Ten
It took all of Jeremy’s will to hold his tongue after Yvette left the manor with the marquess. Not that she wasn’t behaving entirely respectably; she did have her maid with her.
Still, she was wearing a fetching brown walking dress that accentuated her lush shape. While she’d paired it with an enormous pink-and-brown bonnet that would poke a man’s eye out if he tried to kiss her, bonnets could be removed. Even a maid’s presence might not prevent that if Knightford were the devious sort.
And he was bound to be. Jeremy didn’t like the marquess. Or how the fellow looked at Yvette. Or the fact that the two had apparently known each other forever. She called him by his Christian name, for God’s sake!
Thunderation, he was starting to sound like the English. Who cared what she called the ass? Who cared that “Warren” had salivated over her in that red evening gown she’d worn for the portrait?
No one could blame the man. Jeremy had spent the past several days staring at her in that gown and aching for her. Getting hard for her as he never had for any other model. It made their nights together unbearable, especially now that he knew what it was like to kiss her, caress her . . .
“Since Yvette’s gone, I believe I’ll get some estate work done with my steward.” Blakeborough rose. “The servants will let me know when she returns.”
Only with difficulty did Jeremy not ask when that was likely to be. He’d managed to put Blakeborough’s suspicions about him and Yvette thoroughly to rest in the past week, and he wasn’t about to ruin that by appearing overly concerned with her disappearance.
Still, that didn’t keep him from spending the morning with one eye on the clock. Then doing the same thing all afternoon, while he worked on Art Sacrificed to Commerce without her. He should be glad of the chance to finish the Commerce figure—which he was modeling after himself using mirrors—but it merely kept her provocative image in front of him, making him wonder what in thunder she was doing over there with Knightford.
When she didn’t return for dinner at six, Jeremy had to bite his tongue half off to keep from saying anything. By the time he and Blakeborough had dined without her and were making serious inroads into an excellent bottle of brandy, he could keep silent no longer.
“Does your sister mean to spend the night over there with her friends?” He knocked back the remainder of his third glass and poured himself a fourth, despite being well on his way to becoming foxed.
“Oh, I doubt it.” Blakeborough swirled the liquor in his own glass. “Knightford will send her and her maid back in his coach before it gets too late. He always does.”
Always? Jeremy frowned. “They see each other quite a bit, do they?”
“When he’s visiting his aunt’s estate, yes. Yvette is like a sister to him.”
Jeremy had heard that one before. “Still, do you think it wise to let her spend time alone with the fellow?” He prided himself on the fact that he sounded unaffected. Unconcerned.
Or maybe not, because the earl eyed him closely. “Knightford has known Yvette since she was a babe. At eleven, he dandled her on his knee. At fifteen, he let her give him her lost teeth for safekeeping. He called her ‘Pest’ up until a year ago.” He chuckled. “She said if he kept calling her that in public, she’d box his ears. He stopped.”
That account of a friendship more familial than flirtatious didn’t soothe Jeremy one bit. “Maybe he stopped because he started thinking of her as a desirable woman ripe for the plucking.”
Blakeborough laughed outright. “I doubt it. Just a month ago, she tried to marry him off to one of her friends. He told Yvette he would wed after he got Clarissa situated with a husband.” The earl snorted. “Whenever that magical day might arrive. The little witch keeps bedeviling him. And me. And any man foolish enough to take her on.”
Jeremy eyed him closely. “Are you still talking about your sister? Or do you mean Clarissa?”
Blakeborough started. “Lady Clarissa.” He swallowed some brandy. He looked as if he, too, might be growing foxed. “I mean, I’m talking about both. Peas in a pod, those two. Sure, they seem different at first glance. Clarissa’s a bottle of champagne that explodes when you shake it, and Yvette’s a pot coming to a slow boil. But if you ever see bubbles in either, you’d best take cover. Because trouble is brewing. Those two have a penchant for it.”
Yvette sure did. She’d been coming to a boil for over a week now, getting more witty and effervescent the more annoyed she got with him. Which she’d been ever since the night they kissed.
How stupid he’d been to kiss her. That was why trouble was brewing, and he couldn’t even regret it. Her supple mouth, so warm, so sweet . . . Oh, God, and those soft, silky thighs that Knightford might even now be—
Damn it. “You’re saying you trust Knightford with her. Even though he’s known for his flirting and his . . . women.” Falling back against his chair, Jeremy cast the earl a belligerent look.
“So are you.”
“Yes, and you keep me under a watchful eye. But not him.”
The earl shrugged. “I know his character. He and I became good friends while getting Yvette and Clarissa out of scrapes.” He waved his glass distractedly. “Warren might . . . flatter my sister, but she knows he doesn’t mean it as anything. Plus, he only dallies with loose women, not respectable ones.”
