Three
Jeremy was shocked. Then intrigued. Then disturbed by the notion of Lady Yvette going anywhere near a den of iniquity.
Not that he would let her see it. He had a reputation to uphold, after all. “You don’t need my help for that. Covent Garden is known for its enthusiastic acquisition of . . . er . . . nuns. Just walk in, and I’m sure they’ll welcome you with open arms.”
Her outraged gaze shot to him. “I’m not aiming to be a Covent Garden nun, you devil!”
He’d figured that, of course. He’d just wanted to spark that intoxicating fire in her eyes again. “Then why go in a nunnery?”
“I’m looking for a . . . a person.”
“Ah,” he said, as if he understood. Which he certainly did not. “A friend of yours?”
“Something like that.” Her rosy cheeks showed she wasn’t nearly as nonchalant about this as she let on.
“You have a friend in a whorehouse,” he said bluntly.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “It doesn’t matter why I want to go into one, just that I do. And since you enter them all the time, I figure you’re the perfect person to sneak me in.”
“I do have a bit of experience in that regard.” Not as much as everyone assumed, but enough to know his way around. “Indeed, it would probably be safer for your reputation if I entered alone. If you’d just give me the name of the person—”
“I can’t. I don’t know for certain that my . . . er . . . friend is even there. This must be handled very discreetly. And it’s essential that I go with you. I can’t explain why.”
This got more curious by the moment. “I assume that asking your brother to help you is out of the question?”
She paled. “He cannot know I’m doing this. He mustn’t know.”
“So if he finds out, he’ll throttle me.”
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of my brother.”
He bit back a smile. Her taunts were so transparent. “What can I say? I’m an artist, not a fighter. I’ve no great desire to have my nose bashed in.”
“That would only happen if Edwin learned of it. Which he’s not going to.” She glanced away. “Our visits must be conducted in utter secrecy.”
“You expect a notorious scoundrel like me to bring you into a brothel without having anyone remark upon it?”
“I can wear a disguise.” She eyed him from beneath sooty lashes that made something tighten in his chest. And lower. “Or pretend to be your paramour, joining you for . . . whatever a paramour would do in a place like that.”
Oh, he could think of several interesting things he could do with Lady Yvette in a whorehouse, none of them acceptable to a lady of her upbringing. Best to shove those ideas right out of his mind. “So how are we to visit a brothel when we’re to be closeted out at your country estate for the next few weeks while I paint your portrait?”
She shrugged. “Preston isn’t that far from London. We come into town often enough. All you and I need do is attend some other social affair, find a way to keep Edwin busy, and then dart off for a bit to make our Covent Garden visit.”
“Really? That’s ‘all you and I need do,’ is it?”
Ignoring his sarcasm, she tapped her chin with her finger. “We should go to the theater. It’s already situated in Covent Garden. Of course we’d have to find a way to occupy Edwin . . .”
“A minor consideration,” he said tersely.
This time his sarcasm registered, and he was rewarded with another lovely blush. “I’m sure we can manage it.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Do you want to paint me or not? Because the only way I’ll agree to sitting for either painting is if you do this for me.”
If he had any sense, he would throw her bargain back in her face, and her brother’s, too, for that matter. He didn’t like being taken for a fool, especially by some secretive chit, no matter how clever and arresting.
But his mind was already leaping ahead to how she would look robed in Roman white. Or maybe a knee-length Greek chiton. He already knew she’d have shapely calves to match the beautiful contours of her arms in those long, formfitting gloves she wore. And the image of her in something little better than a shift was rousing more than his artistic imagination.
He moved closer to the fountain, praying that the imposing marble bowl would hide his unwise attraction.
“Well?” she asked.
Her demanding tone wasn’t helping his arousal any. He found imperious women intoxicating. They tended to be honest in bed. Nothing more erotic than a woman, even a saucy innocent, who asked for exactly what she wanted. Just the thought of this particular innocent asking for what she wanted, what she needed, had him hardening even more.
Damn her. He had no desire to wed anyone again, especially some earl’s daughter harboring sordid secrets. And if he made advances toward her ladyship, that’s exactly what would happen. He would find himself leg-shackled faster than his apprentice could mix paints.
So he was surprised to hear himself say, “All right. We’ll visit the Covent Garden brothel as soon as I can figure out how to arrange it without ruining you.” Then he paused. “You do know there’s more than one, don’t you?”
Her eyes widened. “You’re joking.”
“Not a bit. I believe there are at least three.”
She began to pace. “Drat him, all he said was it was in Covent Garden!”
“He who? Blakeborough?”
“B-Blakeborough?” she repeated, clearly startled.
“Not your brother, then.” A chill skated down his spine. Could it be her other brother, the criminal one? No, she would have involved Blakeborough if it were. Jeremy had enough experience with the English aristocracy to know that they closed ranks around their own. Or cut them off completely.
So this was clearly her own private affair. What had he gotten himself into?
She swallowed hard. “I was referring to my . . . er . . . source of information about the person I seek.”
“And who is this source?” He fixed her with a hard look. “A friend? A secret lover? Before I agree to this insanity, I want to know who else is involved.”
“You already agreed!”
“That was before I knew—”
Someone hailed them from the steps, and Jeremy looked up to find a scowling Blakeborough rapidly approaching.
“So this is where you two got off to,” the earl said.
Pasting a bored expression to his face, Jeremy said, “We came out here to get some air. It was stifling in the ballroom.”
Warily, the man glanced from Jeremy to his sister. But he must have seen nothing to give alarm, for his face cleared. “So? Did the two of you come to an agreement? Are you painting Yvette’s portrait?”
