She cast a questioning gaze at him. “I suppose we should look at the portraits first, but few of those exhibited are by living artists.”
“I would prefer to find the one I want alive, so that I can throttle him myself.”
She shot him a glance of wry humor. “If I am following our conversation correctly, you want me to find a certain caricaturist so that you can kill him. I can’t be party to this, my lord. I would be taken up by the authorities as an accomplice in your evil plan.”
“Do you read the newspapers, Miss Carsten?”
“Occasionally.” Her tone was careful.
“You would be aware that political comments appear in the papers regularly. For reasons unknown to me, I am drawn as a comic background for the Prince Regent, or for the prime minister, though I am a crony of neither. I am, in fact, the target for light entertainment. At first I was puzzled. At times, I have been amused, but now I think it may be the turn of someone else to be used in this way.”
“So the real purpose for this visit to the Tate is to find out who is doing this to you? Can you not find out from the newspaper’s editor?”
“No, Miss Carsten. Apparently the artist wishes to remain anonymous. I am willing to pay him to stop lampooning me.”
“Are you in some way disadvantaged by being used as light entertainment?”
“Since most of it is ill-informed as to my doings, I can’t say I am. But last year, this wit cost me the price of a diamond necklace.”
Her face relaxed and her mouth curved. “Would the reason be suitable for me to hear?”
“Possibly not.” He smiled. Was this woman never at a loss? When he had been courting Rose all those years ago, he had not appreciated any of her friends. None would leave him alone with the woman he adored. Winsome always seemed to be watching him and waiting for him to make a fool of himself. Fortunately, today she appeared to be taking him seriously. “I was disgruntled at the time, but as it happened, it was all for the best. Helped me make a decision I should have made some time before.”
She mulled his words before she spoke. “Do you want to see the paintings or should you return me home?”
“That would be your choice, Miss Carsten. I have dragged you out on a cold morning for my own ends. Although you know more about the art world than I, I shouldn’t have expected you to know a thing about the more minor of artistic pursuits.”
“Caricaturists are not lesser beings, my lord.” Her noble nose tilted up a little.
“No doubt, but you are an artist of some merit.”
“You are flattering me without knowing the quality of my art, sir.”
“I recall some very fine pencil drawings of yours. Rose showed me a few that flattered her.”
“She needed little flattering. She is, and was, a very beautiful woman.”
“More so because of her sweet nature.” He drew a long considering breath. “Not that I understood that at the time. I was desperate to have her for my wife. Now, I realize I would have been bored with too much sweetness. I find I prefer a little spice.”
Her lashes lowered slightly, and her mouth curled with mischief. “In that case, I’ll drag you through the room devoted to paintings of a romantic nature. You’re sure to find a little spice there.”
Although he would have liked to spend more time with her, the art gallery contained more spice than he thought fitting for maiden lady. The maiden lady seemed not to share his qualms. Rather than suffering boredom while she raved about the meaning of the bared breasts of a mermaid or the entwining of a satyr with a sweet young shepherdess, he enjoyed her wit and her knowledge. When he took her home later, he realized that he had been entertained for almost two hours, without ever being given a hint as to whether she could help him with the information he was seeking.
Likely, she didn’t know any more than he did, but if he kept pursuing the subject, she might recall a face or a name. Even though he hadn’t learned a thing, he had found himself drawn to her. No one would look askance at a friendship with her when the only alternate amusement, while he resided in town, was to be introduced day after day to the newest beauties that various friends or relatives thought he should consider for the role of the Countess of Langsdene. As a contrast, Miss Carsten was an unconscionable flirt who clearly didn’t take herself seriously, a rare and novel concept.
Apparently she meant to attend the musical evening tonight. Although, until Rose had hinted she expected him, he had planned to visit Lady Bellingham’s establishment for a night of card games. Better a musical evening with old friends and neighbors than being forced to win money from his cronies.
