The Art of Sinning (26 page)

So she was caught entirely off guard when a tiny, birdlike woman with graying auburn hair came tripping down the steps to greet them, wreathed in smiles.

“Jeremy!” she cried. “My dear boy!”

As he caught her up in a hug, a strange mix of affection and worry suffused his features. “I'm so glad you're here, Mother.”

The sentiment sounded genuine, which perplexed Yvette even more. Was he at odds with his family or not?

At the moment, she would say “not,” since his eyes misted over as he squeezed his mother tight. It was a very sweet scene. Even Mr. Bonnaud, who'd come out to join them, wore a smile, and Miss Keane, who stood up the steps a short distance, was wiping her eyes.

It dawned on Yvette how long eight months must have felt like to Jeremy's family. She couldn't imagine being away from Edwin for so long. It had been hard enough to cut Samuel from her life.

Unlike Jeremy's sister yesterday, his mother didn't chide him when he finally released her. She just patted his cheek fondly, then pulled back to look over Yvette and Edwin, who'd instinctively drawn nearer each other.

“And this must be Lord Blakeborough and his sister.” Mrs. Keane's blue eyes were keen and quick as she stared at them. “Amanda told me all about you both, about how courteous you were to her yesterday. And it's most kind of you, my lord, to hire my son to paint for you.”

The way she spoke of her son's work as if he were
some sort of housepainter made even Mr. Bonnaud blink. Yvette cast a furtive glance at Jeremy, but he merely rolled his eyes. Undoubtedly he was used to his mother's remarks.

His sister came to her mother's side. “Mama, he was commissioned to do a portrait of Lady Yvette. It's rather more important than you make it sound.”

“Oh! A commission, is it? I suppose that
is
quite grand.” Her gaze narrowed on her son. “And he only had to travel to England to get it. Fancy that.”

Yvette choked down a laugh. Ah,
now
came the chiding.

“Mama, please,” Miss Keane murmured. “Don't be rude.”

“Is it rude to ask why my only son is gadding about the world without a word to his mother for months at a time?”

“It isn't rude,” Jeremy drawled, “but I would prefer that you wait to flay me with your tongue until after I introduce you to my new fiancée.” He reached back to take Yvette's hand and draw her forward. “Mother, may I present Lady Yvette, the woman who just yesterday afternoon consented to be my wife.”

Though Mr. Bonnaud appeared to take the an­­nouncement in stride, Miss Keane and her mother looked utterly shocked. The reactions of the two women worried Yvette until his mother murmured, “Does she know about—”

“Hannah? Yes.”

Yvette released a pent-up breath. That explained their reactions. If even Jeremy's London relations were unaware he was a widower, then his family would be justified in thinking he'd told no one else.

“Who's Hannah?” Edwin hissed beside her.

Yvette groaned. She'd forgotten to tell her brother, and apparently it hadn't come up in his discussion with Jeremy yesterday. “I'll explain later,” she whispered as his mother came toward her.

The tiny creature fixed her with a steely gaze reminiscent of her son's. “So you're going to marry my rascal son, are you? Do you know what you're getting into, my lady?”

“I think so, yes,” she said warily. “My other brother is a rascal, so I've had some experience in dealing with the breed. Indeed, I would venture to say that half the men in the
ton
are rascals, yet I manage to annoy them more than they annoy me.”

Mrs. Keane blinked, then burst into laughter. “I see. Then it appears my son has found a woman who can keep up with him for once.” She held out her hands. “Welcome to the family, my dear.”

Relief coursed through Yvette as she took the woman's hands and squeezed them. “Thank you, Mrs. Keane. I hope we can be friends.”

“I have no doubt of that. I can use an ally in my fight to tame my son.”

“God, Mother, I'm not that bad,” he grumbled.

“You're worse, usually.” Drawing Yvette from Jeremy's side with surprising strength for one so small, Mrs. Keane tucked Yvette's hand in the crook of her arm. “Now, come inside and let's have some refreshments while you and Jeremy tell me all about how you came to be engaged.”

Oh, dear. That would be quite an interesting conversation. So much to say. So much to leave out.

But before they could go more than two steps up,
Jeremy stalked ahead to block their path. “Yvette hasn't had a moment to herself since yesterday, Mother, so we're carrying her to the earl's town house to rest while he and I and Bonnaud head off to attend to a business matter. But we'll all join you for dinner. Assuming that Bonnaud doesn't mind having two more guests thrust upon him.”

