The Art of Sinning (4 page)

The sun had set by the time the wedding celebration was over and the Barlow carriage headed across London for the town house.

“You're very quiet.”

The sound of Edwin's voice made Yvette start. “So are you. What of it?”

“I'm always quiet. You, on the other hand, are a babbling brook after a social event. You like to tell me who said what and when. You like to either wax rhapsodic over the owner's collection of books or bemoan their lack.”

“And describe the gowns,” she said lightly. “Don't forget that.”

“I see I should have kept quiet about your being quiet.”

She let out a rueful laugh. Poor Edwin. She was such a trial to him. He liked his solitude, and she could only take solitude in small doses. Solitude gave one too much time to brood over the past.

“Very well, I won't bore you about the gowns. Although I did think that Lady Zoe's silver reticule was—”

“If you begin describing reticules, I swear I'll throw myself from the coach.” Edwin paused. “But you
could
tell me what you and Keane were talking about in the gardens.”

Uh-oh. Trying to keep things secret from her
brother always made her feel awful. “We were talking about the paintings, of course.”

“Paintings? More than just the portrait?”

Oh, Lord, she couldn't believe she'd let that slip. “Not the portrait. We settled that immediately. His other paintings. The ones that have been exhibited.”

“Ah, right. The ones you criticized.”

“Gave an opinion of. That's different from criticizing.”

“Hmm.” Edwin stared out the window. “You do realize that by hiring Keane to paint you, I was not . . . I didn't mean to imply that you somehow
need
to be shown as—”

“It's all right, Edwin. I know what you think of me.”

“I'm not sure that you do.”

She banked as much irritation as she could. “You think I'm bent on thwarting your attempts at getting me married, so you wish to nudge me.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose you're right about that.” He sounded edgy. “I'm worried you're looking at past events as proof of why you should avoid finding a husband.”

“What past events?” Samuel had sworn never to tell Edwin about her nearly ruinous association with Lieutenant Ruston. Had he lied?

“What happened toward the end of our parents' unfortunate marriage, of course.”

“Oh. Right.” She should have realized that Edwin didn't know about her and the lieutenant, or he would have said something ages ago. “And you? You're not letting Mama's unhappiness turn you cynical about marriage?”

“I may be cynical about romantic love, but I do
want
to marry. I need an heir. And you need someone to talk to other than your crotchety eldest brother.”

Remembering what Mr. Keane had said about the deal with Edwin, she tensed. “Are you
that
sure I won't find a husband?”

“Damn it, don't twist my words again.” He leaned forward to clasp her hands, startling her. “Any man would be lucky to have you. I am not trying to make you ‘look attractive enough to convince some hapless fellow in search of a wife to ignore the evidence of his eyes' or whatever nonsense you think. I
know
you to be a beautiful, wonderful woman.”

A lump stuck in her throat. “So why the portrait?”

“Keane pointed out that having you painted by a man as famous as he might increase your popularity in society.”

That arrested her. What a clever devil Mr. Keane was. To get her to sit for his other painting, he'd convinced Edwin to commission a portrait he didn't want to do. How typical of a manipulative rogue.

Edwin squeezed her hands. “I only want you to be happy, you know.” His voice held a soft affection she rarely heard. “If you really don't want Keane to paint you—”

“No, it's fine.” She forced a smile. “I'm actually looking forward to it.” Especially since it would enable her to get what
she
wanted.

“Are you?” With a speculative glance, he released her hands and sat back against the squabs. “Please tell me you're not interested in the man as a potential husband. I mean, he is quite wealthy, from what
I understand, but his reputation with women leaves something to be desired.”

“Which is why I would never consider him as a suitor. I haven't forgotten the lessons I learned from Samuel.” And his sly friend. She gazed out the window. “I know too well what havoc our brother wrought . . . what havoc that sort of feckless fellow always wreaks on anyone close to him.”

A pall fell over the carriage. “You do understand why I'm not pursuing what Samuel told you.”

She glared at him. “Not really, no. Somewhere in Covent Garden we have a young nephew living in a house of ill repute with his mother, Samuel's former mistress. And you're perfectly willing to leave the boy to that uncertain future?”

“First of all, we
may
have a young nephew. It's by no means certain. Indeed, I find it highly unlikely.”