Jeremy stared at Yvette, and the pleading look on her face punched him in the gut.
This was madness. She wanted him to help her with some secret scheme involving a brothel and an unknown gentleman. He barely knew her, wasn’t even sure he could trust her.
Worse yet, she tempted him more powerfully than any woman had in years. Acting on such an attraction invariably led to something deeper, which invariably led to pain and guilt and shattering loss. As long as he confined himself to easy flirtations, he didn’t end up with shards of a life to put back together.
And what would he gain if he agreed to her bargain, anyway, other than the hellish task of painting an insipid portrait of his bewitching Juno?
You’ll get to do the work you really want. You’ll have a chance to be a serious artist, not just a wealthy mill owner’s son who succeeded at a few historical paintings. You’ll get to show the world the potential in painting real life with its edges and heartbreak. What’s a little trouble over some intrigue next to that?
He dragged in a deep breath. “Of course I’m painting it. As long as Lady Yvette agrees.”
“Oh yes,” she said quickly. “I can’t wait to start.”
Neither could he. But he was a glutton for punishment whenever a fetching female was involved.
“Well, then, Keane,” Blakeborough began, “if you’d like to come round to our town house in Mayfair tomorrow—”
“Actually, Edwin,” Lady Yvette cut in with a veiled glance at Jeremy, “Mr. Keane and I have discussed it, and we feel it would be best to paint the portrait at Stoke Towers.”
The earl’s gaze narrowed on her. “Why?”
“With Mr. Keane’s reputation as a rogue, it wouldn’t do to have people see him come and go regularly from our town house. It would almost certainly start tongues wagging. You don’t want that, do you?”
“I suppose not,” her brother muttered.
“Besides, you hate being in town when Parliament isn’t in session. I could barely get you to stay tonight.”
“That’s true, but—”
“And we do have that charitable event in Preston for the boys’ school you support—I can’t sit in London being painted while the plans for that languish. Though if you want to put the portrait off for a few weeks, that could work. Of course, I don’t know how long Mr. Keane intends to be in town . . .”
Jeremy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Blakeborough seemed entirely unaware that he was being managed.
The earl glanced at Jeremy. “You agreed to this? Aren’t you expecting your family to arrive soon?”
“My cousin wasn’t sure exactly when. It could be weeks. And Zoe will send word the moment they do. Your sister tells me you don’t live far from town. Is that correct?”
Blakeborough nodded. He surveyed the two of them as if trying to work out what plot might be afoot. But Jeremy had always been expert at hiding his feelings, and Lady Yvette seemed expert at hiding them from her brother, at least.
At last the earl sighed. “Oh, very well, Yvette, if you prefer it.” He turned to Jeremy. “Do you play chess? Or any sort of cards?”
“Occasionally. Though I’m not particularly good at either.”
“Even better,” Blakeborough said with a rare smile.
Jeremy wondered if the earl possessed many friends. He didn’t seem to. It was another thing they had in common.
“Well, then,” Lady Yvette said, “we’re agreed. Since I assume you’re staying with your cousin, Mr. Keane, we’ll fetch you in the morning before we leave for Stoke Towers.”
Although he found her high-handedness amusing, even seductive, she was sometimes a bit presumptuous even for him. “I’m afraid that’s too soon. I can start sketching right away, but the canvases must sit in your home for at least a week to acclimate to the temperature and humidity. So there’s little point in my joining you before that’s done.”
“Canvases?” Blakeborough echoed suspiciously. “More than one?”
“Quite a few, actually, in case the work goes awry and I have to begin again. Or I change my mind about my approach, or I decide—”
“We understand,” Lady Yvette said with a furtive look at her brother.
“So if you don’t mind fetching my canvases in the morning,” Jeremy went on, “I’ll come out myself early next week.”
“I see,” she said. “Well, then, tell me the day you mean to arrive, and I’ll send the carriage for you.”
“I prefer to use my own equipage, so I may come and go as I please.” He added, with a bit of sarcasm, “If that’s acceptable.”
She colored deeply. “Of course, but I assumed, that is—”
“That I would be happy to dance to your tune.”
“Certainly not. I just thought perhaps you didn’t have an equipage.”
Right. He was no fool—she’d begun to consider him easy to manage, too. Well, she was in for a surprise. No one managed him—not his mother, not his sister, and definitely not some lofty lady of the realm.
“Actually, my lady,” he said silkily, “I own a curricle for my use while I’m in England. Give me the direction to your estate, and I’ll present myself at whatever time you see fit next Monday.”
“I have a meeting that morning, but I’ll be home around two,” Blakeborough interrupted, sparing a sympathetic glance for his sister. “So any time after that will be fine.”
“One more thing.” Jeremy fixed his gaze on Lady Yvette. “I’ll need to bring my apprentice. His aid will ensure I finish the portrait more quickly.”
“Very well,” she said. “Will he be staying with you? Or shall I find a room for him elsewhere?”
“He’ll be comfortable enough in your servants’ quarters, if you can accommodate him.” He took another chance to provoke her. “I’ll be fine in your servants’ quarters if that’s what your ladyship prefers.”
“I’d prefer that you not be ridiculous,” she muttered, eliciting a choked laugh from her brother.
Jeremy bowed. “I shall do my best to oblige your ladyship.”
Apparently she caught that he was mocking her, for she cast him a hard look. He grinned. All right, this might be unwise for many reasons, not least of which was that he must spend part of his time on a formal portrait. But it had its advantages, as well.
He would definitely enjoy sparring with the prickly Lady Yvette.
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.