by Megan Chance
She winced and hurried quickly to the door, opening it to find Henry curled in what looked like a supremely uncomfortable position on the seat. He woke the moment she opened the door, sat up with a groan, blinking at her.
"Oh, pardon, miss. I—I didn't mean to fall asleep."
She felt sick. "Don't be ridiculous, Henry," she said. "I'm so sorry. I thought they'd sent you home. I didn't know you'd been here all night."
He rubbed his eyes. "I did go home," he said, frowning. "It was Mr. Thomas who sent me back this mornin'. Said I was to fetch you home an hour ago."
Imogene's heart seemed to stop. "I see," she said quietly, standing aside for the driver to climb out and then getting inside herself, sitting stiffly against the seat.
It seemed to take only minutes to reach Washington Square, and her godfather's house. The carriage jerked to a stop, and when Henry opened the door and helped her to the walk, Imogene's mouth was so dry she couldn't swallow. She struggled for calm as she went inside. In the quiet of the foyer she stopped and closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, searching for strength and explanation.
"Genie."
Thomas's voice came before she was ready. Imogene's eyes snapped open. She saw her godfather standing at the door to his study, his white hair rumpled as if he'd run his fingers through it many times, the circles beneath his eyes evident.
She felt immediately guilty, horribly contrite. "Oh Thomas," she babbled. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to worry you, or Katherine. I just ..." She let the words trail off when he gestured wearily.
"Have you eaten?" he asked.
Her stomach twisted. "I'm not hungry."
He nodded. "Then perhaps you have a moment to talk?"
How calm he was, how reasoned and low his voice. It confused her; she'd expected a lecture, anger that she richly deserved. But then again, she'd never seen Thomas really angry, not in all the years she'd known him.
The thought gave her pause, she felt worse than ever. A tirade would be better. Punishment would be better. But this disappointment that hovered around him like a fog, this strange disillusionment, was somehow harder to bear.
She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. "Of course," she said, shrugging out of her mantle and hanging it on a peg behind the stairs before she followed him into his study. Her dread grew when he carefully closed the door; guilt made her chest tight as she watched him make his way heavily to a chair.
He waited until she took the seat opposite, until she nervously smoothed her skirts and lifted her chin to look at him. Then he sighed.
"Your father has been my good friend for more than thirty years," he began. "I wonder if you can imagine what that means? I wonder if you understand the trust he has placed in me? You are his only child now, Imogene. He would be inconsolable if I allowed anything to happen to you."
Imogene tried to imagine her father grief-stricken over her. It was an impossible image. Anger, she could visualize. Disappointment, yes. But grief? No. Chloe had been the one her father grieved over. Still grieved over. Imogene looked down at her hands.
"I must confess I don't understand what happened last night," Thomas went on. "You've always been such a level-headed girl."
Imogene swallowed. She looked up at him, meeting his eyes. "I'm sorry, Thomas."
He frowned. "I'm not sure that's enough, Imogene. If it gets out that you spent the evening—the night— with Whitaker, your reputation will be in tatters. I doubt I can do much to save it."
"I don't care about my reputation."
"Perhaps." Thomas looked thoughtful. He hesitated, and she saw the question in his eyes, knew he was debating whether to ask it.
She decided to save him the trouble. "Nothing happened, Thomas," she said. "They took me to a salon, that's all, and then we came back and we ... we talked. I fell asleep—in a chair in the studio."
He made a soft sound, a wry laugh. "Whitaker didn't touch you?"
She wondered how to answer him, felt uncomfortable with the lie she knew he wanted, the safe answer, the "He was a perfect gentleman." But she couldn't just lie outright, and more than that, she wanted to talk to someone about Whitaker, wanted some insight into what had happened last night, wanted to understand herself. And since she had been very small, Thomas had always been someone she could talk to— the only one.
But she was afraid if she told him the truth, he would forbid her to see Whitaker, and she couldn't bear that either. Not yet.
So all she said was, "1 feel . . . special . . . when I'm with him."
Thomas's thick white brows came together in a frown. "Special?"
