“My dear,” Mr. Quicken said, “I’m afraid you’ve been cheated. I’m well aware of Victor Bartlett-James and his work, and this sketch was not created by him. It is a forgery.”
For the longest moment she had trouble stifling a laugh of absurdity. “That’s impossible,” she blurted, scanning the group for some sort of assurance. She got nothing in return but glances ranging from awkwardness to pity.
Quicken rubbed the back of his neck, ignoring her insistence altogether. “I’m certain that under the circumstances you will want to compensate Lord Chatwin for the . . . uh . . . blunder.”
And that’s when it hit her—his lie, his deception, and the ultimate social humiliation he had planned from the beginning.
The painting was an original, and they both knew it. So did Quicken, if he was truly an authenticator. But Ian Wentworth had planted the seed of doubt tonight, setting up an elaborate ruse to begin her social ruin. He’d trapped her into admitting that she had sold this sketch to him, and now they all knew she would also be expected to return payment. He’d even made certain the ladies might consider the possibility that she had created this piece herself as the forger. There was no real proof that she hadn’t cheated the Duke of Chatwin by attempting to sell her own art in place of an original, and every reason to doubt her word. Even Miles Whitman couldn’t seem to look at her as he stared instead at his shoes. And she couldn’t tell all, explain anything, without revealing to everyone that she was the artist Victor Bartlett-James, which, at this point, not one of them would believe.
For the first time in her adult life, Viola felt betrayed to the center of her soul. And by a man she had once cared for, ached for, and even for a time had thought she’d loved.
She looked at him again, noting his bland expression, his narrowed eyes daring her to deny his integrity, to call a gentleman of his wealth and station a liar at his own elegant party.
Bastard.
Quashing tears of anguish, helplessness, and growing fury, she backed away from the group, her gaze never moving from his. And then she turned her back on them all and walked out of the drawing room, her head high, back rigid with newfound determination.
Everything had changed. She would most certainly not be leaving tomorrow.
They were now, officially, at war.
Chapter Eleven
I couldn’t stop looking at him today, and when I finally touched him to care for him, his body responded and he reached for my hand, pleading deliriously for me to caress him. I have never experienced anything so shocking, so intimate, in my life. . . .
Ian stood at the back of the room, watching with only half interest as the club gradually filled with well-respected, finely dressed gentlemen. Many were drunk already and it wasn’t yet six in the evening, though the crowd remained rather well behaved considering the subject of tonight’s auction. He’d only had one whiskey so far in an attempt to stay alert through the process so soon to take place, his lingering doubts overcome by a growing curiosity at what he was about to witness.
He’d dressed with care, choosing evening attire in black and white silk, his cravat knotted precisely yet making him feel uncomfortably choked at the neck, probably due to both the stuffiness of the crowded room and his sour mood. Fairbourne stood at his side, sipping from his glass, engrossed in a political discussion with an older gent next to him. Ian didn’t much feel like joining in, or talking at all, for that matter. Although the evening had yet to truly begin, his thoughts kept straying to the wily Lady Cheshire.
Since she’d left his home in shame three nights ago, he’d done nothing but think of her face. Her beautiful face so stunned by his actions and intent, her bright, hazel eyes so overcome with despair and confusion and a centered hatred of him. Strangely, the searing look of fury and frightened vulnerability she had given him seconds before her departure haunted him, making him feel more annoyed at himself for caring than anything else. He should be rejoicing in her slow destruction, as he’d envisioned for five long years, but for the moment he just felt hollow. Empty.
The party itself had continued well into the evening, but his heart had gone out of it the minute she’d left. He’d played his role as he should have, though with her exit the triumph and excitement, at least for him, had quickly vanished. He’d slept little that night as he’d contemplated his next move and obsessed more than imaginable about how she might respond to him physically, finding no help at all from the stirring sketch he’d hung over the mantel facing his bed.
The problem, he mused, was how to get her to come to him, to crawl between his sheets and give in to him willingly. He had no doubts that he could seduce her, and as much as he despised her and all she stood for, forcing her wasn’t an option. She craved his touch as much as he did hers, something he’d witnessed in her gaze when he’d first caught her standing so beautifully in his green salon. Viola admired him, felt their mutual attraction, and clearly desired him. He’d seen that as well when she’d exposed flushed cheeks and a lust-filled gaze after he’d done no more than caress her behind over her gown in a crowded drawing room, a memory that amused him even now. She hadn’t been shocked by his obvious need for her, just bewildered. And that bewilderment she felt for him would be her undoing—if he could figure out how to play to it for his benefit, a problem without an answer, which was why he’d let her simmer these last three days rather than going to her with his demand.
She hadn’t been in contact with him since the night of the party, but Cafferty kept him informed of her whereabouts and intentions as much as he could. She had stayed in her town house these last three days, except for yesterday morning, when she’d made a short visit to her solicitor. Hours later the news had spread that Brimleys would be holding an exclusive auction for a prized Victor Bartlett-James painting—and the reason he found himself here tonight, dressed uncomfortably, and acknowledging the drunken crowd with building anticipation as to what Lady Cheshire had working in her very clever female mind.