“Because Samuel never before sired an illegitimate child?” she said sarcastically. Just this year, Edwin had taken on the support of Samuel's last mistress, Meredith, and
her
child.

“You shouldn't have had to know about that.” Edwin's voice hardened. “Indeed, the very fact that he told you about his mistress in a brothel shows how far he's sunk.”

Samuel hadn't exactly volunteered the information. She'd forced him into it, in exchange for agreeing to post his letter to the woman. Once he'd told her about Peggy Moreton and her son, Samuel had hinted that the letter contained information to help his mistress financially.

But Yvette hadn't yet sent it. Once that letter was posted, she'd lose all control over the situation. Until
she determined for herself that her nephew was safe, she wasn't giving the woman anything.

“I know how the world works,” Yvette said ­gently. “I'm quite used to hearing tales of woe from the many charities I support.”

“That I
support at your behest, you mean.”

She laughed. “That, too.” She tried to make out his expression in the dim light of the streetlamps. “Admit it. You take some measure of enjoyment from helping those who don't have what we do, or you wouldn't support the school in Preston.”

“That doesn't mean I'll provide for half the by-blows in Christendom just because our brother asked you to post some letter.”

She'd better not tell him she still had the letter. He might demand that she open it, which she'd vowed to Samuel she wouldn't do.

“Besides,” he went on, “what would we even do with the child? Surely you don't have some fool idea that you'd raise him yourself.”

“Of course not. That wouldn't be wise for us
or
the boy. But Meredith might be willing to raise him with her son, as long as we pay for it. So far she's been an exemplary mother to her own babe, and the two children are half brothers, after all.”

“Assuming this child genuinely is
his
.”

“Why would Samuel lie about it?” Yvette asked.

“Because he heard that we're supporting Meredith and her babe, and he thought to take advantage of that.”

“I don't see how.”

“He knows your tender heart. That you won't rest until you find this child. So sending you on a wild-
goose chase into a bawdy house, at the risk to your reputation, might be his way of striking at me. He's quite aware that seeing you ruined would destroy me. He has never forgiven me for cutting all ties to him after Father disowned him.”

Her heart faltered. This was the first time Edwin had advanced such an appalling theory. “You . . . you really think Samuel would do such a thing?” she said. “Use me to strike back at you?”

“I don't know. But I'd rather not take the chance.”

That was precisely why she'd been desperate enough to involve Mr. Keane. And why she couldn't let Mr. Keane know the full story of what was going on, or that Edwin was aware of it all. Because then Mr. Keane would reveal her plan to her eldest brother, who'd nip it in the bud. Better to handle it herself.

Still, she couldn't keep from arguing with Edwin about his suppositions. “It sounds like a rather convoluted plan on Samuel's part. Why avenge himself on you when he wouldn't even be in England to witness your downfall? Surely he has worse enemies to strike at.”

“So why do
you
think he alluded to his supposed child? Out of some goodness in his heart? Samuel's heart has been empty of such human feeling for quite a while.”

“I can't believe that,” she said, torn between her two brothers. If not for Samuel, she might have ended up . . .

With a shudder, she tucked that memory away. “You should have seen him in Newgate—full of remorse, wanting to make amends.”

“He's always full of remorse once he gets caught. He forgets it soon enough the next time a pretty woman walks by.” When they passed directly under a streetlamp, it briefly lit Edwin's tight lips and creased brow. “I hate to see you fretting over this. I don't trust a thing our brother says. You mustn't, either.”

“So you truly won't do anything to find Peggy Moreton and her child?”

“I've already done all I could. I asked about an actress by that name and was told that none ever existed.”

He'd actually pursued it to that extent? Perhaps he wasn't as heedless of the ties of family as he sometimes seemed.

He went on coldly, “And that means Samuel lied about his mistress's former profession.”

“Or that he used her real name, not her stage name.”

“Regardless, if I go asking after a woman and her son in the stews, I'll either look as profligate as he—which won't help your situation as a marriageable young lady—or I'll attract any number of impostors claiming to be the ones I seek.”

“Then hire an investigator,” she said.

“Yes, because they're all so discreet,” he bit out.

“Edwin—”

“Perhaps you think I should ask my former fiancée's new husband to look into it. I'm sure he'd be eager for the task,” he said bitterly.

