His Wicked Reputation

by Madeline Hunter

  He did not have to wait long. Soon a genteel commotion hummed and echoed on the stairs. Feminine giggles and whispers, and one “Head high, now.” He went to the reception hall and looked up the stairwell. He caught a glimpse of pale silk and flickering glints, of Sarah’s red hair and Rebecca’s young face.

  They turned on the landing and descended. Eva looked resplendent in a blush silk gown dripping with tiny pearls and priceless lace. A matching headdress with two feathers decorated her curled brown hair and a downy shawl draped low on her arms. She all but floated down to meet him.

  Beautiful. Poised. Regal. She knew it too. She glowed.

  He took her arm. “You are stunningly beautiful, Eva.”

  As she entered the coach, he spotted something unexpected. Entwined amid her curls, almost hidden by the headdress, a spot of color offset all the whites and creams much the way a few violets caused a white night garden to appear all the richer. The artist had tucked a simple ribbon in her hair, to vary the palette just enough to avoid it being predictable. A lavender ribbon.

  CHAPTER 21

  Eva managed not to gawk and coo like a shopgirl, but the DeVere ball proved to be everything any woman ever dreamt a ball to be. The candles, the gowns, the musicians, the dinner room—she memorized all she saw, so she could tell Sarah and Rebecca.

  Gareth claimed the first dance with her, as her escort. She enjoyed it so much she could not stop smiling. Then Gareth introduced her to other people. A great many people. Some of the gentlemen also asked to dance. After the fourth one, she looked for Gareth but could not see him.

  She decided to find a chair near the wall. No sooner had she sat when another gentleman approached. She already knew him. It was the Earl of Whitmere, to whom she had been introduced her first day in London.

  “Miss Russell! I thought that might be you.” He bowed, then glanced around. “I don’t suppose Aylesbury came after all.”

  “No. Mr. Fitzallen escorted me.”

  “Only to desert you? Well, what can one expect. He has many friends to attend upon, if you know what I mean.” He smiled confidentially. Insinuatingly. “Aylesbury thought I should amuse him tonight, but I chose to amuse myself. I am so glad that I did.” Another smile, full of meaningful flattery.

  This earl was flirting with her.

  For the Earl of Whitmere, flirting included talking about himself a great deal. She let him, wondering if there were some special etiquette involved in avoiding a peer’s company.

  “Are you rested? Shall we dance?” he finally asked. “I would be most honored.”

  “Mr. Fitzallen—”

  “Fitzallen must have fifty ex-paramours here, dear lady. For reasons unknown, they all remain his friends. I daresay you will not see him again until the night is over.” He offered his hand. She took it and they joined the next dance.

  She felt some obligation to be more vocal. As the country dance brought them together, she found a few questions to ask about his estate. He found a few to ask about her family. By the time it ended, he did not bore her as much.

  To her surprise, one of the other men with an introduction asked for a dance. Lord Whitmere stood down, looking regretful. “Perhaps I will see you later, Miss Russell.”

  While she danced this time, she noticed that Gareth did as well. His partner never took her eyes off him. The lady was a very fair woman of incredible beauty; her gaze communicated too much for a public place. She looks the way I feel sometimes. That reminded her of Lord Whitmere’s comment about Gareth’s paramours and of Jasmine Neville describing how highborn ladies never wanted to give him up.

  Rather suddenly she did not feel magnificent and beautiful, but very ordinary. Foolish too. What she had known with Gareth was not at all special to him. She was but one affair in a long line of them, enjoyed by a man who anticipated enjoying many more. How stupid of her to lose sight of that.

  A nice young man, close to her in age and appearing very young, she thought, asked to accompany her to dinner. So she sat with him while he regaled her with talk of his horses.

  Afterward, while she sat on a bench close to the musicians, listening to them play, Lord Whitmere again asked for a dance.

