His Mistress by Morning (16 page)

How was it that even the barest hint of his masculine heat left her breathless?

“Well, do you want to see your treasure trove, or not?” he asked.

She shook her head, the key in her hand like a tempting whisper. “Are you telling me this will get us into there?”

He nodded.

She tried to hand it back to him. “I think you’ve gone mad.”

“Not at all.” He bounded down from the carriage and tied the horses up at a hitching post. “Shall we have a go of it?” he asked as he reached up to help her down from her perch.

She leaned back in her seat, now convinced he had gone mad. “Sebastian Marlowe, you’ve gone round the bend. This key won’t open that door,” she said, pointing at the enormous and formidable front doors.

“I never said it would open those doors. I fear, my dear Queen, you must deign yourself to enter from the rear.”

And before she could protest further, he hauled her down, then reached beneath the seat and caught up a box, tucking it beneath his arm.

Frantically, she retrieved Prudence’s boots from the seat, for she still had as yet to put them on. But before she could slip into them, Sebastian was already towing her around the corner of the museum, through a small gate in the fence and into the shadows.

The onetime ducal residence rose up above them, as
lofty and self-important as its former owner, the Duke of Montagu.

A dreamy sense of wonder filled Charlotte’s heart as she padded along in her stocking-clad feet. Certainly Sebastian had gone as mad as Dick’s hatband, but his lunacy was now becoming hers.

“Where are we going?” she asked, as they rounded another corner.

“To the back.”

Yes, well, she’d noticed that much. “Should I point out that it is the middle of the night?” A very Charlotte part of her continued to rebel against this folly. “I suppose it is also beside the point that we haven’t the necessary tickets or permission.”

The gravel path they’d been following stopped before a narrow wooden door tucked in between the shrubbery that lined the museum’s walls.

“Yes, well, it turns out that at night tickets are not required,” he told her, taking her hand and guiding it and the key she held toward the lock. Together they pushed it into the hole, and he turned her hand so the tumblers rattled into place.

She shook her head as the door opened before them. “Heavens, Sebastian! You can’t mean to go in like this? Why, if we are caught, we’ll be in ever so much trouble.”

“Yes, I suppose,” he said, pulling her inside. “But as I said, tonight this is your palace.”

Charlotte still didn’t quite believe it and nearly fainted when a voice from within called out, “Who goes there?”

Sebastian showed no signs of fear but continued into the darkened recesses. Down what appeared to be a hallway sat a single candle, offering a meager hint of light, and hardly all that welcoming.

“I said, who goes there?” the voice called out again, this time as fierce as a bulldog.

Charlotte clung to Sebastian’s sleeve.

“Deetch?” he called out.

“Oh, aye, my lord. Is that you?” the man answered. Suddenly his rough voice sounded a bit more friendly.

Charlotte’s gaze narrowed as she looked from the man beside her to the sturdy-looking fellow in the dark coat. He held a thick cudgel and, while not great of stature, looked capable of using the devilish club with some familiarity.

“Is it as we discussed?” Sebastian said in a low voice.

The man nodded, his beetle brows blending into one thick line. “Oh, aye. Those bottles did the trick. The whole lot of them are half-seas over.” He nodded toward another door. “Don’t even realize they’re locked in.”

“Thank you, Mr. Deetch. I remain in your debt.”

“Never mind that, milord. Let us say you have repaid me quite handily,” the man said, rubbing his breast pocket, a glint of avarice sparking in his eyes. He handed over a small brace of candles and pointed down the hall. “’Tis yours for the night, milord.”

“Whatever have you done?” Charlotte whispered to Sebastian as he pulled her past a grinning Mr. Deetch.

“Nothing so alarming,” he said, holding the candle aloft and leading her further into the darkened museum. “I donated a case of French brandy to these poorly paid and oft-neglected fellows who spend their nights guarding these hallowed halls.” He grinned. “An act of charity, a moment of indulgence on behalf of the arts, as it were.”

“You got the guards drunk?” Incredulous at such a notion, she took another look back down the hall at a smug-looking Deetch.

“Yes. But never fear, I stole the case from Rockhurst’s
cellars. And happily for us, their palate isn’t too discerning.”

“What about this Mr. Deetch?”

