Nicole Jordan (16 page)

“I would be happy to spell you,” Diana said with a genuine smile.

“Excellent. I will have Jives fetch your baggage along with Amy’s.” A mischievous twinkle lit the countess’s hazel eyes as she added, “You may visit your studio now, Miss Sheridan, but when you return, I will expect a full accounting of your betrothal.”

Diana winced inwardly, but managed to reply with a gracious, “Of course.”

Accompanied by Thorne, she returned to the street, where his carriage waited, along with an entire dray loaded with trunks.

Diana had to sort out which ones contained their new wardrobes, and which contained her art supplies and the paintings she’d made, to have them delivered to her studio.

When she was finally settled in the carriage again with Thorne, she gave him a quelling frown. “You could have warned me. You asked your aunt to invite me to stay with her, didn’t you?”

“I might have suggested the arrangement, but I left it to her to make the offer. You don’t want to live there?”

“It isn’t that.” Still frowning, Diana turned to gaze out the carriage window.

She had been eager to set up her own residence in a quiet street, yet not simply to have a studio where she could work. For the first time in all her twenty-four years, she wanted to live in her own home. A place that belonged solely to her, where she would no longer be the dependent orphaned relation, living on the goodwill of relatives, no matter how dear. Where she would have the freedom of not being judged. Where finally her life would be her own.

But mostly it was her pride that was smarting. She disliked suffering anyone’s charity, and Lady Hennessy’s offer was extremely charitable. But then, Diana reminded herself, she was in no position to refuse. Indeed, she should appreciate such kindness.

“It will be better,” Thorne observed, “for both you and Amy if you’re quartered with my aunt. Her sponsorship will cloak you in a positive fog of respectability.”

“I know, and I am grateful to her.” Diana shrugged off her frustration. “And truly, I didn’t want to leave Amy behind in someone else’s hands. I felt like a mother hen forsaking my chick. But I consoled myself that she would have to leave the nest sometime, and that I could rely on your aunt to manage her. And John Yates promised to look in on Amy from time to time.”

“Now you won’t have to forsake her. It also seems fortuitous that your studio is not too distant from my aunt’s house—less than a mile, I believe. Still, you will need your own carriage to travel back and forth.”

“I had planned to hire my own carriage, thank you.”

“I can handle hiring one for you.”

Diana gave him a cool glance. “I see the wisdom of accepting your aunt’s charity, Thorne, but I do not require yours.”

His green-gold eyes considered her for a moment. “You needn’t be so prickly, my dear dragon,” he finally said. “Charity has nothing to do with my offer. Even if I didn’t feel obliged to Nathaniel to see you safely settled, as your betrothed, I have a duty to ensure your protection. We’re pretending to have a love match, remember? My aunt was entirely correct. The gossip rags will be full of on-dits about us just now, so keeping up appearances is imperative. The harpies will tear you to shreds if they see a chink in our story.”

Diana’s gaze slid uncomfortably away from his. She had read compassion there, as if he understood her wounded pride. “You are right, of course,” she conceded.

After that they maintained a mutual silence until they drew up before a modest, three-story house on Hawlings Street. The residence belonged to a friend of her drawing master, a man who was also an artist but who had recently retired to the country. It was equipped with a spacious studio on the upper floor, and Diana had hired it this past February, within minutes of laying eyes on it.

When she was escorted up the front steps by Thorne, she was greeted by the cheerful housekeeper, who headed the small staff of servants that had already settled in.

The main floor held a pleasant parlor, dining room, servants’ quarters, and kitchens; the second floor, bedchambers and a sizable drawing room for entertaining guests.

After viewing the lower floors, Thorne asked to see the studio, so Diana led him up another flight of stairs. The studio was actually two rooms: The main one was huge, with tall, north-facing windows to provide ample light and filled with various kinds of furniture and props—to serve as backdrops, Diana explained. The other smaller room was used as a storeroom for more props and supplies and finished paintings.

When Thorne asked about all the paper-wrapped bundles he saw in the storeroom, Diana answered, “I had a number of my paintings shipped to London, so that I might show them during my interview with the British Academy for the Fine Arts.”