They were back to where they'd started. The only investigators Edwin might trust were the very people who'd nearly been brought down by Samuel's
latest scheme. She doubted that the Duke's Men would take part in what would probably appear to be another such scheme.

Yet the image of her four-year-old nephew in a bawdy house, seeing things no child should ever see . . .

“We cannot continue to clean up after Samuel,” Edwin said curtly. “He's made his bed and now must lie in it.”

Unfortunately, it would not be Samuel lying in that bed, but some little boy he'd sired in his usual cavalier fashion.

“Promise me you'll let yourself be guided by me in this,” Edwin persisted.

Burying her hands in her skirts, she crossed her fingers and her ankles, too. “I promise.”

There were times when one had to do what was right, even at some cost. And if the cost was sitting for a painting by a known scoundrel and acting the part of a loose woman in order to get into a house of ill repute, then so be it.

Four

The sun sank toward earth as Jeremy tooled his curricle up the drive to Stoke Towers. To him the place was just one more lavish English country house.

But to his young apprentice, it was apparently far more. “God strike me blind!” Damber said. “You sure have a lot of rich friends and family in England, sir.”

After having been dragged through tumbledown hotels and inns for the past three months on the Continent, the lad had apparently forgotten that Jeremy wasn't just any artist. Sometimes even Jeremy forgot it. When he traveled, he preferred to live like the rest of the populace.

“Ah, but these are neither friends nor family,” Jeremy said. “They're clients. And they'd best be rich if they're to afford me.”

“From the size of the bowman ken they're living in, I'd say they're fat culls indeed.”

“Language, Damber,” Jeremy said sharply.

“Talking like you gentry coves is hard,” the lad replied without a hint of repentance. “And what does
it matter anyhow? You said I got the finest hand with a brush you ever saw. Ain't that enough?”

“No, it ‘ain't.' If you sound like a coarse devil, it won't matter that you paint like a saint. No one with the money to buy your art will notice you if you don't seem at least moderately educated. And you do want to progress beyond apprentice, don't you?”

“I suppose,” muttered the ungrateful devil.

“Then speak correctly. I know you're capable of it when you concentrate. I've heard you.” He ran his gaze over the towering lad. For once, Damber's cravat was straight, his waistcoat buttoned, and his shirt tucked properly in his trousers. “You've finally begun to look like a gentleman, thank God. Now you must talk like one.”

“I'll do my best, sir.” Damber cast him a cheeky grin. “P'raps if you paid me more . . .”

Jeremy rolled his eyes. The lad already made twice what Jeremy's American apprentices had made. God, he was cocky. Which probably wasn't surprising, given the boy's rough upbringing. But despite the differences in their backgrounds, Damber reminded Jeremy of himself at that age—sure of his talent, passionate about painting, and thirsty for knowledge.

Which might not be a good thing, actually. If Jeremy had been a little
less
thirsty, his life might have been different. He wouldn't have pursued Hannah as a painting instructor. He wouldn't have tumbled into bed with her and ended up married too young.

He wouldn't have—

Thunderation, why was he brooding over that after all these years? Hannah and Theodore were dead, along with the man responsible. Time for him
to move on. To stop dwelling on the past. To look toward the future.

His masterpiece.

As if Lady Yvette had somehow read his mind, she appeared on the steps of Stoke Towers, accompanied by a footman, and his blood quickened. Yes, his masterpiece, and his lady muse herself.

After nearly a week apart, he'd expected not to be so taken by her, but if anything, she was even more stunning in her ordinary gown of russet and gold stripes. And as before, her porcelain cheeks were faintly tinged with peach and the sun teased out the hint of red in her brown hair.

He should use burnt umber for that shade of chestnut. Perhaps with a little cream to capture the highlights and some black for the shadows. For
Art Sacrificed to Commerce
she'd have to wear her hair down, cascading over the edges of the marble slab.

Marble slab? Would Stoke Towers even have something that would prove adequate as an altar?

“Is that who you're painting?” Damber said breathlessly. “She don't look like some delicate gentry mort; she's a Long Meg, to be sure.”

“Watch the vulgar language, Damber,” Jeremy said mechanically. “She's not a Long Meg or—”

“But she is. She's almost as tall as me.”

“That's not the point! You shouldn't call her that. Or ‘gentry mort,' for that matter. She's a very fine lady, whom I intend to immortalize.”