“Seems the fellow isn’t as inclined to drink as his compatriots. Prefers a small donation in a more solid form.”

Gold. Visions of a grinning Sebastian as he’d collected his winnings from Merrick filled her mind. “You bribed him?”

“Exactly!” he declared. “I told you this evening was going to be edifying, and so it is.”

They made their way up a narrow staircase. Without missing a step, Sebastian pushed the door open and led her into the grand Townley Gallery, which had been added to the back of Montagu House two years earlier.

There were candles alight here and there, just enough to give a bit of light, but not so much to call attention from outside as to this clandestine viewing.

Charlotte drew in a deep breath. Prudence’s sensible boots fell from her hands, and her mouth opened in a most unladylike fashion. “Oh, my!” she finally managed to gasp.

Down either side of the room stood ancient statue after ancient statue. Gods and goddesses captured for all eternity in these prisons of perfectly wrought marble. It was as if Sebastian had given her the key not to the museum but to Mount Olympus.

He came up behind her, his hands resting easily on her shoulders. “Your heart’s desire, Lottie,” he whispered into her ear before he nudged her forward. “Indulge that secret bluestocking of yours.”

With eyes shining with tears she couldn’t explain, Charlotte ventured into the museum. Her steps, at first
hesitant and tentative, traced a wary path down the middle of the long hall.

“In that dress, you look like you’ve just escaped from one of these pedestals,” he said from where he lounged against a wall.

She glanced over her shoulder. “I hardly think so—”

“I do.”

Charlotte might have argued the fact further if a simple, yet elegant, sculpture hadn’t caught her eye. “The greyhounds!” she called. “Oh, look, they are as dear and quaint as—” She’d been about to say “as Hermione told me,” but she stopped herself. “As I read in the guidebook.”

“I still don’t believe you have the guidebook,” he said.

“Well, I do,” she declared, hoping she didn’t have to prove the point—for the book was inscribed “From Hermione to my dearest friend, Charlotte,” and more to the point, she’d kept it under her mattress at Queen Street lest her mother find the scandalous book.

Sebastian came alongside her. He’d set his mysterious box down behind him. “Friendly-looking fellows,” he agreed, looking down at the pair of dogs, one licking the other’s ear in companionable friendship. “And more manageable, I’d suppose, than that brindled elephant Rockhurst calls a hound.” He shook his head. “Wonder what had Rowan so out of sorts at you yesterday. Usually can’t keep him from falling at your feet and acting like a besotted puppy.”

“Strange, yes,” she agreed, her fingers twining around the ring on her hand. She moved down a few more steps while he went across the room.

“Now here’s a horse for you, Lottie,” he called out.

She joined him at a marble relief depicting a nude
young man trying to restrain a rearing horse. “Yes, I think I would have wagered on that one!”

He leaned back. “The horse or the young man?”

“You are wicked,” she said, nudging him. “That is art.”

“So says Arbuckle when he’s leering at you with a brush in hand,” Sebastian shot back.

This wasn’t the first time she’d heard that tone from him. “You don’t like Mr. Arbuckle all that much, do you?”

He shrugged. “He’s fine enough. But when he starts painting you—”

“What?”

Sebastian’s jaw worked back and forth before he said, “It’s as if he’s trying to steal a part of your heart for himself.”

“No one can do that,” she said, catching hold of his hand and squeezing it tight. “My heart belongs only to you.”

He nodded and leaned over to kiss her forehead. Then they continued through the gallery, admiring Sir Charles Townley’s infamous collection.

“Now here’s a pretty bit,” he said, holding up a lantern to illuminate the bust of a woman. “She looks like you.”

Charlotte blushed. “This must be Clytie.” She walked around the pedestal. “Townley called her ‘his wife.’ During the riots, when he had to flee his house, he took her over any other piece in his collection.”

“Probably because she didn’t nag him overmuch.”

“Do stop teasing,” Charlotte chided him. “I think she looks sad. Such a wistful expression.”

“Perhaps she had your kind heart,” he murmured in her ear.

They moved further down the hall, hand in hand, until they got to the prize of the collection.

“The Venus! Oh, look Sebastian, here is Townley’s Venus,” she whispered, looking up at the elegant lady. Charlotte couldn’t help but think she’d never seen anything so lovely.

The amazing statue stopped even Sebastian’s glib tongue.