  It was different this time. She could not name why or how, but his attention seemed more set on her. Their talk remained small, but she could not shake the sense that some assessment was under way, as if he were determining whether she measured up and had been worth the trouble. His gaze made her uncomfortable, even though he was as friendly and gracious as before.

  When you are dancing at the ball, remember how you feel right now, Eva. Remember the bastard brother who can make you weep with desire.

  She did remember, and a nostalgic simmer warmed her blood. Yet every time she saw Gareth, he conversed with another woman, making it clear that his blood warmed for many, not only her.

  “Will you remain in London long?” Lord Whitmere asked as he led her away after the dance.

  “Not much longer at all.”

  “Pity. With a little more time, I believe you and I could become great friends, Miss Russell.” His smile, confident and condescending, said much more.

  He meant friends the way she and Gareth were friends. The earl had dishonorable intentions.

  She almost laughed at the phrase. And at her shock. Who was she to be insulted? She had boldly abandoned her virtue already, and did not even feel guilty about it. Had he guessed that? Did he consider spinsters of a certain age fair game?

  “Surely life in that village you described does not compare with the excitements of town during the Season,” he said. “Pray consider staying at least another week.”

  “I would not want to wear out my welcome as a guest.”

  “Ah. Yes, I see. A small problem, however, for which there is always a solution. I shall put my mind to it.” He bowed, kissed her hand, and walked away.

  * * *

  Whitmere stood near the musicians, eyeing Eva.

  Gareth eyed Whitmere.

  He walked over. The earl’s attention focused so completely that he did not notice Gareth until Gareth spoke.

  “I told you I would thrash you, Whitmere. She is not for you.”

  “Then who is she for? You? Go dance with her three times and declare yourself if that is how it is.”

  Gareth looked at Eva. A young man to whom Gareth had introduced her sat by her side now, speaking earnestly. “She has plans that do not involve either one of us.”

  “I, at least, would not object to plans. I would be happy to help her with them, in fact.”

  There it was, of course. The real temptation that men like Whitmere presented. Money enough to relieve a woman, whether wife or mistress, of all duties so she could pursue her own interests. Eva had already figured that part out.

  “You are wasting your time,” he said anyway. “She is gentry through and through. If you make an overture, it will insult her. That is why I will thrash you.”

  Whitmere chuckled. “Then thrash away. Just tell me where and when. Because while the overture has not played, the strings have warmed up, and she did not appear insulted at all. Surprised and curious, but not insulted.”

  He walked away, too pleased with himself. Gareth walked over to Eva. He wanted to scold her. Warn her. But surely she had seen Whitmere’s interest for what it was.

  “Will you grant me the honor of a dance, Miss Russell?” he asked, interrupting the earnest young Mr. Pierpont. Pierpont took umbrage and frowned. Gareth stared him down. Eva took his hand, and he led her toward the musicians.

  “That was a little rude,” she said.

  “He was boring you. I did the chivalric thing.”

  “How good of you to notice. That he was boring me, that is. Your arrival startled us both, however. I had almost forgotten you were here.”

  “Whenever I looked for you, you were well occupied.”

  She wore a false smile while they danced. When the music stopped, she hid a yawn behind her gloved hand. “I know these
balls go on until morning at times, but I am ready to leave whenever you are.”

  “Then we will go now, if you like.”

  He was not sorry to depart. He escorted her to the reception hall, then went out to tell a servant to call for the coach. When he returned, he could not see Eva. Then he noticed a bit of her dress showing from behind a pedestal that held an antique statue.

  Stepping to one side, he saw Eva deep in conversation with the Earl of Whitmere.

  * * *

  Eva looked up at the earl. The corner behind the statue was not entirely private. She doubted following him there would be thought scandalous.

  The implications of his words would be, however.

  “If you are agreeable, write to me, and I will put my secretary on it at once.”

  She did not know what to say. If etiquette existed for such a situation, no one had told her. Nor had he been explicit. He would leave that for his secretary, she supposed.

  She smiled noncommittally and stepped around the pedestal. Ten feet away, Gareth stood, watching.