Imogene leaned forward, her words falling over themselves in the rush to explain. "I'm not sure how to describe it, but it's like he's—he's changed. Overnight. He was brilliant before, but now he's like . . . like a shooting star. And he's interested in me, Thomas. Me, not Chloe, not anyone else. He wants to teach me things, and Thomas . . . Thomas, I want to learn them. I want to learn anything he cares to show me."
"Things? What things does he want to teach you, Imogene? Hmmm?"
She flushed and looked down at her hands. "I'm talking about art," she said quietly.
"Oh, my dear, I'm sure you are." Thomas sighed. He leaned forward, took her hands in his. "But surely you realize Whitaker has a reputation. I don't mean to be indelicate, my dear, but Jonas has always had an eye for the ladies—and he is never in a relationship for long."
"You think he'll seduce me and leave me," Imogene said flatly.
Thomas's gaze never left hers. "I think he'll try, if he hasn't already."
She pulled away.
"I'm sorry," he continued evenly, "but I must admit I don't know what to believe. A month ago you never would have done this. You never would have disappeared for an entire night, you would have considered your reputation and our worry. I can't help but wonder just how much Whitaker has to do with this change."
"I've told you—"
"I know what you've told me." Thomas took a deep breath. "I would like to ask you not to see Jonas for a while, but I understand these lessons are very important to you. So for now, I will simply warn you—as your guardian, as your friend. Jonas is an artist; he lives in a different world from you and me. He would think nothing of ruining you. Do you understand me, Imogene? He cares nothing for your future. You are not the kind of woman who could escape him unscathed."
"I'm not like Chloe, isn't that what you mean?" she asked bitterly.
Thomas looked at her steadily. "That is not a failing, my dear," he said gently.
His words startled her. They took her anger and left her with a sadness that seemed to reach deep into her heart, a sadness so deep she could not respond to it. All she could do was give him the answer she knew he wanted, the promise he was hoping for. "I'll consider what you've said," she said slowly. "I'm sorry for putting you through this."
He met her gaze, and she saw the scrutiny in his eyes, had the feeling she wasn't fooling him at all. And when he spoke, when he said, "Consider yourself forgiven, my dear. I merely want to protect you," she was doubly sure that was the case, because though his words were carefully neutral, she heard the chill beneath them, heard the unspoken threat in his reminder.
"I merely want to protect you," he'd said.
But what if she didn't want to be protected?
Chapter 15
When he came back, she was gone. He froze, looking around the studio, wondering if she'd gone into his bedroom or behind the changing screen, but he knew she hadn't. There was a feeling of vacancy in the room, a sense of emptiness, even though Rico was there, still sound asleep, his long form folded into a worn and overstuffed chair.
No, she was gone. Jonas felt a sharp stab of disappointment; he clutched the tube of color in his hand so tightly the paint bulged. With a sigh he glanced down at it. Vermillion, to put life in the courtesan's skin— the same life that pulsed in Genie's. He wanted to find a way to re-create that soft strength in her soul. To show the spirit in her heart. He
ached to try. Now. This morning. So he'd borrowed the color from Byron Sawyer, thinking it would take too much time to go to Goupil's to buy it, and more than that, Jonas was afraid she would leave in the time he was gone.
But still he'd been gone too long, though it had been only minutes. Hadn't it? He glanced at the window, trying to gauge the time, and then gave up and looked back at the chair where he'd left her. Her face burned in his mind, the erotic tranquility of her sleep—Damn, how dare she leave him? How dare she abandon him now, when his entire masterpiece, his entire career, depended on her? With a curse he threw the tube of paint aside. It thudded against the wall.
"Temper, temper." Rico's soft, lazy voice came from the chair.
Jonas turned to see Childs watching him from half- lidded eyes. "Where the hell did she go?"
Rico raised a brow and struggled to sit up, groaning as he did so. He glanced at the chair beside him. "She's left then?" he asked, pushing fine blond strands back from his forehead. "Home, I imagine. How unfortunate. I'd hoped to take her back myself and explain. No doubt Gosney will be furious with her."
