Ah, but the garden was the only important thing, wasn’t it? He’d dance in the middle of Bond Street, naked as the day he was born, if it meant money for his gardens. Naked in her sitting room was a paltry price to pay in comparison—and it wasn’t as if he were a shy sort.
Asa looked up, drawing a deep breath, and saw that his harpy wasn’t amused by his laughter.
“I can’t think why you find the thought of me helping with your books so funny,” she said in a stiff little voice. “Or, for that matter, letting me paint you.” Her mouth—the only soft part of her, as far as he could tell—trembled just a bit.
Well, he hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings.
“Don’t worry about it, luv,” he said, tearing off a bite of the bread with his teeth. “You’ll find out soon enough when you see my books. As for the other”—he set down the piece of bread and shrugged off his coat—“do you want to start now?”
That got him a wide-eyed look, and he couldn’t help but grin at her, mouth obnoxiously full, as he began unbuttoning his waistcoat. Had the lady bitten off more than she could chew?
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice high and a bit panicked. He opened his eyes in mock innocence as he yanked his shirt from his breeches. “Stop that at once.”
“Why?” he asked curiously, his fingers still on his lifted shirt. Her gaze darted to his bared navel and then away again like that of a sweet little canary frightened by an ugly alley cat. “You said you wanted me to model for you.”
“I didn’t mean unclothed!” she said, making unclothed sound a lot like covered in shit.
He scowled. “Then what did you mean?”
She inhaled, straightening her back further—which, had he been asked a minute before, he would’ve laid odds couldn’t be done. “I mean I wish to paint you as you are. Entirely covered. And I should like to start tomorrow, not today.”
He stared at her, and then glanced down at himself. His waistcoat was rumpled and his shirt still had water stains from this morning. Maybe she was painting one of those ghastly studied portraits of shepherds or field laborers. Maybe that was how she saw him: as a working-class lout, burly and unrefined, too rough to be painted nude.
The hell with it. At least he wouldn’t be cold when he modeled.
“Fine.” He jerked his shirt down and sat forward to pick up his bread again.
He could feel her relax, and snorted to himself at her obvious relief that he’d covered himself.
She cleared her throat. “As for the other,” she began in that stern tone of voice he was beginning to recognize. “If you think to keep your accounting books from me—”
“Oh, no.” He waved aside her worry with the piece of bread. “You can see them first thing tomorrow if you want. Nine of the clock?” he asked innocently.
Most aristocrats wouldn’t be caught dead out of bed before noon.
He should’ve known she wasn’t like most aristocrats, though—she had, after all, shown up at his door only a little after ten.
She inclined her head. “Very well. Shall I come to your rooms again?”
“Better to come to the theater,” he replied. “I’ve an office in the back. It’s small and cramped, but we can find you a chair. And a box or something.”
He grinned to himself as he took a bite of the herring—it was tastily cooked. She’d be fleeing again once she caught sight of his “office.” No woman as primly upright as she would like the loud chaos that was often the theater.
“I’m sure I’ll make do, Mr. Harte,” she murmured. “And I’ll bring my sketchbook as well so that we may start on the modeling.”
For a moment he narrowed his eyes at the serenity of her voice. Did nothing shake her for long? Even when she’d run away from his garden, she’d done it quietly and without fuss. He hadn’t known she was gone until he’d turned around from knocking Sherwood down and noticed she wasn’t there. She had an almost mannish forthrightness about her. A hard, unemotional center nearly disguised by the elegant overlay of her aristocratic manners. The juxtaposition of the two—her iron core and her delicate exterior—was oddly fascinating.
And made for a formidable opponent.
At the thought he glanced around the room, curious as to her natural habitat. “So this is where you live, eh?”
Rows of books were neatly ordered on a corner bookcase. The windows were covered by thin curtains, letting in light, but shielding the room from the outside world. The settee he was lounging on was placed square in front of a low table holding his tray, and on the opposite side were two chairs in a pinkish red. Miss Dinwoody sat behind a long table, and he got up to closer examine the surface.
