With very vivid, very erotic dreams.
About Lady Trouble.
* * *
Diana paced her drawing room, wringing her hands and wishing the time would pass faster. Hunt had sent around a note that he would call on her at two o’clock. It was now four minutes to two.
She assumed he had at least gone to Mallory’s gallery to retrieve the painting. Wasn’t that the reason for him visiting?
Her mind flooded with questions. Suppose the portrait wasn’t there? Perhaps he moved it somewhere out of his studio. Or, horrors, maybe he already sold it!
Her heart sped up at the sound of the front door knocker.
She took a deep breath and sat on the settee, her ice-cold hands in her lap as murmurs from Briggs and Hunt reached her ears. Soon footsteps sounded and Diana turned to her chaperone, Mrs. Strickland.
“Will you please go to the kitchen and ask Cook to send tea and leave Lord Huntington and me alone for a few minutes?”
She hurried on when Mrs. Strickland frowned and opened her mouth as if to argue. “You may leave the door open, but there is something we must discuss that is private.”
“I don’t believe that is proper, my lady.”
Diana gritted her teeth. “It is fine. No one will know we are alone for merely the short time it will take you to retire to the kitchen and request tea. I assure you, I will not get into any trouble.”
She swore she heard Mrs. Strickland snort, but ignored it when the woman left just as Hunt entered the room. She really needed to take that woman in hand.
“Well?” She stood, not waiting for the niceties. Her stomach was in knots, and her hands shook.
He stared at her with a strange look on his face. “I recovered the painting.”
She let out a deep breath but stopped and looked at him. “But what? You look odd.”
“Nothing.” He shook his head, and his eyes darted away from her. “All is well.” He waved to the settee. “Why don’t we sit?”
Something was wrong. Hunt looked at her in a way he’d never looked at her before. She licked her lips. “You didn’t. . .I mean, remember I told you not to. . .” Her voice faded.
“Diana, I’m terribly sorry, but there was no way to recover the painting without looking at it. I’m sure that’s what you’re worried about.”
She nodded, a heated flush rising to her face. “Yes, that was a concern.”
“Just put it from your mind. Mr. Mallory no longer has the painting. He has no idea where it is, and you are safe.”
“But—”
Hunt held up his hand. “I no longer wish to speak about it.” With a shaky hand, he tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “It’s over.”
She grinned with relief and threw herself into Hunt’s arms. “Thank you so much.”
He pulled her close to his body and groaned.
7
A week passed while Diana was able to breathe and not worry about the portrait. The blasted piece had been retrieved, burned, and she’d heard nothing from Mr. Mallory. That was surprising.
What appeared odd, however, was since then Hunt seemed to be avoiding her.
Normally they would meet at a few social events during the week, but he was absent from each one she’d attended. It was almost like when she was first trying to track him down after her return from Italy. This evening, as she dressed for the Pennington ball, she wondered if he would be present.
She took one last look at herself, pleased with how Marguerite had fixed her hair with a blue ribbon and pearls woven throughout the coiffure. Her pale blue gown, shot through with silver, displaying dark blue embroidery around the neckline, sleeves, and hem, fit her perfectly and made an interesting swishing sound as she walked.
After having Marguerite help her with her necklace and bracelets, Diana attached her earbobs, picked up her reticule and shawl, and left the room. For some reason, she felt more excited about this ball. Perhaps this would be the one that Hunt attended, and she could find out why he appeared to be avoiding her.
Hunt.
In the time she’d spent in Italy he had rarely crossed her mind. In fact, it wasn’t until she needed his help with the portrait that she thought of him after her return. Odd that, since they’d been friends since childhood.
Now, however, she couldn’t get him out of her mind. His crooked smile, the scent of bay rum that wafted from him, his broad shoulders, emphasized by the fine cut of his clothing, and his a-bit-too-long hair that curled over his cravat. Had he always been so tempting?
Surely he had been, since she’d noted the looks he received from young and old women alike upon entering a ballroom, but she’d always been indifferent to him, thinking of Hunt as a brother.
That was no longer true. The thoughts that had been running through her head were anything but brotherlike.
“Are you ready, Mrs. Strickland?” Diana turned so Briggs could help her with her shawl. It matched her gown but was lined with satin, making it warm enough for the night air.
Her chaperone made her way from the back of the house, pulling on her gloves. “Yes. I am ready to leave, my lady.”
The two women descended the steps and entered Diana’s carriage. The vehicle had belonged to her grandmama and still bore the Abbott crest, but Diana did not have the heart to replace the carriage, even though it was more than twenty years old.
Since there had been no living direct heir when Grandfather passed, the obscure family member who had inherited the title lived a solitary life in an estate near the Scottish border. He had hired a steward and household staff enough to maintain the property. As far as Diana knew, he’d never even visited the place.
The inside of her carriage held the faint scent of Grandmama, although Diana feared she was fooling herself, and it was merely part imagination and part stubbornness to admit Grandmama was truly gone.