Jeremy scowled. He wasn’t so sure. Any respectable woman who kissed like Yvette had been kissed before, and intimately, too. By Knightford? Or somebody else?
Knightford made the most sense. The man had apparently been allowed to see her whenever he pleased. And girlhood crushes sometimes did lead to more once the girl became a woman. Could the marquess be the one who’d prompted her to request that Jeremy sneak her into a brothel?
“Why do you care, anyway?” Blakeborough asked.
“Excellent question.”
He didn’t realize he’d said it aloud until the earl said, “I know. That’s why I asked.”
Thunderation. Jeremy couldn’t admit the truth. That the idea of her being manipulated by Knightford into risking her reputation ignited something ugly in his chest.
Not jealousy. That’d be foolish. Very, very foolish.
“Because I like your sister.” Avoiding the earl’s gaze, he stared down into his brandy. “Admire her spirit. Hate to see it damaged by a man who didn’t respect it.”
“Me too.”
The hard clip in Blakeborough’s voice made Jeremy look up. Did the man suspect what had been going on in the evenings between him and Yvette?
How could he? Blakeborough would’ve already tossed him out on his ear.
“Well, then.” Jeremy lifted his glass. “If you’re not alarmed, neither am I.” He set the glass down a bit harder than he’d intended, and some of the liquid sloshed over the edge. “I was just thinking of my own sister. How I’d react if some ass took advantage. If your sister’s a boiling pot and Lady Clarissa’s exploding champagne, then Amanda is a churning hot spring.” He scowled. “And plenty of men are drawn to the heat.”
“Too true.” Blakeborough finished off his glass. “Haven’t forgotten my promise to you, y’know. About finding your sister a husband. I made some inquiries. Haven’t heard much yet, though.”
“You haven’t had a chance. You’ve been in the country ever since we first talked.” Jeremy swigged more brandy. “But you can ask around at the masquerade tomorrow, right? Or go to your club after and ask there? I’ll go with you. Yvette can stay with my cousin till we get back.”
Blakeborough leaned forward unsteadily. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure. Why not?” Jeremy bent forward, too, nearly oversetting his chair.
“I don’t much go to my club. Don’t like it.”
“Oh, right. Yvette says you don’t really like people.”
Blakeborough drew himself up. “Now see here, I like people. Some of them. Just . . . not the ones in gentlemen’s clubs.”
“Don’t blame you. I don’t like ’em, either,” Jeremy admitted.
“You’ve been in a club?”
The earl sounded so incredulous that Jeremy glared at him. “A few. As a guest. I’m a famous artist, y’know. Got relations in high places, too.”
“True, true. I keep forgetting.” Blakeborough poured himself more brandy. “Why don’t you like the clubs?”
“I’m a solitary man. Prefer my own company.”
“Or the company of whores.”
Jeremy scowled into his glass. “At least whores aren’t boring. Like the gentlemen in clubs.”
“Club men are dull, aren’t they?” The earl shook his head. “No one says anything interesting. It’s all cards and bragging about mistresses and betting on which drop of water will reach the bottom of the window first.”
“That really happened?” Jeremy snorted. “I thought that was a joke.”
“Nope. Two fools made a bet on it.”
“Stupid.”
“Ridiculous. But that’s the clubs. I only went to mine to drum up a husband for Yvette. That was pointless.” He rolled his eyes. “Bunch of whoresons and doddering old fools and reckless gamesters.” Sitting back against his chair, he gulped some brandy. “It did help me figure out who not to throw at her.”
Jeremy blinked. “Did throwing men at her ever work? Haven’t tried that with Amanda.”
“Don’t bother. The women don’t like it. Talk about trouble . . .”
Blakeborough shuddered, and they both drank in a silent gesture of camaraderie.
“Honestly,” the earl went on, “would you want a chap from the clubs to marry your sister?”
“Probably not.”
“We need better suitors. Good ones. Steady ones. If we could find a club with those . . .”
“We should start our own club,” Jeremy said with a sweep of his glass. “For gentlemen looking out for their sisters.”
“Or their wards. Or daughters.” The earl sat up. “We could compare notes on suitors. My brother was a scoundrel, and I didn’t even know how bad. By the time I found out about the women he . . .” He lapsed into a long, brooding silence.
“The women he what?” Jeremy prodded.
“You don’t want to know.” He shivered. “But if anybody had told me what he was up to, I could have . . . I don’t know . . .”
“Stopped him? Probably not. But you could have warned the women off.”
“Exactly! Or their brothers. Or fathers. Or . . . whoever cared for them.” Blakeborough set his glass down firmly. “We should start a club. To protect our women from bad suitors. Who better than us? Oh, and Knightford. We should bring him in.”
