door sent Arianne flying down the stairs. After the event of last evening, she wasn’t at all certain that she was coming or going, but her heart pounded almost as loudly as the knocker when she ran to answer it. Perhaps Rhys had had second thoughts and returned to speak with her more freely. Perhaps he had come to ask her to fly away with him. Twenty-one years of secret romantic dreaming easily burgeoned into the improbable after one night beneath the stars.

Her shock at seeing both Melanie and Lord Locke at this early hour was nearly as great as it would have been had it actually been Rhys with coach and four waiting to spirit her away. Lord Locke’s normally elegant composure appeared sadly ruffled. Although his clothes were of their usual excellent fashion, fitting superbly to wide shoulders and falling in uncreased lines to his exquisitely polished boots, his cravat was not quite correct, his hat seemed to be missing, and his waistcoat and coat were unbuttoned. There was the slightest indication of puffiness beneath his eyes, as if he had not slept long, and his hair was not its usual masterpiece of perfection. In fact, a blond curl fell rather awkwardly across his forehead.