CHAPTER 5
“John took you to the Tate. Has the man no sense?” Rose widened her eyes with mock outrage.
“Better than to the library, though,” Della said seriously.
Winsome laughed. “For me that would be second only to the Tate.”
“You would hate visiting the library with John. He would want you to borrow books to improve your mind.” Della patted her hand in a consoling way.
“Do you think he reads mind-improving stories to his mistresses,” she whispered back. Wearing her orange silk gown as ordered, she had settled with her friends into a front row seat for a quick gossip before the evening’s entertainment began. The gentlemen stood in a group at the back of Rose’s music room. Her musicians shifted delicately carved chairs and rustled music sheets while speaking to each other in undertones.
Della giggled. “You mustn’t discuss his mistresses. You are not supposed to know about that sort of thing.”
For a moment Winsome concentrated on the delicate fern patterns on the wallpaper and the hum of conversation, in a world of her own, distanced from the other guests while among them. She had lived her life this way, sociable on the outside, and lost in her thoughts on the inside. After spending so much of the day with Langsdene, she didn’t want to know about his mistresses. Her old longing for him had returned with a vengeance.
She could play at being disinterested in him, but nothing about his unsettling effect on her was objective. He caused a flurry in her insides and a muddle in her head, and she didn’t know which was worse. She saw herself as a very shallow woman to be rendered breathless by thinking about the width of a man’s shoulders and the long muscular length of his legs.
The musicians settled and began to tune up. The evening would begin with Della playing a short interlude on the piano. Later Rose would sing. Rose had the voice of an angel and Della had been a prodigy from the age of fourteen. Winsome’s talents didn’t match those of her friends. She dabbled in portrait painting but she could just have easily designed hats or gowns because her only skills were visual.
Somehow these three had remained friends for almost twenty years. None would consider being disloyal to another, which was why Winsome had been so frustrated by with Langsdene’s infatuation with Rose. She could have told him Rose was in love with Sir Ian, but Rose’s mother wanted her daughter to have a season in London first, not liking the age difference, which meant that Rose had to keep up her pretence of not having a serious contender for her hand and heart.
The musicians seated themselves. Soon Rose’s and Della’s husbands would join them, and Winsome would no longer have anyone to coze with. The first testing of a violin’s strings brought the gentlemen shuffling forward, and she sighed softly when she saw Sir Ian haul Mr. Manning along with him. Apparently this year, poor Mr. Manning had been chosen as the sacrifice on the altar of her spinsterhood. He would make a good husband, but not for her. She liked younger, taller, slimmer, impossibly handsome gentlemen whose largest problems were mildly entertaining. Featuring in a cartoon every week or so made Langsdene more interesting than a man with his money and conventional tastes would normally be.
Once upon a time, she had preferred a serious young man but the particular serious young man she had set her heart on, turned into a cad as soon as he was thwarted by his first love. “Good evening, Mr. Manning. I suspect y
ou had no idea you how much you adored musical evenings until Sir Ian compelled you to attend.”
Mr. Manning bowed to her, a smile on his homely face. “On the contrary, Miss Carsten, I had no idea I loved musical evenings until I heard you would be present.”
“We’ll make a flirt of you yet.” Sir Ian looked amused. “Though you have met an expert in Miss Carsten.”
Winsome waved a casual hand. “Years of practice, Sir Ian. Do sit beside me, Mr. Manning.”
“Tut tut,” said a languid voice behind her. “You promised that place to me. I shouldn’t wish to have to call out Manning, but if he takes my seat beside you, Miss Carsten, there will be nothing else for me to do.” Lord Langsdene stood at her side, his expression unreadable.
Taking a step back, Mr. Manning put up two placating palms. “If your place was reserved, I will concede to you, Langsdene. Another time, Miss Carsten.” Nice placid Mr. Manning retreated with a gracious bow. Winsome was happy to see that he appeared a little chagrined. How delightful to have a man express disappointment in not being seated with her.