“Knightford? He’s got a reputation!”
Blakeborough’s eyebrows shot up. “You do, too. That’s why you’d both be good members. You could ferret out the scoundrels. And he knows dirt about everybody.”
“Because he’s down in the muck with ’em.”
“Like you.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, I’m not in the—” Jeremy made a disgusted noise. “Anyway, why include him? He doesn’t have a sister.”
“But he has a cousin to marry off.” The earl scowled. “Someone should find out about those fellows flirting with Clarissa.”
“You seem awfully interested in Clarissa.”
A dull flush colored Blakeborough’s cheeks. “It’s just a brotherly sort of concern.”
Jeremy wasn’t so sure, but he didn’t want to poke the bear. Not when they were getting along so well.
“So Knightford would want to join, because of Clarissa,” Blakeborough went on. When Jeremy muttered a curse, Blakeborough added, “Better to have him close, where we can keep an eye on him. Right?”
Hmm. Good idea. They could make sure Knightford behaved. Didn’t try to court Yvette.
Slumping in his chair, Jeremy scowled. What did he care who courted Yvette? Wasn’t his concern. He had two paintings to finish.
And when the hell was she coming home, anyway? How could he paint her if she spent all her time with that ass Knightford?
“Excuse me, sir.”
Jeremy glanced over to see his apprentice lurking in the doorway.
“Come in, come in, young Damber!” Blakeborough said with an expansive gesture. “We’re just having a bit of brandy.”
When Damber snorted, Jeremy rose to interrupt the young fool before he insulted the earl. “What is it?”
“I wondered if you were done with me for the evening, sir. I thought I’d go down to supper with the servants if you don’t need nothing else.”
The servants. Hmm. “Actually, I did want to speak to you about one matter.” He dipped his head at Edwin. “That is, if your lordship doesn’t mind my getting back to work.”
“Do as you must,” Blakeborough said genially, and poured himself another glass, clearly intent on finishing the bottle. “See you in the morning. We’ll discuss our plans for our club more then.”
“Certainly,” Jeremy said, though he wondered if either of them would remember much of their conversation in the morning.
He’d better sober up. He still had to paint Yvette tonight, assuming that she returned.
Nodding Damber from the room, he waited until they were a short way down the hall before he halted the lad. “You and the earl’s servants get along well, don’t you?”
Damber eyed him warily. “I think so. Why?”
Yes, why? Oh, right. Yvette.
He bit back an oath. He really needed to clear his head. “I want you to try to learn what they know about her suitors or other male admirers. ’Specially Knightford, but anyone else they might mention, too.”
After all, this was for her own good—to make sure this brothel visit wasn’t the result of some devious fellow scheming to harm her.
With a scowl, Damber crossed his arms over his chest. “Why d’ye want to know? I like her ladyship. She’s nice. Sounds to me like you want to stir up trouble for her.”
Great. Damber actually had a notion to protect Yvette. Probably had an infatuation with her. Just what Jeremy needed.
Or maybe it was. “Actually, I’m trying to look out for her. I think a man is trying to . . . harm her, and I’m hoping to find out who so I can help her. But she won’t tell me.”
That was the truth. Perhaps not all of it, but still the truth.
Damber’s face cleared. “Well, she does seem distracted of late. That’s what the servants say.” He lifted an eyebrow. “They blame it on you.”
“It’s not me. Her troubles began before we came here. I can’t tell you more than that.” He didn’t know more than that.
His apprentice nodded. “I’ll see what I can learn.”
“Don’t be too obvious. But try to find out something before tomorrow night.” He would be armed with ammunition before he and Yvette headed off to that brothel if it killed him.
“What’s tomorrow night?” Damber asked.
“A masquerade that the Barlows and I are going to.” He grimaced. “And Knightford.”
“Ah. Then I won’t fail you in this, sir. You can be sure of it.” Damber walked off.
“One more thing!” Jeremy called out.
The earl’s words earlier about the younger Barlow brother nagged at him: By the time I found out about the women he . . . What exactly had Samuel Barlow done? The earl couldn’t have meant the kidnapping that Manton had thwarted, because everybody already knew about that. But Jeremy couldn’t see any other way that Barlow’s shenanigans could relate to Yvette.
When Damber halted, Jeremy murmured, “See if you can also learn what got Samuel Barlow banished from the family.”
Damber blinked, then nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
As Damber left, Jeremy headed for his bedchamber and an ice-cold pitcher of water. He meant to dunk his head in it a few dozen times, until he had better control of his senses. Because he needed to be sober by the time he saw Yvette.
He refused to head off to a brothel with her tomorrow night without having some idea of what he was getting into. And that meant acquiring information about her past however he must. Even if he had to coax it out of her himself.