  Lord Whitmere acted as if nothing at all were untoward. He bowed to her. He nodded to Gareth. He returned to the ball.

  Gareth tucked her arm around his and escorted her out. “I trust he was not importuning you behind that statue.”

  “I am not sure that importuning is the right word.”

  “How so?”

  They settled into the coach and it moved down the street. “He cajoled me to stay in town for at least another week, or fortnight. Or longer.”

  “In order to enjoy the pleasure of his company, I suppose?”

  “Mostly to further my artistic studies, and meet important artists and other connections. To hear him speak of it, there is no other place for an artist to be.”

  “There is an advantage, that is true. Not an insurmountable one. Nor do men ask women to stay in town for altruistic reasons alone. I think you know that.”

  “Yes.” Other than a crisp tightness in his tone, he did not sound angry or jealous.

  Of course not. If she could have no expectations of him, he would not have any of her. Gareth would be very fair about that.

  So why did she want to hit him?

  “Behind the statue, he was proposing a solution to my exceeding my welcome in your brother’s house. An alternative, so I could stay if I choose. One of his properties is vacant. A house just north of Cavandish Square. He is prepared to let it to me at a very good rent.”

  “How good?”

  “A shilling a month. I am to write to his secretary, a Mr. Hoburn, about it.”

  Silence. No anger. No curses. Just Gareth sitting there, as if they discussed the weather.

  After a moment, Gareth said, still in that cool, noncommittal tone, “An advantageous arrangement.”

  Her breath caught. Her heart felt sick and angry and horribly disappointed.

  The coach pulled up in front of Langley House. Fighting her emotions, she found the poise to enter the house with him. In the reception hall, Gareth gestured for the night footman to leave.

  “You were among the loveliest women there tonight, Eva.” He moved to kiss her.

  She stepped back. “You knew what he was considering about me, didn’t you? You joked about a man trying to buy me with a carriage and servants and jewels, but it was not really a joke.”

  She felt tears brimming. For all the compliments, she felt insulted—but by Gareth, not Whitmere. “Did the two of you sit and plot it? Did you tell him about us, so he knew I was no innocent? Were you acting as his procurer?”

  The anger that flared in his eyes made her cringe. “Is that what you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  His expression fell. He reached for her. She veered out of reach and stumbled away, blinded by tears. “Do not touch me. Do not.”

  She ran up the staircase. At the top of the third set, she composed herself and wiped her eyes. Then she entered Sarah’s sitting room.

  Sarah dozed in a chair. Rebecca had fallen asleep over a book in another one. With her entry, they both woke up.

  “Was it wonderful?” Rebecca asked. “Did you hold your own? Did you meet other dukes? Was the Crown Prince there?”

  Sarah moved to a divan and patted the cushion beside her. “You must share every detail, every moment, and every word.”

  Eva sat and removed her headdress. Then she told them all about it. She shared her night with them, but not every detail, every moment, and every word.

  * * *

  “Hell of a thing,” Ives said while he and Gareth tied their horses to posts on The Strand. “Someone got careless. Or impatient.”

  “Let us see if we can charm the information out of him.”

  “And if we can’t?”

  “Then you can threaten him in your best lawyerly ways, while I do the same in illegal ways.”

  Ives grinned. “I am shocked that you would insinuate violence to obtain information.”

  “Fine words coming from you. At least I only insinuate.”

  “Or so you say.”

  Today of all days he only said. If this man gave them the least trouble, he would probably thrash the fool gladly. He wanted to thrash someone for any reason at the moment. The argument with Eva, and her hurt and accusations, still rang in his head.

  He thought he had been damned noble. He had tried not to stand in her way, and for his sacrifice she turned on him and accused him of all but selling her to Whitmere.

  They entered the small picture gallery of Mr. Longinus Parala. A miniature version of an auction house or estate gallery, it bulged with art. Pictures crammed its walls, and bins held prints and watercolors. Gareth pretended to study the former, but actually his gaze quickly hopped from one picture to the next.