So much so that when she turned to ask him what he thought of it, he’d retreated down the hall to fetch his mysterious box.

He returned with not only it, but an extra brace of candles. “Stand right where you are.”

“Whatever for?”

He knelt down before the box and started to unpack it. “I intend to sketch you both. Townley’s Venus and my Aphrodite.”

“Sketch me?” Charlotte said, glancing from the graceful goddess behind her to the man before her. “You draw?”

“Yes,” he said, as he sorted out a sketchpad, pencils, and a rag. “Been a while, but I’m not half bad.” He glanced up at her. “I’m no Arbuckle, but I think I know my subject well enough.” At this he grinned, and Charlotte couldn’t help herself; she blushed.

He certainly did—every inch of her. Then she looked back at the Venus again. “You don’t expect me to…” She waved her hands at the lady’s naked torso, draped only from her waist down.

Sebastian settled down on the floor with his sketchbook propped up on his knees. “Whyever not? You do it for Arbuckle.”

“I-I-I—” she stammered. Oh, dear, how could she argue
with that? “What if one of the guards came along, or…”

To her relief, he laughed. “Don’t get into such a state. I actually prefer you just as you are. That dress is perfect, as is your hair. Makes a nice contrast.” Then he nodded at one of the lamps. “Put that one over there, if you would please, closer to the pedestal so it casts a shadow up on the wall.”

She did as she was bid, then stood nervously to one side. “I didn’t know you liked to draw.”

“Seems I have a few secrets of my own.” He rose and came over to her. He eyed the statue, then moved Charlotte slightly to one side of it, tipping her head to make it look as if she were gazing up at it. “Perfect!”

He rushed back to his tools and set to work.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Charlotte turned her head toward him, and he shook his pencil at her to return to her pose.

“Have you ever asked?” he said, drawing quickly and only sparing her a few short glances.

Obviously not. “But your—” Again Charlotte stopped herself. She couldn’t tell him that of all the times Hermione had catalogued his virtues and sins for her, she’d never mentioned that he had an artistic bent. “Does anyone know?”

Sebastian stopped. “You mean like, Miss Burke?”

“No, not her,” Charlotte said quickly, dismissing the girl altogether. She had to imagine a proper young lady like Miss Lavinia Burke wouldn’t approve of an artistic husband. “I mean, like your mother or your sisters?”

He shook his head. “My family isn’t overly fond of the arts.”

And Charlotte realized that in their other world, Lady Walbrook would have made much of his proficiency and
pestered him incessantly about it. No wonder no one knew.

But that he was sharing it with her said much.

Charlotte snuck another glance in his direction and as she spied the delight in his eyes as he drew, it struck her—she’d been in love with Sebastian Marlowe all those years and never really even known the man. Oh, she’d had a good understanding of his outward character—his loyalty to his family, his overriding sense of duty and honor, but there was so much more to the man—to anyone, she supposed—than met the eye.

In the past two days she’d discovered a Sebastian she doubted she would have ever found in her old Mayfair existence. Even if he had deigned to look in her direction and court her, they would have continued as virtual strangers until the day they’d wed. And even then, would he have taken her to the races? Danced with her so scandalously? Sketched her thusly?

Charlotte snuck another glance in his direction and smiled to herself. She’d been able to discover a Sebastian that not even Lottie knew.

“Seems I’m not the only who sought their heart’s desire tonight,” she said.

He chuckled. “I suppose you’ve caught me. I never could get much past you. Now hold still and let me finish. We haven’t much time, and I don’t know when we’ll ever have such an opportunity again.”

“Would you rather have had some bauble? Diamonds for your retirement?” Sebastian asked a few hours later as he drove her home.

She shook off the drowsy, sleepy languor surrounding her and said, “No.” Leaning her head on his shoulder,
she sighed. “Never diamonds. For tonight you gave me something no one else would ever have done for me.”

He grinned, a foolish sort of expression that spoke of his exuberant pride in his accomplishment. It was boyish and teasing and, most importantly, full of love.

Her wish really had come true, Charlotte realized. Up until this very moment, a very bluestocking, ever-the-wallflower, spinsterly part of her heart hadn’t quite believed that Sebastian Marlowe could truly love her. That is to say, the Charlotte part of her.