“You are a graceless wretch, my lord. You have frightened away my only, um, prospect.”
“If he is keen enough, he’ll be back.” He settled into the chair, a poor fit for a large man, whose normal seated position appeared to be a sprawl. His wide shoulders took up even more room. The top of his arm connected with hers, causing her breathing to become a little uncertain.
“What did he have to say for himself?” Mama had asked when he had escorted her home this afternoon.
“He is in search of someone to help him find the person who has made him famous in the daily paper for appearing in caricatures.”
“No better person to ask than you.” Mama found a green thread to pretend to use on her embroidery, a nice change. Winsome had grown tired of discussing the various pinks. “Did you help him, my dear?”
“I made it clear that I couldn’t.”
“Perhaps that’s for the best.”
Winsome drew a deep breath and concentrated on Langsdene’s shapely hands, which he had clasped loosely together across his flat belly. On his middle finger he wore a gold signet ring, set with a large polished ruby. His hands were elegant and strong, covered by smooth skin. She memorized the shadows and the perspectives, recalling the last time she had done the same and then sketched them. “I suppose you are right. But I doubt he is interested. He is simply polite.”
“Being polite loses a man his place.”
“I noticed.”
His mouth softened. “And I do find you interesting.”
A tinge of regret filled her. If only he had found her interesting nine years ago. Instead she had appalled him by her shocking forwardness. Never again would she fall into the same pit. “I suspect this means I shall have to refrain from speaking in case I force you to change your opinion.”
“Somewhat unnecessary, don’t you think? You don’t give a jot about my opinion.”
“I might, on some matters.”
“For example ...” He turned to her, his eyes glinting with a lazy interest.
She didn’t want to like him. She had spent years reliving her humiliation, but perhaps, since he seemed not to remember how forward she had been, she could put the past behind. “The music, of course.”
“If Rose is singing and Della concedes to playing the piano, the night will be a success.”
At that exact moment, Della arose and took her seat at the grand piano. She went into her usual routine of settling her skirts, stretching her fingers, giving a sweet shaky smile, and then suddenly crashing her fingers down onto the keys. She played without being accompanied at first, but when the violins joined in, she eased off a little. Enthralled by her friend’s talent, Winsome noted that Langsdene scarcely moved. She could count every breath he took. She longed to close her eyes and lean against him while they enjoyed the music together. But the pleasure of intimacy with him would never be hers.
After the passage had been completed, she straightened, pretending that her shoulder hadn’t been in contact with his arm the whole time. He glanced at her, offering a faint smile as he stood. “Do you intend to stretch your legs? If so, let me escort you to a glass of ...?”
“Negus. Oh, how boring I am. I should have said champagne.” She rose to her feet.
“You are far from boring. You made a visit to an art gallery a pleasure for me. You have caused me to want a little more of your company.”
“How little?”
“I’m wondering that myself.”
But after Rose’s soaring soprano filled the room, Winsome saw that he had lost himself yet again in the glory of her voice. She couldn’t compete with beautiful Rose any more now than she had when Langsdene had first fallen for her. As Winsome sat caught in the aching throes of jealousy, he turned to her and whispered, “I’d forgotten Rose’s need to be adored. Temple must be the most patient man alive.”
She knew the faults of her friends as well as she knew her own, but to hear him mention he had also noticed, shocked her. She reproved him with a glance beneath her lashes. Not at a loss, he half smiled, picked up her fingers, and moved her hand to his lap. Carnal thoughts heated her breath. She willed herself to relax and managed well, allowing herself enjoy the pleasure of his momentary closeness. He would go no farther, not tonight, not ever, this she knew. The man was in need of a young wife.
A spinster may be useful if he charmed her, but he would want a wife who could produce an heir and a few spares for him.