  Ives sidled up to his side. “I do not see any of the others here. Do you?”

  “Hard to say. This could be a copy of a Constable here. There was one on the list. When an inventory says only a landscape, however, it is hard to know which one.”

  A gentleman sitting at a fine inlaid-wood writing desk in the corner ignored them for a long while. Then, as if he suddenly realized he had company, he turned and lifted spectacles off his hawkish nose and set them atop his head on his dark hair. After he critically scanned their persons and garments, a smile broke on his thin, long face.

  “My dear sirs. Can I be of service?” He stood and approached them. Dressed in gray from shoulders to hose, he broke the habit at his feet, where scarlet pumps formed startling bright spots.

  “Are you the proprietor? Mr. Parala?” Ives asked.

  “I am.”

  “Is that Italian? Parala? Your accent suggests as much, as does your name.”

  “It is. I was born in Genoa.”

  Ives smiled. Gareth could read his thoughts. This particular Parala might have ancestors from Genoa, but beneath the exaggerated accent one heard the unmistakable lilt of Scotland. Perhaps the picture seller believed the Demmiwoods would assume an Italian dealer knew his art, rather like French ladies’ maids were assumed to dress hair better than English ones.

  Ives walked to the door, and locked it. “I hope you do not mind. We would like a private conversation with you.” For good measure he drew the curtains over the window. He came back and handed Parala his card.

  Parala peered at the card in the sudden twilight of the gallery. He glanced sharply at Ives. Then at Gareth.

  “He’s the Duke of Aylesbury’s full brother, and a barrister sworn to uphold the law,” Gareth said, pointing to Ives. “I’m the bastard brother, born outside the law. He’s the gentleman. I’m not. He’s going to ask polite questions. If we do not like your answers, I will then ask them my way.”

  “Subtle,” Ives murmured.

  Longinus Parala’s eyes bulged with alarm. “I’m sure I don’t know—that is, I find this most irregular.”

  “Most irregular,” Ives soothed. “My brother can be too impatient and rough. Well, what can you expect? Why don�
��t you sit down. This will not take long.”

  Parala made the mistake of sitting in his chair again. That left him looking up while Gareth and Ives hovered above.

  Ives asked him about the Gainsborough offered to Demmiwood.

  “A fine piece,” Parala said. “I thought of him at once. I find Gainsborough too sentimental, but there are those who still favor his style.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “I am not at liberty to say.”

  Ives looked at Gareth. “He is not at liberty to say.”

  “Damned inconvenient.”

  Ives menaced his size over the picture seller. “Liberty. An interesting word. If you do not tell us where you procured that painting, your own liberty will cease for many years. You may even swing. Demmiwood is prepared to swear information against you that you offered him a forgery.”

  “Forgery! How dare he accuse me of that?”

  “Because it is a forgery,” Gareth said.

  Parala’s mad gaze shifted from him to Ives and back again. “You sound very sure.”

  “We are completely sure.”

  “The paint isn’t even totally dry,” Gareth said.

  “Oh, dear. Oh, my.” Parala crossed his arms, tucked his scarlet shoes under the chair, and huddled in on himself. “I had no idea. You must believe me. There was no signature, but that is common. The style spoke for itself.”

  “Where did you get it?” Ives asked again.

  Parala’s face twisted with fury. He turned to his desk. He picked up his pen and jotted. “The blackguard. The rogue. To put me at such risk—I hope he hangs. Here is his name and place of business. Horace Zwilliger is his name. Tell him his old friend Longinus sent you.”

  * * *

  “We must go at once,” Ives said as soon as they left Parala’s gallery. “We cannot risk this Zwilliger fellow bolting.”

  Gareth did not want to go at once. He wanted to return to Langley House, find Eva, and say all the things he would have said last night.

  Ives rode off. Gareth grudgingly followed. They rode quickly to the address provided by Parala. It turned out to be a small house tucked next to a brothel in the St. Giles stews.