The painting to be presented had created quite a stir already, although nobody had yet even seen it. It stood on a large wooden easel beneath a brightly lit chandelier, covered by a black velvet drape, and guarded by a burly man with fists the size of melons. Just the secrecy alone had started a drone of speculation, as most auctions allowed bidders to view items before the start. Apparently a Victor Bartlett-James piece created a flutter of excitement regardless of what it looked like, which managed to make it all the more valuable, he supposed. Nothing like a bit of titillation to increase its worth and, thus, the bidding.
“You think it’s an original?”
Ian straightened and looked at Fairbourne, who had turned his attention from the elder gentleman and back to him again.
“The painting?” he clarified.
Fairbourne nodded once and took a long sip of whiskey. “Surely she can’t create a forged painting in three days.”
Ian shook his head, glancing out over the crowd. “No, I think that would be impossible, even for her,” he agreed. He hadn’t mentioned even to his closest friend that he’d paid Quicken to deny the authenticity of the sketch, which, as he’d subsequently learned, was indeed an original. That fact didn’t matter in the least to his pursuit, though he did find it curious that she owned more than one piece of Victor Bartlett-James art, and he had to believe the painting to be auctioned this night wasn’t a forgery either.
“What, may I ask, is your . . . relationship to the lovely widow anyway?”
That question made his nerves fire irritably. “No need to ask. No relationship at all.”
Fairbourne laughed outright. “Good God, Chatwin, you don’t even lie well about her.”
Ian turned to face his friend squarely, his body tensing, features grimly set. “The truth is irrelevant,” he said with a measure of hostility. “But the fact is, I don’t like her.”
Growing serious again,
Fairbourne eyed him candidly for a moment, then motioned for the barkeep to refill their glasses. “I think she finds you rather appealing, actually.”
He almost snorted. “You don’t lie well, either.”
Fairbourne shook his head. “That’s . . . not a lie. I saw the two of you together, and although you hide your feelings well, whatever they may be, she does not.”
Ian glanced at him askance. “Frankly, my friend, what she thinks of me isn’t something you would know.”
“Maybe I don’t know a thing or two about ladies in a general sense, but I do know a smitten woman when I see one. I couldn’t decide if she wanted to kiss you or strike you at your ridiculous art party.”
Ian chuckled and reached for his glass. “She wanted to strike me. The lady may find me physically to her liking, but the woman in her despises me.”
“Why?”
That simple question caught him off guard, making him realize at once that he should have said nothing, acknowledged nothing. But Fairbourne, his newly poured whiskey untouched, now seemed truly curious, even concerned, as he leaned his hip against the small table at his side and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for a reasonable explanation.
Ian exhaled a long breath, then in two swallows, finished the contents of his glass, feeling the sudden burn down his throat as a needed reminder of the pain often caused by sweet things desired.
“It’s a complicated tale, Fairbourne,” he admitted at last, licking the rim and then placing his empty tumbler on the table. “And not one I feel like repeating.”
“She had something to do with your kidnapping, didn’t she?” he prodded, tone lowered.
Ian stretched his neck, ready to jump out of his skin, hot and annoyed at the smoke-filled air and voices of loud, inebriated gentlemen rising with each passing minute as they all awaited the grand display of nothing more than a titillating painting. After a brush of his palm down his face, he replied, “She wasn’t involved with the kidnapping, but she was there.”
Fairbourne scratched his jaw. “There in what capacity?”
He looked at his friend again. “What capacity? As a goddamned helper.”
“I see.” Seconds later, Fairbourne raised his glass and added, “As a helper I suppose she took care of you in some manner?”
Ian’s brows furrowed with incredulity. “She left me there to die, Lucas,” he said through a bitter whisper. “She took part in a vicious crime, and in the end she was never found guilty of anything.”
“But what exactly did she do that she should have been found guilty of?” he persisted.
“Inaction,” he shot back.
“And what else?”
That confused him. “What else? What the devil does that mean?”
Fairbourne sighed. “Was she actually with you in the dungeon, or just aware that you were a captive?”
“She was there.”
“So what did she do to you when she was with you?”
Ian resisted the sudden urge to slam his fist into the brick wall at his side. Instead he drew in a long, deep breath and attempted to steady his fired nerves like a gentleman.
“The truth is, I don’t remember clearly,” he muttered. “They had me drugged much of the time.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t,” he countered without clarification, unwilling to tell a soul that he believed he had been taken advantage of as a man. He couldn’t even mention such a shame to Lucas, the only person in the world he trusted right now.
Fairbourne took a sip of whiskey, watching Ian closely over the rim of his glass. Then slowly he lowered it to the table, his expression turning thoughtful. Voice subdued, he asserted, “And now here you are, alive after having survived a horrible ordeal, wealthier than God, able to live the rest of your life in comfort, with any lady of your choice, and yet you’re relentlessly pursuing a young, beautiful widow with a child to ruin. Is that it?”