“Zoe is always delighted to show off her hostess skills, I assure you,” Mr. Bonnaud said with a smile.

“Actually,” Yvette put in, “I don't mind just staying here while the three of you go take care of matters.” She patted Mrs. Keane's arm. “I'd like to become better acquainted with my future relations.”

The look of alarm that crossed Jeremy's face gave her pause, but it vanished quickly, making her wonder if she'd imagined it.

“Of course,” he said coolly. “I merely thought you might like to nap since you were run ragged yesterday.”

“I can nap later.” With a smile, Yvette teased, “Your mother and sister and I have to plot a wedding. That will require all three of us.”

“And several shopping trips to Bond Street, though we won't tackle those today.” His mother made a shooing motion. “So go handle your business affairs. But don't be too long, unless you want to have no voice in the plans. If you keep avoiding your family, you may find yourself with a wedding full of all the sentimental nonsense you've mocked for years.”

“Horrors,” Edwin mumbled. “Come, gentlemen, we'd better go. Knowing my sister, she'll be plotting an extravagant affair in St. Paul's Cathedral, which
will cost me a pretty penny. The sooner we head that off, the better.”

Jeremy hesitated, but he clearly knew when he was outnumbered. Muttering something that sounded remarkably like “Shit and damn,” he marched down the steps and got into the carriage with Edwin and Mr. Bonnaud.

Yvette certainly hoped his mother's ears weren't as good as hers.

“I don't know about you,” Mrs. Keane said, gesturing up the steps, “but I'm ready for a cup of tea. And Zoe is dying to question you about my son's behavior when he's a guest at others' houses. Besides, she'll want to be part of the wedding plans. Judging from what I've seen so far, she'll know exactly how to host a breakfast that isn't as insipid and dull as most En­­glish affairs.”

Yvette bit back a smile. She was beginning to see where Jeremy got his opinionated nature.

The next three hours flew by, with Lady Zoe and Mrs. Keane arguing amiably about when Jeremy and Yvette should wed, where they should wed, how Yvette should dress, and how many dishes should be served at the breakfast. Yvette tried to interject her opinions, but with two women as strong-minded as Lady Zoe and Mrs. Keane, it was pointless. Besides, she enjoyed watching the skirmishes.

The only thing that bothered her was how quiet Miss Keane was. The woman hadn't appeared to be shy yesterday. What was making her reticent, even aloof, today?

When after a while Miss Keane said she needed to finish some unpacking and excused herself, Yvette
told the other two ladies she needed to visit the necessary and hastened out after the woman.

She caught up to her near the staircase, relieved to see that no one was around. “Miss Keane, may I have a moment?”

With a nervous glance back at the drawing room they'd just left, Miss Keane said, rather sharply, “What is it, my lady?”

“Please, there's no need to stand on ceremony with me. Call me Yvette. We're soon to be sisters, after all.”

The words seemed to hit Miss Keane like a blow, for her face crumpled and her eyes filled with pain.

“Oh, dear, what's wrong?” Yvette asked. “I do so want us to be friends, and I feel as if somehow I've insulted you. I assure you it was unintentional. Sometimes my tongue just runs away with me, and—”

“It's not you, my la—Yvette. And please, do call me Amanda.” She hesitated, then drew Yvette down the hall to where it was a bit more private. “I don't mean to be rude, but how much did my brother tell you about his marriage to Hannah Miller?”

Yvette suddenly found it hard to breathe. “I believe he told me everything. That his wife died in childbirth after they'd been married only six months.”

“Yes, but did he tell you how it devastated him? Especially given my father's part in causing her death—”

“What do you mean?” A chill froze her spine. “If she died in childbirth, it was no one's fault.”

“It was a bit more complicated than that. And
Jeremy has never gotten over it.” Amanda searched Yvette's face. “That's the only thing that worries me about his sudden decision to marry you after you've only known each other, what, a month or two?”

“A little less than that.” The bottom dropped out of her stomach. “But I believe that he's sincere in his wish to marry.”

“I'm sure he is. But—” The woman cast Yvette a pitying look. “Well, the thing is, you're the very image of his late wife. She too was tall, dark-haired, green-eyed, and sweet-faced. I fear that—forgive me for being blunt—he's marrying you simply because he can't get past what happened. He's trying to re-create his first marriage so he can do it right this time.”

