“No purpose. Just stopped in to have a chat with my brothers, but apparently my timing was off.” Hunt headed to the door.
“Either your timing or your attitude.”
Hunt saluted him with a rude gesture and left the room to the sound of Driscoll’s laughter. He hurried down the stairs and decided a late-night drink at one of his clubs was in order.
White’s was bursting at the seams which told Hunt most of the evening’s balls, soirees and musicales had ended. Before visiting his brothers, he’d spent some time at the Manning come-out ball for their youngest daughter, but when he didn’t find Diana there, he left after an hour.
Why it mattered to him that she wasn’t there annoyed him since he’d gone to dozens of affairs in the time she was hiding in Italy and didn’t miss her at all. Damn that portrait and the image he could not get out of his mind.
“Hunt!”
Hunt turned toward a small group of gentlemen, Lord Allenby waving at him. After instructing one of the footmen to bring him a drink, Hunt wandered in the direction of the group.
“I hear Lady Diana Pemberton has returned from Italy.” Stephen Blackmoor, a long-time acquaintance since Eton, nodded at Hunt as he took a seat across from Allenby.
Hunt reached for his drink from the footman’s tray. It would be Blackmoor who made that statement since the man loved gossip more than the old, disapproving matrons of the ton.
“Yes. She has.” He sipped his brandy, hoping he was not going to have to speak all night about the woman of whom he was trying to rid his mind.
“I can’t help but wonder what sort of trouble she’s going to get into now?” Lord Belton grinned, and the others all nodded. Belton raised his glass. “Here’s to another fine scandal in the making.”
The others saluted him, but Hunt glared in Belton’s direction. “It is not proper to speak of a well-bred young lady that way, Belton.”
Belton gave him a dismissive wave. “Come now, Hunt. You can’t think she will stay out of difficulty, can you?” He downed the rest of his drink and signaled the footman. “Of all people, you should know that. How many times have you played the knight in shining armor to her damsel in distress?”
“Maybe we should place a wager in the book,” Talbot said, leaning forward. “How long it will take before she is in trouble again.”
“If you,” Hunt looked around the group, “if any of you, write Lady Diana’s name in that book, or a book at any club in London, you will face the consequences at the end of my fists.”
Shocked looks and silence greeted him. “Sorry, Hunt. Didn’t know that was the way of things,” Blackmoor said, his brows raised.
Hunt tossed the rest of his drink down, the burning liquid settling in his sour stomach. “There is no the way of things. I just won’t allow a young lady of good breeding to be maligned in my presence.”
When silence remained, Hunt placed his glass on the table in front of him. “Gentlemen.” He rose and strode from the room. He was obviously not in the proper frame of mind for companionship.
Still unsettled as he rode home in his carriage, he pushed aside the picture in his mind of Diana naked and reclining on a lounge, and instead focused on what he could do to help her.
Steal the portrait.
Once the carriage rolled to a stop in front of his townhouse, he jumped from the vehicle and addressed the driver. “John, when you return the carriage, please wake the groom and ask him to saddle my horse.”
As a well-trained servant, the driver offered no reaction to his master requesting his horse saddled for a ride in the middle of the night.
Hunt bounded up the front steps and proceeded to his bedchamber. His valet, Marcus, awaited him.
Hunt began pulling off his cravat. “I need to change into riding clothes.”
Also used to his master’s comings and goings over the years, Marcus merely nodded and walked to the wardrobe where he extracted appropriate clothing.
If he were to attempt to sneak into Mallory’s studio and swipe the scandalous portrait, he needed to first assess the place. Not that he was committed to stealing it. He just wanted to see what the possibilities were before he spoke with Diana.
Damn, the woman could get herself into the most trying situations. Finding herself in the dark part of Vauxhall Gardens with one of London’s worst rakes had forced her flight to Italy. Of course, had she agreed to marry the Viscount Stratford as was expected in those circumstances, she would not have been forced to escape London under a shroud of scandal.
However, Diana being who she was, refused to marry the man, said he tricked her into being caught, was only after her money, and furthermore, she declared loudly to all and sundry that Stratford was an arse.
In those very words.
Now there was a naked portrait of her floating around and, if it wasn’t retrieved before Mallory sold it, her reputation would be unrecoverable.
Truth be known, this was one time Diana was truly not at fault. Her only crime was trusting Mallory, although she had no reason not to. His reputation as a respectable art dealer was unchallenged. He had chosen his victim wisely, knowing that Diana was without male protection, wealthy, and could not afford another black mark against her reputation. Being the greedy bastard he was, Mallory had asked for just about every pound the woman owned.
Dressed in appropriate clothing, Hunt swung his leg over his horse, a dark Irish Hunter, named—appropriately—Black Diamond, and headed to Albemarle Street where the Mallory studio was located. It was not a long ride and, with most events of the evening over, the streets were quiet.
He viewed the building from the front, then climbed down from Black Diamond and surveyed the outside of the place from all sides. He took note of the structures on either side. He strode up the steps and tried the front door, which was, expectedly, locked.