Their arrival was swift, but after waiting in a carriage line for about fifteen minutes, they finally reached the Pennington townhouse. A footman opened the door and helped them out. They made their way up the steps, surrendered their shawls, and proceeded up to the first floor ballroom, handing the invitation to the footman announcing the attendees.
“Lady Diana Pemberton.”
As she and Mrs. Strickland descended the stairs, Diana’s eyes immediately scanned the room, her heart speeding up when she noticed Hunt standing with two other gentlemen. Hunt held a glass of some sort of beverage in his hand and leaned one shoulder against the wall as they conversed.
His head whipped around when her name was announced. He straightened and handed his glass to a passing footman. He continued to study her as she reached the floor and was immediately surrounded by her friends.
Over Miss Spencer-Roth’s shoulder, Diana watched Hunt make his way across the ballroom, stopping to chat here and there, but his eyes always returning to her. She shivered. The look in his eyes was disconcerting.
Lady St. John stepped in front of him, leaning a little too close, then placing her hand on his chest in a very forward move. He smiled at her, and Diana immediately grew annoyed. The woman was a known flirt. Not only flirting but inviting various men to her bed while her husband occupied himself in his mistress’s bed. Diana told herself it was truly no business of hers if Hunt availed himself of her offer.
Then why was she so irritated as she watched their exchange?
Hunt stepped back a bit but then took the small dance card dangling from her wrist that she waved in his face and wrote his name. Lady St. John looked at the card and frowned, but he merely offered a slight bow and continued to move in Diana’s direction.
“Lady Diana, don’t you agree?” Lord Astley’s question drew Diana’s attention from Hunt.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but I’m afraid I was woolgathering.”
Astley stiffened. Full of self-importance, he apparently did not like the idea that his comments were not attended to. He sighed as if attempting to get through to a slow child. “I asked if you believed that
the Devon musicale next Thursday would be a trying event to sit through.” He grinned and looked around the circle, most of them nodding and smiling along with him.
Miss Devon and her sister, Miss Amelia Devon, were forced by their overbearing mother to perform at least once a year. The young ladies were sweet girls with very little talent. Diana hated to think this group would laugh and snicker at the poor girls who were being bullied into doing something they did not want to do.
But then Lord Astley was a known gossiper and nasty in his comments about almost everyone.
“I don’t believe so, my lord. I always look forward to the event.” She caught Hunt’s eye as he moved closer. Diana gave a slight curtsey to no one in particular. “If you will excuse me, I see my chaperone is summoning me.”
Luckily, none in the group turned to see where Diana headed since no one would believe for one minute that Lord Huntington, with his rakish reputation, was acting as her chaperone.
Her heart thudded, and her mouth dried up as she reached him. This was complete silliness. She’d known Hunt forever. For goodness sake he taught her to swim wearing only her chemise. Of course she had been only eight years at the time and he twelve.
Hunt bowed. “Good evening, my lady.”
She dipped. “Good evening to you, my lord.”
He extended his arm. “Let’s take a stroll.”
So this is what they’d come to? Formal greetings and a stroll around the ballroom? ‘Twas almost as if they were strangers.
* * *
Hunt grimaced at their exchange. ‘Twas almost as if they were strangers. He drew Diana closer as they made their way through the throng to the edge of the ballroom where there was a bit of space for them to walk.
He’d tried to avoid her since he’d told Diana about the portrait’s recovery. Why? He wasn’t absolutely clear. He’d known the woman all his life. He’d rescued her from so many mishaps he’d lost count. But there was something about this last entanglement that had him on edge in her presence.
Maybe the fact that I saw a painting of her naked and, despite her request that I burn it, it still sits in the wardrobe in the bedchamber next to mine.
The past week he’d spent time at his clubs and at The Rose Room, telling himself he was there to make sure business was running as it should. Only after Dante and Driscoll both ordered him from the place since he was disrupting their routine did he admit he was evading the normal social events he would generally attend to avoid Diana.
“I haven’t seen you all week, my lord.”
Hunt shook his head and smiled at her. “Diana, let’s stop the ‘my lord’ ‘my lady’ business. I think we feel uncomfortable with each other because of the painting. Let’s put it aside and go back to the way we were.”
“And what way was that, Hunt? I’ve been gone for a year. The first time I saw you after my return, I asked you to retrieve a scandalous portrait for me.”
“Friends, Diana. We’ve always been friends.” He almost believed it himself. Yes, they had always been friends, but he could never be friends again with the woman in the portrait. He was simply too full of lust when he was near her.
So where did that leave them?
“Are you going to the Grafton house party this weekend?” Diana asked, not looking him in the eye. She was acting as strange as he felt.
He shook his head. “I don’t plan on it. I will be quite busy with straightening out some of my investments.” Bloody hell, couldn’t he come up with a better excuse than that? He had no intention of straightening business matters or going to the blasted house party. The idea of him and Diana under the same roof. All night. Only rooms away. . .
He shuddered at the temptation. He had never bedded a virgin and had no intention of starting with Diana. Unless they were betrothed. However, as fond as he was of her, Diana did jump from one disaster to another. As her husband, some poor man—not him—would spend all his time defending her honor and dodging scandal.