Good Lord. Could that really be? Yvette couldn't bear to believe it. “While I know that his wife's death was difficult for him, I—”

“It's why he won't return home, why he hasn't remarried. Why I have to fight to get him even to talk about the future of the mills. He hates them, you know. He blames them and their hold on Papa for Hannah's death. I thought once Papa died he would get past it at last, but I don't know if he can, given
how
she died.”

Yvette couldn't speak, couldn't move. Until that moment, she hadn't realized just how much she'd been ignoring his secretiveness regarding his past. But now she realized it was even worse than she'd feared. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I like you, and I hate to see you head blindly into a marriage with a man who has been shattered—may always be shattered—by the past.”
When Yvette made some inarticulate sound, remorse flooded Amanda's face. “Oh, I shouldn't have said anything. It was wrong of me to interfere. If the two of you are in love—”

“To use your words, it's a bit more . . . complicated than that,” Yvette choked out.

Amanda looked alarmed, then guilty. Taking Yvette by the arm, she led her into the dining room nearby. “Here, sit down. I'll go fetch you some wine.”

Before the woman could leave, Yvette caught her sleeve. “No, I'm fine.” Or she would be. In a couple of decades, perhaps. She fought for calm, fought to steady herself. “Please. I've asked your brother a number of times to tell me the source of his conflict with your parents, but he won't answer. Will you tell me?”

Miss Keane turned ashen. “I've really gone and done it, haven't I? He'll never forgive me for saying anything in the first place.”

“I'm glad you did.” Though her heart was fracturing into little pieces, Yvette forced some steel into her spine and patted the chair beside her. “I have to know what I'm getting myself into, and he won't tell me. So please, I beg you, will
you
?”

The woman stared at her bleakly a long moment.

Then at last she gave a terse nod and dropped into the chair. “What exactly is it you wish to know?”

Twenty-Six

Jeremy was surprised that the earl didn't ask for Samuel's letter the moment they set off, but apparently Bonnaud's presence kept him in check. Meanwhile, Bonnaud spent the ride congratulating Jeremy on his impending marriage, while Jeremy spent it trying not to think about what his mother and sister might be saying to Yvette.

One thing he could count on. Though he wasn't so sure about Amanda, Mother would never tell Yvette the details of Hannah's death. She'd always resisted discussing Father's actions. Someday he'd have to tell Yvette everything himself, but not yet. He still couldn't bear the idea of her knowing how his selfishness had cost Hannah her life.

As soon as they arrived, Bonnaud introduced Blakeborough to Miss Moreton. From the moment she brought her son forward, everything changed. Even Jeremy could see that the lad resembled the earl to an astonishing degree. Indeed, Blakeborough
was visibly shaken, then let out a long-suffering sigh, as if already realizing he was doomed to take on another dependent.

But what really settled the matter was when Jeremy gave Miss Moreton the letter. She opened it warily. After reading it, however, she looked a bit dazed as she sat turning the pages over in her hand.

“I should like to see what my brother wrote,” Blakeborough said, more a command than a request.

A sudden anxious look crossed her face. “My lord, I want you to know that I had no idea of what he was planning, and no involvement whatsoever in—”

“The letter, Miss Moreton.”

Swallowing hard, she handed it to Blakeborough, who read it aloud so Jeremy and Bonnaud could hear it, too:

Dearest Peg,

If you're reading this, then my sister succeeded in posting it. I'm sure you've heard of my trial and sentence of transportation. It was only ­after I was in Newgate that I learned you had left the stage. One of my boxing associates saw you at Mrs. Beard's some months ago. He made ­inquiries and learned of our son.

So Samuel hadn't lied about not knowing of his son until he was already in gaol. That was rather surprising.

I know we parted on bad terms, but I don't like to think of any child of mine being raised in such a place. I'm enclosing documents that should help you get money in another way to keep you and little Elias in a better situation. They prove we were married at the time of his birth.

Blakeborough raised his head to gape at Miss Moreton. “You were married?”

She looked grim. “Keep reading, my lord.”

The forger who made up the papers said they should hold up well enough to convince my brother, and I'm sure your acting abilities are up to the task of playing the long-suffering wife. Forgive me for resorting to such a subterfuge, but Edwin is hard-hearted and unlikely to give you any aid unless he thinks the child is legitimate.

Blakeborough's voice faltered at that. After a few moments, he set down the letter. “Everything else is personal.” He leafed through the other sheets. “And these must be the supposed documents of a runaway marriage in Scotland.”

“Good God,” Bonnaud muttered. “Your brother is quite a piece of work.”

“Yes, that's Samuel for you,” Blakeborough said tonelessly.