Back down the worn steps, he took a final look at the building and surveyed the area. His mind made up, he mounted the horse and headed home.
* * *
The next morning, Diana looked up from the book she was reading at Briggs entrance into the drawing room. “My lady, Lord Huntington has called.”
“Oh, thank you. Please send him in.” She quickly slid her feet to the floor where they had been tucked under her bottom. She bent to retrieve her house slippers and pulled them on. She closed her book and placed it on the table. Assured she was ready for this visit, she looked up with a smile as Hunt entered the room.
“Good morning, my lady.” He bowed before her, and she extended her hand.
“Would you care for tea, my lord?”
My goodness, aren’t we being formal, she thought, and held back the giggle that was about to erupt from her throat.
“No, thank you, I have just broken my fast.”
Diana waved to the comfortable wing-backed blue and white striped chair across from where she sat. She hid her hands in her lap as they began to tremble. She knew by the look on his face that he had reached a decision about stealing the portrait. She briefly offered a prayer that he was willing to do it.
If he refused, she had no idea what she would do next.
“There is no point in dithering. The reason for my visit is to advise you that I have not come up with any other solution to your problem except for the one you have suggested. I need to steal the portrait from Mallory’s studio.”
Tears filled her eyes, and she released all the tension in her body. Her palms together in a prayer-like position, resting against her lips, she said, “Thank you, Hunt. You have no idea what that means to me.” Her voice trembled, and she dabbed at the corner of her eye.
“I cannot allow Mallory to take every pound from you, or in the alternative sell the portrait to whatever client he has that wants it. I will be honest with you and admit that, in my estimation, there is good reason to believe no client anxious to purchase the portrait actually exists, and he is only using that to push you.”
Diana nodded. “I have thought of that. But I cannot tak
e a chance.”
“No. Indeed you cannot.”
Diana cleared her throat, anxious to get this last request over with. “However, there is one thing I must ask you to do. Well, actually, not to do when you steal the portrait.”
“What’s that?”
She took a deep breath. “You must promise not to look at it.”
6
Hunt stared at her with a blank expression. “Excuse me?”
Diana stood and twisted her fingers. She knew her demand was ridiculous but the thought of Hunt looking at her naked—although from what she’d seen of the portrait, it didn’t look exactly like her with no clothes since Mr. Mallory had been skimpy on her breasts and hips—had her heart hammering in her chest to the point where she felt as though she would swoon.
“I don’t want you to look at it.”
“Sit down, Diana. You look like you’re about to faint.”
She sat, her entire body trembling. “I don’t faint.”
Hunt joined her on the settee and took her hand in his. “Sweetheart, I cannot steal the portrait without looking at it. How will I know which one to take? Or do you expect me to empty out the gallery in hopes that one of the pictures I steal is yours?”
She chewed her lip and gazed into his deep brown eyes. She’d been looking at those eyes since she was a child, mostly when she needed his help. Yet now they seemed to captivate her as never before. Were they always so soul-searching? Had they always made her feel so tingly inside? She felt as though he could look inside to her very heart.
She raised her chin, ignoring the blush that had risen to her face. “I don’t want you to see me. . .”
His full lips quirked in a slight smile, his eyes dancing with mirth. “Yes?”
Diana blew out a deep breath. “You know what I mean.”
His mouth broke into a full grin. “Perhaps I do, but to be absolutely sure as to what you are referring, just explain why you do not want me to look at a portrait that I am expected to steal?”
“Very well.” Despite her discomfort, she straightened her shoulders and stared into his eyes. “I do not want you to see me naked. There. I said it. Do you understand now?”
He stood and paced, looking back at her, his humor squelched. “So, let me understand this. You want me to go into a studio, under cover of darkness, and steal a portrait that I cannot look at?”
“You make it sound so silly. So impossible.”
He placed his hands on his hips and faced her. “It is silly and impossible, Diana. Think about what you’re saying. I cannot take a portrait without knowing it’s the right one.”
She chewed her lip again, knowing full well what he said was correct. But the thought of him looking at her. . .
“Very well. Then this is what I propose.” She patted the seat alongside her. She was tired of staring up at him. He was so very tall, and very broad, and very masculine, virile, and she was having a hard time breathing. It must have been that his sizable presence was using up all the air.
Hunt sat and turned to her. “What plan do you have now, sweeting?”
“When you search the portraits, only look at the heads.”
Hunt dragged his hand down his face. “All right. I will try—but I can’t promise I can do it—to look only at heads and faces.”
“Thank you.” She smiled and then frowned. “One more thing.”
He sighed. “Now what?”
“Once you get it home, you must burn it.”
“Burn it?”
“Yes. Burn it.”
“Without looking at it, I presume?”
“Of course. You can place it backwards in the fireplace and then burn it.” She stared at him for a moment. “What is wrong with your eye?”
“My eye?”
“Yes.” She pointed to his face. “You seem to have this tic underneath your right eye.”