“What's ‘immortalize'?” Damber asked.

“Look it up in that dictionary I gave you.”

“And you complain about
my
language,” Damber
grumbled. The boy hated looking things up. “You've got your own cant with all your fancy words. I'll wager ‘immortalize' means something nasty like ‘take a lady to bed.' It's got ‘mort' in it, so it's got to be about ladies.”

Jeremy stifled his laugh, not wanting to encourage the lad. “You'll have to find out for yourself in the dictionary.” Frankly, it was a miracle the boy could even read, but someone somewhere had taught the young giant.

Damber shot him a sly look. “Wouldn't blame you, sir, if you wanted to take that one to bed. She's got a bosom on her that would float a ship. Though I bet she's as stiff-rumped as—”

“That's enough. A gentleman doesn't talk about ladies that way.”

God, he couldn't believe he'd said that. Trying to educate his apprentice was turning him into a stuffed shirt.

Though the lad wasn't far off. Lady Yvette was indeed a bit stiff-rumped. And she did have an impressive bosom. Jeremy couldn't wait to see how it looked in that Grecian costume he'd acquired.

The image that rose in his head made his blood run hot. And
that
made him curse under his breath. He wasn't here to seduce her, as appealing as that might seem.

Annoyed with himself, he jerked the horses to a halt in front. But before he and Damber had even finished disembarking, Lady Yvette was marching down the steps.

“I expected you here earlier,” she said coolly as the footman left her side to unload the curricle.

Damber nudged him, as if to say,
See? Stiff-rumped and proud.

Jeremy ignored him. “Impatient to begin, are you? I do like enthusiasm in my women.”

A telling blush rose up her beautiful neck to her cheeks. “I'm not one of your ‘women.' And it wasn't enthusiasm. I just . . . We thought you'd be here sooner, that's all.”

“Your brother said anytime after two. He didn't specify an hour.”

“No, but I assumed . . . Oh, never mind.” She faced Damber, who was giving her the once-over with an insolence she apparently chose to overlook. “You must be Mr. Keane's apprentice.”

He gave a curt bow. “The name's Damber, my lady.”

She cocked her head. “What an interesting name. Did you know that it's street cant for ‘rascal'?”

“It is indeed, my lady,” Damber said warily.

“Is it a nickname?” she went on with an air of fascination that surprised Jeremy.

Damber, too, apparently. “I suppose. Only name I ever had.”

“I see.” Compassion glinted in her eyes. “Well, then, it's a pleasure to meet you, Damber. I've informed the servants that you'll be staying in our extra room downstairs. I hope you'll be comfortable there.”

“Long as it's no spring-ankle warehouse, I'll be fine,” Damber mumbled. Then, as if realizing what he'd said, he added, “I mean—”

“I should hope it's better than a gaol,” she said cheerily. “We have no catchpoles or caterpillars here, I assure you.”

Damber perked up. “No, but I daresay you've plenty of country Harrys.”

She laughed. “We do at that, sir. And high shoons, too.”

Damber broke into a grin, then shot Jeremy an accusing look. “You said I wasn't to use cant around a gentry mort, and here she's using it more than me.”

“Than
I,
” Jeremy corrected him, then realized how ridiculous that sounded in light of the conversation.

How the devil did she understand Damber, anyway? Jeremy only did half the time. From his many trips to the stews, he thought “catchpoles and caterpillars” were sheriffs and soldiers. And he could guess what a country Harry was. But a high shoon?

“I'm afraid I'm not your typical gentry mort,” Lady Yvette told Damber, with a twinkle in her eye.

To put it mildly.
Come to think of it, she'd known quite a bit of coarse slang the night they'd met. Granted, her other brother had apparently been a criminal, but not the ill-mannered kind Damber had grown up among. So where had she learned it?

“I collect street cant for my dictionaries,” she explained, as if she'd read his thoughts. “It's a hobby of sorts. Indeed, I would be delighted to have you add to my store, Damber, especially if you know any boxing terms.”

Damber's mouth fell open. “I know more than anybody! You just tell me when, and I'll give you as many as you like.”

“I shall take you up on that sometime.” She glanced at the footman, who'd come up beside her to wait, having finished unlashing the men's bags
from the back of the curricle. “But for now, you should probably get settled in.”