“Will you allow me to see those?”

“Someday, if you wish.”

“I do wish.”

She led him back to the main studio, then shut the door behind her. Since Thorne had stopped to study the odd assortment of props, Diana nearly ran into him.

When he turned instinctively and grasped her upper arms to steady her, her breath faltered. This was the closest they had come to intimacy since their fateful hour when she had painted him half-nude.

Suddenly the air between them was rife with sensual tension; they both felt it.

Diana went still, afraid to move. Thorne was gazing down at her with an intent look in his eyes that made her wonder if he meant to kiss her. She shivered, keenly aware of the rich, disturbing promise of his mouth.

His beautiful mouth.

She stared at it, vividly recalling their last intimate conversation. Thorne had described in sensual detail how his mouth could arouse her if he kissed her between her thighs. How she could arouse herself by pretending
his
hands were caressing her rather than her own.

She hadn’t dared entertain his scandalous suggestion of arousing herself, for fear that such a wanton act would only increase her longing for him. But just now the image filled her mind, of them lying nude together as lovers while Thorne initiated her to the pleasures he had depicted.

She suspected he was picturing the same titillating images as she, yet he was the first to break the silence—by roughly clearing his throat. “Well then, I will take my leave. I’ll have a hired carriage sent round to return you to my aunt’s house when you are ready.”

“Thank you. Thorne?” she added when he turned to go. “What will you do about Nathaniel?”

“I told you, I mean to investigate his death.”

“I know, but what precisely do you mean to
do
? Venus is a Cyprian, I gathered from his letter.”

She thought at first Thorne didn’t intend to answer. But then he replied with evident reluctance. “A rather successful Cyprian, actually. She owns a fashionable sin club near Mayfair.”

“A sin club?”

“Where gentlemen go to indulge in various carnal delights. Not the sort of establishment to be discussed with a lady like yourself.”

“Oh.” His explanation brought a flush of color to Diana’s cheeks, and an instant stab of jealousy to her breast, as she pictured Thorne indulging in the delights he spoke of.

But then she knew he was a highly physical man. And it was really none of her concern what members of the demimonde he chose to consort with. No doubt he had his pick of “fashionable impures,” as they were termed. He might even keep a mistress here in London, Diana realized with another pang of distress.

As for sin clubs, ladies did not acknowledge that such places even existed. Very likely Thorne had mentioned it purposely to put her off, so he wouldn’t have to answer the probing questions she was longing to ask. He obviously didn’t want her to know anything about his plans to investigate.

She was no longer even certain she wanted to know, since she suspected he would begin by visiting Venus’s sin club. Yet she did have one concern that she couldn’t repress.

“Will you please be careful?” Diana murmured, gazing up at him. “If Nathaniel was murdered, it is possible that you could be also.”

His mouth curled in his familiar reckless grin. “I could almost believe you care about me, love.”

“Of course I care.”

“Don’t worry, I am difficult to kill.”

He left her gazing solemnly after him and made his way out to his waiting carriage, relieved to have escaped. He didn’t want Diana questioning his plans, for fear of her learning about the Guardians. He didn’t want to be alone with her, either, for fear of losing his control.

His mind persisted in harboring fantasies of her. He’d experienced another erotic one just now, where he had savagely covered her kissable lips while he pinned her up against the wall and drove his aching flesh into the hot slick depths of her.

Fiend seize it!
That woman was supremely dangerous to him, in more ways than one.

Unfortunately, Thorne acknowledged sardonically as he settled back against the leather seat cushions, he had always craved danger.

Perhaps that was why he craved Diana Sheridan like a starving man hungered for sustenance.

Thorne took the time to visit his house in Cavendish Square, arranged to hire a town carriage for Diana, perused some correspondence that had accumulated in his two-month absence, then changed his clothes for something less elegant, and rode out again, hunting a certain set of lodgings in Mayfair.

Since he was well known there, he was readily admitted by the servants. Finding Macky’s bedchamber dark even though the afternoon was well advanced, Thorne forcibly curbed his impatience and settled in a wing chair to wait for the slumbering man to become aware of his visitor.