The casual manner in which his confidant of several years said his thoughts aloud, and uttered them so distastefully, made Ian cringe inside. Perhaps it sounded like revenge to Fairbourne, and when stated bluntly, the ignorant would no doubt find him guilty of offense, but the truth of it was simply inexplicable.
Taking a step closer, Ian eyed the man candidly. “I don’t expect you to understand, Lucas,” he said with caution. “But I do ask that you refrain from judging me or my actions. You weren’t there, and you haven’t lived in my hell for the last five years.”
For several long moments Fairbourne studied him in silence. Then with a sigh of acceptance, he lowered his gaze to the table, tapping the wood with his fingertips.
“I would never presume to know the horror you experienced, Ian,” he said quietly, “and perhaps she isn’t at all innocent in your suffering.” His eyes shot up once more, narrowed as they bore into his. “But I do think you need to take care. The woman is young, inexperienced, and feels something for you other than hatred. That I can tell.” He paused, then lowered his voice to add, “I can understand your anger at her inaction or . . . inability to set you free, but it doesn’t appear to me that you’ve thought of this from her perspective, or tried to discover if she actually did anything for you to lessen your struggle.”
Ian bit down hard to keep his frustration in check. “She should have gone for help. She didn’t, and now she should be in prison.”
Fairbourne lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Maybe. Then again, perhaps like you, and because of what her family did to you, she’s been living in it herself for five long years.”
That notion jolted Ian, sparked his anger anew, and yet he couldn’t exactly find fault with his friend, who spoke so honestly.
Subdued, he ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t intend to destroy her, Lucas, I merely want justice, for me and for her crime.”
Fairbourne scanned the crowd for a second or two, then looked back at him. “There is a difference between justice and revenge, Ian,” he argued, “and revenge goes much deeper, ends with far graver consequences. Justice requires diligence, but revenge goes to the trouble of spending whatever funds and time are necessary, hiring anyone to do or say anything for the right price, and calculated planning regardless of all else. And you’ve done all of that, haven’t you?”
Ian said nothing.
Fairbourne leaned his forearm on the table and moved closer. “If you intend to bed her in this scheme of yours, take warning. I think you’ll find it’s not so easy to walk away with your dignity intact after you’ve done everything in your power to ruin her, especially if you seduce her and then discover your own desire for her remains unsated because you’ve grown to care for her as a woman.” He waited, then very softly added, “She will never forgive you, and she will never let you return to her. The revenge will be complete, but in the end, you could very well experience the loss of your honor, probably the greatest loss of all.”
Ian felt as if he’d been splashed with icy water as cold perspiration broke out on his body. Fairbourne wasn’t one to talk of his own fractured past, though Ian knew he referenced it here in a warning of the truest sense. But he wasn’t Lucas, and he had no intention of having his heart broken or his integrity damaged by a revenge gone wrong. Bedding Viola had less to do with wanting her than it did a need to take everything she had, including an intimate passion she offered nobody else. That he actually found her desirable was simply sweet cream for the berries. And leaving her in the end would be the easiest part, the sweetest thing of all. With his time in the dungeon brought to a gratifying conclusion, he could then move on, think about a future worthy of his title. No regrets. Sexually sated. Justice done.
“I know what I’m doing,” he grumbled.
Fairbourne studied him for a long moment, then once again stood upright. Sighing in acquiescence, he raised his empty tumbler. “That calls for a
nother, I should think.”
Ian didn’t want more to drink, he wanted to get home, to relish the quiet, to lie on his bed and consider his plans for the seduction to come, to look at his sketch that he knew—just knew—Viola had stared at while she’d satisfied her own lust. But then he wasn’t sure ladies ever did such a thing, and just imagining it now, in public, aroused him enough to hand his glass to Fairbourne for a refill to quell the need.
He glanced around the room, nearly filled now to capacity, thick with smoke, the chatter almost unbearable. And just as Fairbourne returned with his third shot of whiskey, Brimleys’s owner walked to the dais next to the draped painting and attempted to hush the crowd.
“Gentlemen!” he bellowed, his puffy hands patting down the air in front of him. “Gentlemen, please!”
A surge of excitement pulsed through the room as the noise dimmed. Ian and Fairbourne stood at the back, quietly watching, sipping their drinks.
“Are you bidding?” Lucas asked.
Ian smirked, calculating the size of the artwork to be larger than his sketch. “I don’t suppose I need two of them. And the cost for one of these is outrageous.”
“And yet . . . won’t she be returning payment for the forgery? Certainly you can afford an original now.”
It was a biting comment, meant to sting, and Ian ignored it. “I didn’t come to buy it. I came to see what she could possibly offer this time.” And to discover how much she might acquire for the sale, though he didn’t say that aloud. He also had to wonder why—why she had two, and why she chose to sell this one now if not to be used against him in some nefarious manner he couldn’t yet fathom.
“Gentlemen,” the burly owner began, “tonight’s auction is an original painting by the celebrated artist Victor Bartlett-James.”
Ian tensed, realizing he felt the anticipation almost as much as those who intended to buy. Viola had obviously seen this erotic painting as well, and the notion stirred his interest even more.
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