“But Elias
is
his?” Jeremy asked Miss Moreton. “Or you believe him to be?”

“I know him to be,” she said stoutly. “I was a faithful mistress to Samuel when we were together.”

“So you admit you weren't married to my brother,” the earl said.

Paling a little, she shook her head. “I wrote to him concerning his son a couple of times, but got no answer. I heard later that he'd been cut off by your father, so I suspect he didn't get the letters. I didn't know how or where else to find him, and I didn't want to incur your father's wrath by presenting myself there. I wasn't sure he would help anyway. Then once I heard Samuel was in gaol . . .” She shrugged. “There seemed no point in pursuing anything.”

Jeremy felt compelled to champion the child, if only for Yvette's sake. “Blakeborough, your brother couldn't have known Yvette would try delivering the letter in person rather than posting it. So whatever he wrote about the child is probably true. Unless you think he's playing some double game.”

“I wouldn't put it past him,” Bonnaud said.

“Nor would I.” Blakeborough glanced over to where a grubby Elias sat on the floor, stacking up a set of worn wooden blocks. “But I have eyes. And, despite what my brother thinks, a heart. I believe he was being honest about his paternity.”

He looked at Miss Moreton and steadied his shoulders. “So, madam, I understand you wish to marry soon.”

And that was that. From there, nothing was left but to negotiate the handing over of the boy. They
were done and out the door in a matter of moments, with Blakeborough promising to send a servant to fetch the lad the next morning. He said he needed time to prepare for placing the boy.

On the way home, they were a rather somber threesome. Or rather, the earl was somber; Jeremy and Bonnaud were merely reluctant to intrude upon his silent reflection.

But as they neared the Keane town house, Blakeborough roused himself. “I need to go on to Meredith's and settle with her if she will take Elias.”

“Do you think she will?” Jeremy asked.

“I believe so. She was grateful when we agreed to provide for her and her babe, and this will be no financial imposition. It will also give her son an older brother. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like Yvette to go with me. She's better with Meredith than I am. But we'll be back in time for dinner.”

“That's fine.” Jeremy gazed at the man, wondering how he'd endured his brother's shenanigans for so long. “It was good of you to take the child. Yvette will be relieved.”

“Which is why I'm doing it. The
only
reason I'm doing it.”

Jeremy didn't believe that one whit. He'd seen Blakeborough's haunted expression when the man had seen Elias. It made him wonder about the earl's relationship to his own father. Given what Yvette had said, she probably hadn't been the only one to feel neglected.

When they stopped, Jeremy told the earl he'd go in and fetch Yvette. Then he and Bonnaud climbed the steps together.

“I can't believe you're getting married,” Bonnaud said. “Does this mean no more trips to the stews?”

“I don't know what it means.” That was the God's honest truth. “But I suspect that in future my choice of subjects may . . . er . . . shift a bit.”

Bonnaud laughed. “No doubt.”

As they entered, it struck Jeremy that the place was unusually quiet. The chatter of four women planning a wedding ought to have raised the rafters, but he heard nothing. Just as he wondered if they'd gone to do some shopping, Yvette appeared in the hall.

He walked toward her. “You'll be pleased to know that everything went well. Your brother is waiting outside. He wants you to go with him to Meredith's to arrange for—” He halted as he noticed her swollen eyes and red nose. Alarms clamored in his head. “What's wrong?”

Instead of answering, she flashed Bonnaud a stiff smile. “Your wife said to tell you she's in the nursery and could use your advice on furniture.”

That sounded like a trumped-up tale if Jeremy had ever heard one, but Bonnaud merely headed up the stairs.

Only then did Jeremy ask, “Where are Mother and Amanda? Are they all right?”

When he tried to take her arm, she shied away. “They're fine,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “But you and I need to talk.”

The words curdled his stomach. He managed a nod, then followed her into the drawing room. When she shut the door, dread spread through him like a noxious weed.

“What's this about?” he demanded.

She faced him, a hollow look in her eyes. “Why did you never tell me that I resemble your late wife?”

That threw him off guard. “Because you don't.” If that was her only concern, he could clear this up right now. “Why? Did my mother tell you that you did?”

“According to your sister, Hannah was a tall, green-eyed, dark-haired—”

“Oh, for God's sake, you're listening to Amanda? My sister has no visual sense; haven't you noticed her poor taste in clothing? She's bad with faces and colors. She only notices such things in broad terms.”

Yvette fixed him with an unrelenting stare that made him desperate to convince her.