She stiffened at his movement and he suppressed a smirk as he bent to look. She had a beautiful polished brass magnifying glass on an arm, and a row of pots and paintbrushes laid out. He could smell the earthy scent of the paints, but there was something else as well—a ethereal, flowery scent. Maybe the perfume she wore? If so, it suited her.
He reached to pick one of the paintbrushes up and her chin jerked slightly. “Don’t touch that, please.”
He considered poking his finger at the paintbrush just to antagonize her, but her face had a pinched look. Instead he peered into a low little cage resting to the right of her elbow.
A beady black eye stared back, and the white dove inside the cage cocked its head before cooing.
“What’s his name?” he asked.
“I believe it’s a female,” Miss Dinwoody replied, staring critically at the caged bird. “But I’m not entirely certain. And she hasn’t a name.”
He raised his eyebrows as he straightened. “You just got her?”
“My brother gave her to me several months ago,” she replied, rearranging her spoon and bread knife beside her plate of fish. “Before he was forced to leave England, obviously.”
“Forced?” Now that was interesting. The Duke of Montgomery had left London abruptly back in July, without a word of warning to Asa—or anyone else, as far as he knew. At the time Asa had been very put out—until he realized that his line of credit was still good. Then he’d simply put it down to the whims of the aristocracy. He looked at Miss Dinwoody expectantly. When she merely stared back at him, unperturbed, he prompted, “What d’you mean, forced?”
“It really isn’t anything you need concern yourself with, Mr. Harte,” she murmured. “Would you like some more fish?”
“No, thank you,” he said a bit harshly. He’d be the judge of what bloody concerned him or not, thank you very much. “Is it creditors?”
She looked amused at that. “If my brother had problems with creditors, do you really think he’d be financing the rebuilding of your garden?”
“He might. Your brother is half insane, no offense meant.”
“None taken,” she replied. “Val might be a trifle… eccentric, but he’s always been quite level-headed when it comes to his money and business. I’ve no doubt that he invested in your gardens because he meant to make a profit. Although…” Her brows drew together. “Knowing Val, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had other reasons as well.”
That was an alarming thought. “Such as?”
“Who knows? Perhaps he found an opera singer he wanted to sponsor? Or a play he wanted staged.” She shrugged. “Really, it could be anything at all with Val.”
He hitched a hip onto a corner of her table, ignoring a pointed glare. “Don’t get on with him, then?”
“I’ll thank you not to put words in my mouth.” She glanced up. “I love Val more than any other person in this world.”
He cocked his head at her vehemence. He realized, suddenly, that he might have it all wrong. Perhaps her core wasn’t bloodless after all. Perhaps under that cold exterior, that polite, aristocratic facade, there boiled a passionate woman, hiding her emotion from all the world.
And he wondered what would happen if he stripped away her exterior, tore through her frozen, refined walls and dug his fingers into the molten
heat at her center.
Chapter Three
This king lived in a vast palace with hundreds of concubines in his harem. He was a cruel, lusty man and every year dozens of his concubines were brought to bed with child. But whenever one of the king’s offspring reached the age of seventeen, they would be summoned to eat a celebratory meal with their father.
And after that they were never heard from again.…
—From The Lion and the Dove
The next morning Eve arrived at Harte’s Folly punctually at nine of the clock. She and Jean-Marie and the footmen she’d brought with her passed gardeners who doffed their caps to her. Workmen were on the roof of the theater, so they must’ve been able to use part of the shipment of roofing tiles. Inside the theater she passed a group of women who appeared to have only just arrived—they were still removing hats and shawls. They stopped chattering and stared as she approached. Eve bid them good day and got one shy smile from the youngest girl, who sported a beauty mark at the corner of her mouth. After she went by them, though, she heard a burst of hastily smothered giggles and couldn’t help the humiliated flush that climbed her cheeks.