"Who gives a damn about Gosney?"
Rico looked faintly surprised. "Why, you should. Especially if you intend to keep the girl close. I can't imagine he'll approve, given your reputation."
Jonas frowned.
"I would expect a visit from him today if I were you," Rico went on, his voice deliberately, annoyingly, casual. "To ask what your intentions are." He slanted a startlingly blue glance at Jonas. "About which I am also quite curious. What are your intentions toward the charming Miss Imogene?"
Jonas felt a surge of irritation; he wasn't sure if it was because of Rico's question or because of the way he used her name. The charming Miss Imogene. Charming. Yes, she was that. Among other things. Many other things.
He glared at Childs. "My intentions are none of your business."
"Come, come," Rico said impatiently. "You forget who you speak to, mon ami. I'm not blind. That was no innocent tête à tête I interrupted last night."
Jonas felt irritation again, pulsing through his blood, igniting his temper. "Get the hell out, Rico."
Childs didn't budge. "You cannot run away from it, Jonas," he said reasonably. "Think about who she is. The goddaughter of your patron, an innocent. She is no Clarisse. You cannot simply seduce her and toss her aside when you're tired of her."
"I have no intention of doing that," Jonas said angrily, though he had no idea if he did or not. He saw Childs's raised eyebrow, his cynical disbelief, and Jonas's irritation grew, a sharp anger that made his skin hot and his temples pound. "Damn you, Rico, leave me alone."
Rico hesitated. Jonas saw the wariness in his friend's eyes and suddenly he knew what was coming, knew the words before Rico said them.
"You are not yourself, Jonas," Childs said, and there it was, the phrase Jonas had expected, the look he'd seen a hundred times before—ah, God, the look. Compassion.
Pity.
"You are not yourself. ..." "Because you must wish you still had it. ..." "This is for the best, son, you must believe me. ..." Rico's words. Genie's words. His father's words. They echoed in his mind, and it was like being in a room from which he couldn't escape, a prison in his brain that hurt—God, it hurt so damn bad. The pain infuriated him, filled him with a fierce, white-hot anger that overwhelmed reason and everything else.
It exploded in him, uncontrollable, undeniable, and before he knew what he was doing, he grabbed an ivory statuette, a Chinese love toy he had treasured but that suddenly meant nothing, and threw it at Rico with all his strength.
He saw the rest with the fuzziness of illusion: the ivory spinning through the air, twisting slowly, one end over the other. Too slow, he thought, watching it turn. He wondered if it would ever reach its destination and then forgot what that destination was. He saw Rico's shock, saw his friend twist away, ducking his golden head. Saw the ivory miss Rico by inches, heard the sharp crack of it against the wall, saw it split and fall in pieces that scattered across the floor.
And all the time Jonas thought, Stop this. You can stop this. But he couldn't. The rage was still there, burning inside him, and when Rico jerked around to face him, Jonas clenched his fist, his whole body felt tight.
"Get the hell out of here," he said, and though he meant to simply speak the words, they came out in a scream—an otherworldly sound that echoed in the studio, that trembled within its walls. "Get the hell out."
But Rico didn't move at all. His stare cut through Jonas. It was too concerned, too caring, and it made Jonas want to lash out, to hurt someone, anyone. He grabbed another statuette from the shelf, readied to throw it.
"Why do you do this to yourself, mon ami?"
Jonas hesitated, and in that hesitation was salvation —he saw it, he tasted it. But it was too far away, too hazy to see clearly, and he struggled for an answer and realized he had no answer to give, no reason except that he couldn't help himself. Ah, Christ, he couldn't help himself.
"Get the hell out," he shouted, throwing the statuette to the floor instead, watching it clatter over the stained boards. "Leave me alone."
And he told himself not to care when he saw the way Rico considered him, saw the way his friend took a deep breath and started to the door. He told himself he had a right to be angry. Rico had no right to tell him what to do, no right to insinuate . . . what?
Christ, he couldn't remember. The only thing left was the anger.