“Hannah was tall, yes,” he went on, “and dark-haired and green-eyed. But she was also thin and frail, a delicate woman whose features bore no resemblance to yours. You're nothing alike, either in temperament or in appearance. If you give me a moment, I'll go find the miniature of her that's somewhere in my belongings and show you.”

That made her pale. “You keep a miniature of her?”

“She was only my wife briefly, I'll grant you, but still my wife. Would you have wanted me to forget her entirely after what she suffered?”

“You mean what she suffered in childbirth. When your father told the physician attending her that he should save the babe at all costs. Even if it meant the loss of your wife.”

His heart dropped into his stomach. Oh, God, no. No, no, no. “Amanda told you,” he choked out.

“Yes.” She continued in a halting voice. “She said the physician informed your parents that the babe's head was too large and he could only be removed
if your wife were cut open, or if the child was . . . destroyed. Your father gave the order to save the boy. But they'd delayed too long, and the child was stillborn. Your wife died a few hours later.”

Hearing the events described in Yvette's heart-wrenching tones was bad enough, and she hadn't even touched upon the worst part—that Jeremy hadn't been there to stop it.

“Amanda had no right to tell you,” he said hoarsely.

“
You
should have told me.” Concern filled Yvette's face. “She's worried about you. And now
I'm
worried about you. About us.”

He could hardly breathe. His worst fears had been realized, and it hurt even more than he'd expected. “It has nothing to do with us.”

“It has everything to do with us, if you can't get past the death of your wife and son!”

He fought to sound reasonable, normal. “That's absurd. It's been twelve years. Of course I've gotten past it.”

“Really? I don't think you realize how little you have.” Her cheeks ashen, she stalked over to a sofa and pulled something from behind it, then set it in front of him.

Art Sacrificed to Commerce.

“What in thunder? You broke into my luggage? Took out my unfinished work, which I expressly forbade you to view before it was done?”

“I impressed upon Damber the importance of the situation, and he pried open the box.”

“The ‘importance of the situation,' ” he said, mocking her serious tone. “I can't see what my painting has to do with anything.”

“For one thing, the woman doesn't resemble me in the least.”

“I know! I keep working to get her face right, but I can't. I think it's the shadows or . . . Damn it, I don't know. But I don't understand why my incompetence as an artist has anything to do with us.”

“It's not—” She huffed out a breath. “
Look
at it! For once, Jeremy, really
look
at your painting. The woman doesn't resemble me because your subject
isn't
Art sacrificed to Commerce. It's Hannah being sacrificed on the altar of your father's obsession with his mills.”

He froze, gaping at the picture. “That's not . . . It was never meant to . . .”

Horror swept through him. She was right.

He'd made Commerce older, as would be appropriate. But in so doing, he'd actually painted an image of his father as he'd looked years ago.

Jeremy's chest tightened, his ribs feeling as if they were closing in on him, crushing him, making it hard to breathe. The painting he'd been driven to do was not what he'd thought at all.

And now that he could see it, everything fit. Commerce was his father, a man so consumed by his legacy that he'd sentenced his daughter-in-law to death rather than lose the possible future of that legacy. Even the work's background had elements of the bank where Father had done business. And though Jeremy had painted a wound in Art's chest, the knife dripping with blood was actually poised over Art's belly.

“Oh, God . . . oh, God . . . oh, God . . .”

Yvette stepped nearer, tears trickling down her cheeks. “You said you didn't know why you were compelled to use me as your model. But I know
why. Because I look enough like your wife to play the role you needed.”

“No,” he whispered. “That's not true!” He didn't want it to be true. There was something deeper between him and Yvette, something real and sweet and pure, something beyond Hannah's death.

“It
is
true. You know it in your heart. You're trying to purge your grief, and you're using me to do it. Because you can't get past the horrific choice your father made.”

“Not just
his
horrific choice.”

She blinked. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“It was mine, too.” Bile rose in his throat. No point in not telling her all of it now. “I chose not to be there when I should have been. If I had been—”

“Then
you
would have had to make the horrific choice.”

“Yes! And I would have chosen my wife. Not a babe who might end up dying anyway. She deserved better than that.” He clenched his fists at his sides. “Especially after she was forced into marriage to a man who couldn't love her.”

Sympathy softened her features. “She wasn't forced,” she said gently. “She knew the possible consequences when she shared your bed.”

“She didn't know we would end up enslaved in a life we didn't choose. She didn't know I'd be wed to the mills as much as to her.”