“Aye, my lady,” Damber said with a bob of his head.

She faced Jeremy. “Forgive me, Mr. Keane, but I'm not sure exactly what a painter's apprentice does. Will you need a valet, or will Damber—”

“My apprentice will do just fine for whatever I require,” Jeremy said, ignoring Damber's groan. “If your man will show him to my room, he can start unpacking, retightening the canvases, and mixing my paints for the morning.”

The lad had been getting too full of himself of late. It wouldn't hurt to remind him that talent was nurtured through hard work, and not all of it was as enjoyable as painting and sketching. Or, for that matter, trading slang terms with an unconventional earl's daughter.

“Very well.” She turned to Damber. “Tom will show you to Mr. Keane's suite.” She seemed to note the footman's stiff posture and added, “And your master is right. Perhaps you should save your use of street cant for me and Mr. Keane. I'm not sure my staff would . . . appreciate its colorful qualities.”

“I'll be pleased to do whatever your ladyship wishes,” Damber said in the King's own English, though the gleam in his eye and the tip of his hat were anything but gentlemanly.

She laughed as Damber walked off with Tom, cocky as ever. “He's a bit of a rogueling, isn't he? Clearly, you taught him well.”

“Trust me, he was born knowing how to turn a woman up sweet. And what he wasn't born knowing, he learned in the stews.”

Her smile faltered. “Is that where you met him?”

“God, no. I stumbled across him in Hyde Park, where the lad was sketching people for money.”

“Lad?” she echoed.

“That hulking brute is only fifteen, believe it or not. If you'd seen him when I first met him, too scrawny for his frame, you'd have thought him younger still.”

She searched his face. “You feed him well, I gather.”

“He feeds himself well,” Jeremy grumbled. “He's been eating me out of house and home ever since I hired him to be my painter's apprentice.”

“So why did you?” She watched him with a veiled look. “Few people would take on a street urchin for a post.”

“I regret the decision daily, every time I'm forced to wrestle with the lad over speech and manners. But . . .” He smiled, remembering the drawing of Damber's that had arrested him. “Then he'll show me one of his sketches, and I'm reminded of why I did it. Because he has a good eye and an amazing talent. That's rarer than you might think.”

“Yet not many would try to nurture it.”

Her eyes warmed, and he was once again struck by their lovely color. What a shame he wouldn't be able to capture those cat eyes sparkling from beneath dusky lashes. In his masterpiece they would be looking upward, only one of them visible, and that in profile.

Then again, there was the portrait. He'd get to paint her eyes for that. It was some solace for being forced to do the sort of work he detested. He could use the cobalt blue, tempered with Indian yellow
and a trace of umber to get that emerald hue. But how would he capture the emotion within?

She had kind eyes, the sort a man could lose himself in, drowning in their soft sweetness while he—

Damn, there he went again. “Where's your brother?” he asked sharply as he realized they were entirely alone.

“Edwin had urgent business to attend to with our steward. But he will join us for dinner. In the meantime, I thought we could tour the house.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “It will give us a chance to pick which room will suit your purposes for your secret work.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, surprised by the conspiratorial glee in her voice. She was apparently enjoying their subterfuge. “Lead on, madam.”

As she walked inside and began to take him around, he found himself memorizing her movements: the turn of her head when she glanced back at him, the abbreviated wave she gave when indicating something he should notice, the lift of her imperious brow when he made some wry comment.

He should be focusing on the succession of rich rooms they passed through, but he'd rather study
her
. After all, he was to paint her.

That was the only reason he watched her obsessively. It wasn't because she fired his blood—oh no. He wasn't that foolish.

Right. Of
course
he was that foolish. He was a man, after all, faced with a lovely and remarkable young woman. He'd have to be carved of granite not to notice her attractions as she mounted the stairs ahead of him.

He wished she were already wearing that flimsy Grecian costume. Back in his wife's day, gowns had clung to a woman, showing every curve, but they'd grown stuffed of late—with petticoats and drawers and what all. It was hard to see the female figure beneath.

Oh, to see Lady Yvette's figure beneath. To run his fingers up those long legs to where her stockings ended and the bare flesh began. Odd that one buttoned-­up English lady could so fire his imagination.

And his lust. Damn her.

“Does your apprentice know about the other painting?” she asked as they reached the next floor.