It did not take long. One moment Macky was snoring softly, his head buried under a pillow. The next he was sitting bolt upright in bed, a dagger clutched in his fist while his bloodshot blue eyes intently scanned the chamber, searching for danger.

When they lit on Thorne, Macky fell back among the pillows with a relieved chuckle and shut his eyes again.

“Rough night?” Thorne asked.

Grimacing, Macky rubbed his stubbled jaw and returned a slow grin, as if remembering fondly. “Devil a bit.”

“I gather you managed to secure a position at Venus’s club?”

“Surely you didn’t think I would fail? Where is your faith, m’lord?”

Thorne had had every faith Macky would succeed in his mission. Beau Macklin was a former provincial actor turned Guardian. Born in the stews of London, he’d spent the early years of his youth as a pickpocket, miraculously escaping a life of crime when he was taken up by a traveling theater company after trying to steal the manager’s pocket watch.

A few years older than Thorne’s age of thirty-one, Macky was tall and muscular, with curling chestnut hair and a handsome visage. With his flair for accents, he was capable of playing numerous characters, anything from ruffian to bruiser to nobleman. The role of “gallant” was his favorite, for even ladies far above his class fell for his roguish charm with laughable ease.

His most usual guise these days was that of a gentleman about town. Thus, in order to be hired as an employee of Venus’s sin club, his social status had to have been lowered several notches.

Macky, however, didn’t seem to mind the demotion, Thorne judged from the man’s crooked grin.

“I confess I was surprised to get your orders,” Macky admitted as he sat up again respectfully, “but it has turned out to be a most pleasurable assignment, if I do say so.”

“So Venus accepted you without suspicion?”

“Entirely. You know the design of the club. The male attendants are not the prime attraction—present more for show than for sport. But I’ve worked there five nights now, and four of those nights, my services were solicited by a female patron. If this assignment continues, it may well put me in an early grave, but I vow I could die a happy man.”

Thorne gave a slow chuckle. “You cannot expire just yet, my friend. Not until you have some results to show for your efforts. Have you made any progress becoming acquainted with Venus’s regular employees?”

“A very little. Madam Venus was quite clear when she hired me. Her male attendants are not allowed to fraternize with her girls. But I’ve made a friend of one particular beauty by the name of Kitty. She’s a bit on the shy side, but she has worked there longer than most. If anyone knows Venus’s secrets, it might be Kitty.”

“What about the men?”

“Most of them are relative newcomers. It seems common practice for them to attract the eye of a patron and move on to a more private arrangement, possibly even marriage. I approached the club’s two bruisers, all friendly-like, but I doubt I can inspire them to confide in me, since they seem very dedicated to the madam.”

“Well, do your best,” Thorne urged. “I’m most interested in discovering if Venus had any connection to the late Thomas Forrester.”

“So your orders said. Do you think it likely?”

“My gut tells me so. It’s just too much of a coincidence that Forrester was seeking a list of Guardians barely a few months after Nathaniel began suspecting Venus of trying to expose our identities to the French.”

Frowning, Macky eyed Thorne with curiosity. “You didn’t ask me to pursue Forrester’s trail this time.”

“No. I’m leaving that for John Yates to handle. He accompanied me from Cyrene.”

Macky nodded. “Since Yates became Sir Gawain’s secretary, I regularly get dispatches from him, but I’ve only met him once, and that was before he lost a leg, poor bastard. I suppose he wants to make up for being duped by Forrester’s spies last fall?”

“In part. And he wants justice for Nathaniel,” Thorne added grimly, “as I do. Yates will be a better executor, though, for this particular task. He isn’t well known in London, as I am. It would seem highly odd if I started asking questions in that part of town.”

“After half a year, Forrester’s trail will be damned cold. I already investigated every lead I could find. When he died in that fire last fall, he took his secrets with him.”

“But once you learned of his death, you didn’t look much further. I want Yates to dig deeper this time, try to find anything you might have missed. He’s to start by interviewing Forrester’s neighbors—making up a tale about Forrester being a long-lost relative who’s come into a fortune. The scent of riches may bring a few rats scurrying out of the woodwork.”