CHAPTER 6
Langsdene dropped by Lady Bellingham’s establishment on the way home and discovered that gambling did not take his mind off Winsome. She had accepted his hand in friendship, which pleased him, for his vague memories of her included an incident where he may have, perhaps, behaved badly. She appeared not to remember, or perhaps his callow inexperience had no impact on her, which was more likely. Even now she was one of the most self-possessed women he knew.
His head barely touched the pillow before he fell asleep and he awoke refreshed. He disrupted his staff by arriving early in the breakfast parlor. A pot of coffee was hastily presented, and the morning paper, while his cook quickly prepared a few dishes. He took his time reading the news, putting off turning the pages in case he had appeared again. After he had finished a plate of ham and a round of hot fresh bread, he drew a deep breath and faced what had been a normal sight for too long. Yes, another caricature of him.
In this one, Lord Liverpool and Lord Wellington held hands and skipped off into the sunset while in the background a hint of his face peered out of a doorway, where a line of young ladies awaited, all dressed in pretty gowns and hats. He sighed. Apparently, instead of being featured with ladies of ill-repute, he was about to become respectable and dally with sweet young things instead. He made a fist of his hand and crashed it upon the table. The footman appeared. “My lord?”
“Merely a fit of temper, Thomas,” he said, rubbing the edge of one hand with the other.
Thomas blinked with understanding. The staff always saw the cartoons long before he did. “The drawing was flattering, if you don’t mind me saying so, my lord.”
“In what way, flattering?”
“Your popularity, sir.” Thomas swept the crumbs up from the table. “So many young ladies keen to meet you.” His lids lowered to hide his expression.
“I doubt any young ladies wish to think they need to queue to meet me, Thomas,” Langsdene said, his lips curling with ironic amusement. “They’ll be looking to see whose face is drawn, next.” When Langsdene caught the miscreant he would wring his neck. No respectable parent would want his daughter parodied. He glanced at his fob watch. He would be too early to pay a morning call on Winsome. “Get Harris to hitch up the chestnuts and be at the door in half an hour.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The expression on the face of the Carsten family’s butler remained inscrutable as he opened the door to Langsdene. “If you would like to wait in th
e morning room, sir, I will find out if Miss Carsten has arisen.”
Langsdene stood, tapping his hat on his leg. He waited for ten minutes before Winsome appeared. She wore a red merino gown. A shawl patterned in red and white draped across her shoulders and looped around her elbows. Her expression looked apprehensive. “You had to wait until my hair was dressed, I’m afraid.”
He glanced at hair. “Worth the time taken,” he said, though the hairstyle was far from complicated, and again in the simple knot that suited her. “I must apologize for this early visit but being so early, I decided to drive in the park. May I have the pleasure of your company?”
She moved her mouth a little, as if considering. “You would do Miss Ann Herries the world of good if you took her up instead.”
“I would do myself a world of good if you considered joining me. I think I may be rather unpopular with the younger set today.” To hide his disgruntled expression, he glanced at the back of his glove. “You might give me the respectability I am after.”
“I’m flattered. How did you lose your reputation as a gentleman between the musical evening and now? Or is that a question I shouldn’t ask?”
He heaved a breath. “I’ve been lampooned again. Apparently I expect young ladies to line up outside my door.” Possibly, he appeared annoyed, because her eyes widened with alarm.
“Surely not?”
“If you have a paper you can see for yourself.”
“I’m willing to take your word. Oh dear. Of course I’ll do my best to make you look respectable. Should I wear black and a veil?”
Her over-dramatization pointed out his. He couldn’t help smiling. “I don’t think you need go so far. Thank you, Winsome.”
“Are we using first names now?”
“It would be unnecessary to do otherwise, since you never used to ‘my lord’ me.”
“Well, you weren’t a lord when I met you.” A dimple appeared beside her mouth. “I won’t take but a minute to find a hat and a pelisse.”
Artfully Wicked ('Pon Rep' Regency Rogues Book 1) Page 3