She was entirely out of her element here and apparently it showed.
Nearer the stage she could see Mr. Vogel waving his arms about as his musicians assembled.
He turned suddenly as she neared and stared at her. “Vhat?”
Eve cleared her throat. “Good morning. I am Miss Eve Dinwoody.”
He cocked his head, eyes narrowing. “Yes?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Harte.” She waited, and when he didn’t respond, she said a little more softly, “Do you know where his office is?”
Abruptly he nodded. “I vill show you.” Turning back to his musicians, he shouted, “Ve vill begin in five minutes. Be prepared.”
And on that ominous note he jerked his head and led her behind the stage.
“You are the sister of the duke, yes?” he asked as they entered a warren of corridors behind the stage. “Harte says you vill continue his credit.”
Did everyone know Mr. Harte’s business?
Mr. Vogel must’ve caught her startled expression, for he suddenly grinned and looked quite ten years younger than she’d placed him—nearer thirty than forty. “Theater folk, yes? Ve gossip.”
“Ah.” She cleared her throat as they stopped beside a door. “Well, much depends on Mr. Harte’s books.”
“Gott save us all, then,” muttered the composer, and opened the door for her without preamble. “Good luck, for I think you vill need it.”
With that he turned and retraced his steps.
Eve blinked and stepped inside the little room.
Mr. Harte was lounging in a chair in front of a big table, his feet crossed and resting on the table edge.
He was twirling a brass letter opener in the shape of a dagger in his fingers, but he looked up at her entrance. “Morning.”
With one arm he shoved an open shallow box at her. It slid across the table, shedding bits of paper as it went.
The box stopped at the edge of the table nearest her. Eve glanced at it and back at Mr. Harte. He had a suspiciously cheerful grin on his face. “What is this?”
“My accounts.”
She’d prepared herself for nearly anything. She wasn’t such a featherbrain that she hadn’t noticed Mr. Harte’s glee yesterday afternoon at the mention of his office. Obviously it wouldn’t be nearly as orderly as she was used to.
Still. She hadn’t quite been expecting this.
“What do you mean, these are your accounts?” She stared at the box he’d shoved at her. It contained a pile of receipts, scribbled notes, and what looked like a small bag of coins. She took out the bag and opened it, then poured the contents into her palm. No, her mistake. It contained walnuts.
She glanced up at the source of this mess, appalled.
“I’d wondered where those had got to.” Mr. Harte seemed to be enjoying her horror. He wore the same suit as yesterday, and had it not been for his freshly shaven chin and still-damp hair, she would’ve thought that he’d slept in the clothes. He tossed the brass letter opener aside, stood, and leaned over the desk, reaching with one long arm to pluck two walnuts from her palm. He made a fist around the nuts.
Eve heard the distinct crack.
Mr. Harte opened his hand and held it out to her. “Walnut? Got ’em fresh just last week.”
“Thank you, no,” she replied severely as she replaced the remaining nuts back in the little bag. “You must have more records of your accounts somewhere.”
He resumed his seat before plucking a nutmeat from the shell in his hand and tossing it in the air, to catch it in his mouth. “’Fraid not, luv. This’s the lot.”
And he smiled that blasted smile at her, dimples and all, as he chewed openmouthed.
Eve glanced away from him in exasperation. She wasn’t going to make the mistake of softening for that smile and his roguish ways. She was much too intelligent for that.
Instead she examined Mr. Harte’s so-called office. It was a wretched little room. One would think, if he was going to the trouble of having an entirely new building constructed, that he would make provisions for his own business space. Apparently not. The actors’ dressing rooms she’d passed on the way were at least twice as large as his office.
He had a small fireplace against one wall and an enormous map of London pinned crookedly on the other. In the center of the room, taking up most of the floor space, was the table. Stacks of papers were piled right on the floor all around the table, making it nearly impossible to walk. In the corner was a moldering stuffed badger. Eve eyed it before taking a deep breath. Fortunately, she’d planned ahead.