* * *
About three o’clock the next morning, not wanting to have his very first genuine thievery—he did not count Miss Manchester’s retrieval of her own property as theft—hanging over his head, Hunt dressed all in black and had his butler arrange to have a hackney secured and waiting on the next street. On the off chance someone recognized the crest on his coach, he thought it best to remain as anonymous as possible.
There were still a few carriages returning from events, but the streets were mostly empty. A light mist had begun to fall and that, along with the usual fog, helped to hide anyone traipsing about the area. He had the driver stop a full street from the gallery with instructions to wait for him. From there, he walked, keeping close to the buildings and well into the shadows.
The building housing the gallery stood in the moonless night, a dark shadow amongst others on the street. It was a three-story building and, considering the need for light, he assumed the gallery occupied the top floor.
After a quick glance at the street, Hunt turned and moved deftly alongside the building into the narrow alleyway. His heavy breathing misted in the night air. He squatted in front of the back door and, despite the lack of light, used his sense of touch and considerable skill to open the skimpy lock with a pick; a skill he’d learned as a youth while at Eton. Many a night he and the other lads assuaged their always-present hunger by breaking into the kitchen cupboards.
A slight squeak as he opened the door paused him for a minute. When no sound came from within, he entered and started up the stairs.
That led him to an open room, with no door enclosing it. In the deep shadows, he spotted about twenty paintings displayed on the walls, obviously for sale. He didn’t even bother glancing at them since he was certain Mallory would not have the audacity to exhibit Diana’s painting. Not if he expected to swindle money from her.
Or live to see the next day.
A quick scan of the room revealed a door that led to a small room. He entered to find six or seven stacks of canvases lining the walls. Much like a large closet, the room had no windows.
He went down on his knees and lit the small lantern he carried with him. He closed the door in case someone was out and about and saw the glow from within and called the Watch. The lantern didn’t provide a lot of light, but enough for him to at least see if the paintings were of people, and whether the subject was a man or a woman.
On the third grouping he sorted through, he sucked in a deep breath as the portrait he was looking for sat before him. He pulled it out and rested it at the front of the stack. He let out a low whistle and, leaning back on his heels, he tried—not very hard, admittedly—to look only at Diana’s face.
Just to be sure, of course.
He retrieved the lamp from the center of the small room and brought it closer to the painting, only because he needed to make doubly sure it was her, he assured himself.
Despite his best intentions and how much he chastised himself, it wasn’t possible to only look at her face. His eyes drifted down. He broke into a sweat, and his mouth dried up. If this painting ever got out, she would be ruined beyond redemption. The only saving grace was that her head was turned in such a way that her hair partially covered her face. It occurred to him that if a person knew Diana quite well, and stared at the picture for a long time, or if she stood right next to it perhaps, only then could she be identified.
But it was not a chance he could take.
Hunt closed his eyes and rubbed them with his thumb and index finger. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get the vision out of his head. He threw the piece of linen he brought with him over the painting and extinguished the lantern.
He walked quickly from the building, down the street to where the hackney awaited him. With a quick nod to the driver, he entered the carriage, placed the covered painting on the seat across from him, leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.
He’d done it. Diana’s reputation had been salvaged. But he had a feeling the torture for him had just begun.
It was a quick ride home and, after paying and dismissing the hackney driver
, he made his way around the back of his house and entered through the servants’ door. He’d dismissed his valet for the night before he’d left, and with the picture fisted in his hands, he hurried up the stairs to his bedchamber.
A low fire burned in the fireplace, keeping the dampness from the room. Hunt carried the painting to the hearth and set it down with the linen still covering it. He removed his clothes while his conscience fought diligently with his lust.
Sadly, his conscience lost.
Slowly he lifted the linen and gazed at the scandalous portrait in much better light than the studio had provided. Since he knew Diana herself had not posed for it in the nude, he convinced himself he wasn’t a voyeur. However, he couldn’t help but wonder how accurate Mallory’s depiction of her body actually was.
She sat on a solid rose-colored lounge with her arm relaxing on the wooden armrest. Her knees were bent and her legs rested on the seat of the lounge. Her head was tilted down and to the side so her visage wasn’t very visible.
Even clothed, the sitting was a bit provocative for a gently-bred young woman. He shook his head. Most likely the influence of her grandmother allowed her to agree to the pose.
Based on her pose, which Diana said Mallory had suggested, Hunt’s suspicions grew that the man had planned to duplicate the portrait from the beginning. He apparently had not counted on her leaving the country and held onto the altered version for a year.
He groaned and flipped the linen back down. He stood and paced the room, talking to himself. He was supposed to burn it. He said he would. However, he consoled himself with the fact that he hadn’t promised.
But did that truly matter? He sat on the edge of his bed and slumped down, his forearms resting on his thighs, his hands dangling between his spread legs.
He was tired. It was late. He would not decide now. This was not the best time to burn it anyway. The smell could possibly awaken the entire household.
Since the painting was covered so his valet wouldn’t see it in the morning, he turned it to face the wall and would leave it there and make a decision after a few hours of sleep. Despite the painting being burned into his brain, he soon fell into a deep sleep.
A Scandalous Portrait: Rose Room Rogues ~ Book One Page 4