Hunt could never be that husband. Between his work with the Crown and his need to keep his title shame-free, his newly-discovered lust for Diana would end nowhere. Despite her reputation for trouble, she was still a gently-bred young lady of the ton and hands off for any gentleman not looking to step into the parson’s noose.
He had no need for the temptation of a house party.
“Oh, that’s too bad. I hear it will be quite fun and Lady Grafton and her daughter Lady Eunice have a number of activities planned. I think Lord Grafton intends to have a shooting contest, as well.”
None of that would tempt Hunt as much as Diana would every minute of every day during the house party. “I am sorry, my dear, but I don’t think I will make it.”
She shrugged, but he saw definite disappointment on her face.
“There you are!” Lady St. John walked up to them and tapped Hunt on his arm. “It is almost time for our dance.”
He sighed inwardly. The last thing he wanted to do was spend the next twenty or so minutes dodging Lady St. John’s wandering hands. At least, due to his diligence, the dance coming up was a cotillion and not a waltz.
Before he walked off with Lady St. John, he reached for Diana’s dance card. The supper waltz was open. Had she saved it for him? Hoping they would meet at this event? He quickly scribbled his name next to the number and offered her a slight bow.
He glanced back at her as he led Lady St. John to the dance floor. Diana was staring at the dance card with a slight smile on her face.
The next morning, Hunt entered the breakfast room still out of sorts after the night before. The waltz with Diana had been torturous. He wanted to pull her against him and feel the curves he’d witnessed in the portrait. She’d felt so very right in his arms. They even grinned at each other like a couple of love-sick fools. Hopefully, no one noticed. The last thing he needed were rumors.
After taking his seat, he snapped open the freshly-ironed newspaper sitting next to his plate and folded it to the front page. He reached for his cup of tea, and his hand stopped halfway there. He blinked several times to make sure his eyesight hadn’t failed him. There was no mistake. The morning newspaper headline remained the same.
Mallory Art Gallery burned to the ground
Owner, J. D. Mallory dead
Before he even had the chance to read the story, one of his footmen entered with an envelope resting on a salver. “This just came for you, my lord.”
Hunt took the envelope, broke the seal, and opened it. From the Home Office.
My Lord,
Your presence is requested this morning at ten o’clock.
Sir Phillip DuBois-Gifford
8
Sir Phillip DuBois-Gifford received a salary from the Home Office and bore the title Covert Agent, but to Hunt’s knowledge, no record of his employment existed anywhere. He worked on difficult cases that the Crown felt were far too delicate or sensitive to be handled through normal channels. It was generally Sir Phillip who summoned one of the Rose brothers for help.
Hunt entered the modest, indistinct house in a lower-class neighborhood that served as Sir Phillip’s office. The man himself was nondescript in his bearing, looks, and manner of clothing. No one seeing Sir Phillip on the street would take him for more than a typical resident of the area. A lower income worker.
Hunt was convinced DuBois-Gifford lived a totally different life elsewhere in London. Since he was so unnoticeable, there was a good chance Hunt had seen him when out and about and never recognized him. He’d learned from the beginning of their relationship to keep his questions to himself.
Sir Phillip stood and shook Hunt’s hand as he entered the small, stuffy office in the house. “Thank you for coming, my lord. Please have a seat.”
Hunt sat and rested his booted foot on his knee. “How can I be of service, Sir Phillip?” Even though they’d worked together on more than a few projects, they’d never gotten past the formality of the aristocrat and the commoner.
“Are you familiar with the
J. D. Art Gallery?”
Hunt sat up, his heart taking an extra thump. “Yes.” No point in offering more than necessary.
“It burned down last night.”
Hunt nodded, still cautious. “I read that.”
DuBois-Gifford picked up a paper weight sitting on his desk and rubbed his thumb over it. “Mr. Mallory’s body was found in the burned-out building. However, he did not die from burns or smoke inhalation. He’d been shot twice at close range.”
Hunt did a good job of hiding his surprise. “It is believed to be a murder?”
“Yes. The fire had been set after the man was shot. We cannot assess if anything was taken from the building, but since his gallery was full of paintings, we have no way of knowing if something was removed before the murder. Our people are attempting to find invoices or contracts, but a lot of that information was burned.”
He breathed easier knowing there wouldn’t be a contract or invoice on Diana’s portrait.
“In fact, as we are certain he was murdered, that is where you come in.”
Hunt waited for the man to continue, his thoughts running wild about the information he just received. Perhaps Diana was not the only person Mallory was blackmailing.
His ideas were quickly quashed when Sir Phillip continued. “We have reason to believe that Mr. Mallory was working with a group of men who are anarchists with the intention of bringing down the British government.”
Hunt let out a low whistle. “Interesting.”
“Indeed.” DuBois-Gifford leaned forward. “Supposedly Mallory was about to leave the country with information damaging to the group. Even more interesting is a man who is working—and possibly leading—the group is a member of parliament.”
“An MP is working to take down the government?” Hunt’s eyebrows shot up. “Who?”
A Scandalous Portrait: Rose Room Rogues ~ Book One Page 5