She turned to Jean-Marie, who was leaning against the doorjamb. “You’d better bring in the footmen.”
Jean-Marie flashed a white-toothed grin before exiting.
When she looked back at Mr. Harte, he’d stopped mid-chew, his eyes narrowing. “What footmen?”
She smiled sweetly. “The footmen I borrowed from my brother’s house, just for today.”
And in trooped George and Sam.
Eve gestured to the papers on the floor. “Remove these, please.”
Mr. Harte’s eyes widened in outrage. “Now wait just a damned—”
But the footmen were already crowding past him and picking up the stacks of papers.
“Oi!” Mr. Harte turned on her. “You can’t take my bloody papers!”
“I’m just rearranging them,” she said soothingly.
“But there’s no need to rearrange them!”
“There is if I’m going to fit my desk in here,” she pointed out serenely as George and Sam left with their burdens.
And Bob and Bill came in with her little cherrywood desk.
“Here, miss?” asked Bob, indicating the now-cleared space opposite Mr. Harte’s table.
“Hm, yes, I think so,” Eve said, cocking her head consideringly. “Perhaps if you just push the table over a bit, you can put my desk right up against it, so we both have room.”
They did as she directed and in another moment Eve had dismissed the footmen for the day and was settling into the straight-backed chair they’d carried in before leaving. A basket was set beside her desk and her writing case was on it. Now she opened her case and took out an ink bottle, a quill, sand, and a new bound accounts book, setting them all neatly on her desk.
“There. I shall be quite comfortable, I think, as I go through your accounts.” She eyed the box of untidy papers, her spirits faltering slightly. “Such as they are.”
“And what about that chair?” Mr. Harte asked, pointing at an overstuffed chair the footmen had squeezed into the corner next to the badger.
“That’s for Jean-Marie, naturally,” she replied as Jean-Marie came back in and took the chair in question.
“Naturally.” Mr. Harte exchanged an unfriendly look with her bodyguard before leaning a little forward and jerking his head at Jean-Marie. “Does he follo
w you everywhere?”
“Everywhere,” she confirmed. “And his hearing has never been deficient, has it, Jean-Marie?”
“Non,” came her bodyguard’s reply. “I can ’ear most perfectly.”
Mr. Harte scowled and sat tapping his fingers against his table for a minute before saying, “There’s no need to work here. You can take that box of papers to your town house and examine it in comfort.”
She glanced up at him, a scrawled scrap of paper in one hand. “We did make a bargain, Mr. Harte. If you wish to renege, I can of course withdraw your letters of credit should you feel I cannot use your office space.”
Mr. Harte muttered something quite foul beneath his breath before holding up his hands in grudging surrender. “Stay as long as you like.”
“Thank you,” she said drily, squinting at the scrap of paper in her hand. “What does this say? All I can make out is ‘peas.’”
He reached across the table and took the paper from her, his fingers brushing against hers. She jerked back instinctively, her hand balling into a fist, but he didn’t seem to notice, turning the paper to the side.
Mr. Harte frowned for a second and then said, “‘Trees,’ not ‘peas.’ This is a bill for three of the trees that ’Pollo—Apollo Greaves, Viscount Kilbourne, our garden designer—had planted in the gardens.”
“Oh?” Eve uncapped her ink bottle and wet the quill, turning to the first page in the blank accounts book. “And how much did you pay for these three trees?”
He named a sum.
Slowly she raised her head, her quill still hovering over the page. “Pardon?” Surely she hadn’t heard correctly.
He repeated the same ridiculous number.
“Good Lord,” she murmured. “Were the trees made of pearls and gold?”
“No, but they were—are—quite big.” Mr. Harte thrust out his chin. “Kilbourne had the trees transported from Oxford and successfully transplanted them. Had we used younger saplings, we would have had to wait years for the trees to mature.”
Sweetest Scoundrel Page 4