And it was only anger that remained when Rico went out the door. Jonas was suddenly left alone in the mess of his studio, alone with his thoughts and his temper. Alone with his vision.
His vision. Ah, yes, his vision.
He looked at the canvas. At Genie.
Genie.
The thought of her immediately calmed him.
It was late. So late there were only a few patrons left in the posh Park Row gambling den known as The Red House. Late enough that Jonas had forgotten his earlier anger, as well as the reasons for it. After six hours of working on the courtesan, he'd been filled with the undeniable urge to socialize, to laugh and talk and play, and to that end he'd searched Rico out again, had brought him a bottle of very expensive French cognac as an apology and begged him—cajoled him—into going out on the town.
And now Jonas felt at peace with the world—more than that. He felt ... in harmony. Yes, that was it. In harmony.
He smiled and sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers restlessly on the table, breathing deeply of the cigar-scented smoke hovering in the room, the musky scent of men's cologne. He glanced at George Teck, who sat opposite him. The man stared at the cards in his hand as if he could somehow divine the world's secrets from their faces.
"Do you think you could make up your mind before the year is out, George?" he asked impatiently.
George glanced up. "Just a moment, just a moment. Stop that infernal tapping, won't you? It's deuced distracting."
Beside Jonas, Childs yawned. "It's getting late," he said. "Let's finish this hand, shall we?"
"All right, all right." George smoothed his heavy brown mustache and threw a voucher into the pile. "Fifty dollars."
William Martinson took another sip of his bourbon and shook his head. "Too rich for my blood, boys," he said, folding his cards. "I'm out."
George looked at Jonas, raising a heavy brow. "Well?"
A rush of adrenaline surged through Jonas, a restless excitement. He didn't bother to look at his cards again, kept them folded on the table, and tossed a voucher into the center of the pile. "I'll raise you fifty."
"Mon dieu." Rico exhaled in surprise. He leaned forward, his voice low and concerned and a trifle wary. "Careful, my love. You were poor as a parson yesterday. Since when did you become Croesus?"
"Don't worry." Jonas waved his friend's concern away. Nothing could go wrong tonight. The world was safe and warm; the men who sat at this table with him were his best friends. He loved them like brothers. Perfect men, as perfect as the fine
wine they drank. He thought of buying another bottle—two or three, perhaps. Nothing was too good for his friends. He would give them everything he owned if they only asked for it. He grinned. "Luck is with me tonight."
"It most certainly is not," Childs contradicted. "By my count you've lost over two hundred dollars."
"Let him play if he wants," George protested. "You're not his guardian, Childs."
Jonas watched with amusement, seeing the avariciousness shining from George's eyes, as well as Rico's worry. It made him laugh. "But he is my guardian, George," he said. "My guardian angel. Rico, surely you know it's my turn to win."
"I know it had better be," Rico said dryly. "Or you'll be living out of my pockets for the next month."
Jonas ignored him. He glanced around, at the flickering gaslights illuminating the room, glinting on the rosewood furniture and sparkling off the gilt mirrors. It was too bright in here, too bright and too polished. The reflections in the mirrors showed every face in the room. He saw them all; they filled his consciousness, and for a moment all those reflected faces took on the snouts and ears and eyes of animals, and he imagined he was seeing every man's true nature revealed in his face: wolves and foxes and dogs—like those unpleasant dogs of his father's—two spaniels who traipsed around the property as if they owned it, trampling the gardens and the roses. The image made him think of his mother, as well as an old lover who smelled so strongly of roses it had given him a headache to be with her, and that brought back the memory of his old schoolmaster, who had a rosewood settee in his office —just like the rosewood chair in the corner here. Jonas wondered where rosewood came from. Was it wood from rosebushes? The bushes seemed hardly big enough for a chair, but perhaps they grew that way. He thought he remembered a fairy tale where the rosebushes had covered the castle walls, making it impenetrable. Or were those brambles?
"Here you go, then." George set his cards on the table, fanning them so Jonas could clearly see the two pairs, jacks and sevens.