Nicole Jordan (30 page)

Diana found it nearly impossible to defend herself against his outrageous charm, or her own instinctive inclinations. Every time he touched her, her body turned traitor. Which was why, simply out of self-preservation, she began requiring one of her servants—a footman or maid—to remain with her in her studio in case Thorne should drop in.

He even made an appearance during Venus’s final sitting, when Diana was trying to complete the madam’s portrait. He stayed to flirt with them both, and when Diana finally managed to be rid of him, she apologized profusely for Thorne’s brazen behavior.

Venus’s indulgent smile was rather amused, and she dismissed Thorne’s antics as typical of his reckless nature. The madam, however, had evidently heard about the cloud of scandal that dogged Diana, and she seemed sympathetic and even angry in her behalf.

“It is scarcely fair,” Venus muttered, “that women must bear the sole brunt of censure in these situations. But at least Lord Thorne intends to wed you. Marriage is the only possible course open to you now.” She gave Diana a long, speculative glance. “Unless you join the demimonde, as I did. You could be highly successful in the flesh trade, you know.”

Diana’s eyes widened uncertainly. “I suppose I should be flattered by such praise?”

Venus laughed. “Indeed you should. There are few ladies of quality with your beauty and sensual appeal, and many gentlemen find that combination irresistible. If you ever consider changing careers, I would willingly take you on…although I imagine Lord Thorne would raise major objections,” Venus added dryly. “It is quite apparent that he is enamored of you.”

Diana refrained from replying, knowing Thorne’s ardor was all an act, even as she wondered how much longer she could hold out against him.

Thorne knew he was breaking numerous social rules in his open pursuit of Diana. Knew he wasn’t playing fair. Yet he didn’t give a damn. He had no qualms about using every advantage at his command. He was determined to overcome Diana’s resistance to their marriage. In fact, he intended to make it impossible for her to refuse.

He himself had become resigned to the inevitability, but he hadn’t expected to have to work so hard at convincing her. It had been years since he’d exerted himself to captivate a woman. Longer still since one had actively resisted him the way Diana continued doing. This sensual game with her, however, was one he knew how to win. One he
would
win.

Even so, it was driving him mad. Once they were wed, he would have to spend at least a week in bed with that bewitching, elusive woman in order to begin to slake his craving for her. Perhaps after he had made love to her a few dozen times, the gnawing want would lessen.

He might not want a bride, but he wanted Diana in his bed. Wanted to feel her warm and soft in his hands. Wanted to watch her dark eyes turn languid with sensuality. Wanted her hot and wild and burning with desire for him.

And sooner or later, Thorne resolutely promised himself, he would have her there.

Only once did he allow her a reprieve from his attentions—when midway through the week he went to Rye to investigate the orphanage where Venus had been raised. With frequent changes of horses for his traveling chaise, Rye was a half-day’s drive from London, so Thorne left early in the morning and took John Yates with him.

He had already written the administrator, requesting an appointment. Therefore they were received at once and shown into a cramped office, where Mr. Gough greeted them pleasantly.

Gough was a tall, lanky, elderly man who seemed puzzled by Thorne’s visit but professed himself willing to answer any of his lordship’s questions.

“I am interested,” Thorne said, “in learning about one of your orphans who went by the name of Madeline. She would have come to you as a young girl some twenty years ago.”

Gough steepled his fingers in thought. “We have had several girls by that name, my lord.”

“This girl had vivid red hair.”

“Ah, yes, I know the one you mean. Madeline Forrester.”

At the familiar name, Thorne felt the muscles in his stomach clench, while out of the corner of his eye, he saw John Yates give a start.

He’d suspected a connection between Venus and the late Thomas Forrester, but if they shared the same surname as children, they were more likely sister and brother, not lovers. In her revelations to Diana, Venus had said she had a brother, and that they’d been separated when he was sent to a different workhouse.

“You see, Mr. Gough,” Thorne continued, offering a fabricated story, “I am here on a commission for my aunt. Many years ago her ladyship was staying at an inn on the road to London when a young woman named Madeline performed a service for her. My aunt couldn’t recall her benefactor’s name, only that she had been raised in an orphanage in Rye. She wishes to bequeath this Madeline a modest sum in repayment for her kindness. Whatever you could tell me might help me to locate her.”

Evidently believing the story, Gough nodded. “Madeline left here when she was sixteen, I recall. Her brother came for her.”

“She had a brother?”

“Yes, my lord, but I don’t recall his name.”

“Do you know where they went from here?”

“I believe I heard that Madeline went to London, but I’m afraid I don’t know where.”

“What of her family? How did she come to be here in the first place?”

“I remember she was of genteel birth. Not from Rye, but somewhere in the vicinity. Her parents had been murdered, a very shocking incident, to be sure. Perhaps my wife could tell you more. She was in charge of the dormitories back then.”

The two gentlemen had a short wait while Gough went to fetch his wife. In the silence, Thorne met Yates’s eyes and could tell they shared the same thought: It was unwise to leap to any conclusions, but they might have found an explanation for the Forresters’ interest in the Guardians. If their parents’ violent deaths had been linked to the Guardians somehow, it would give both Madeline and Thomas strong reason to want revenge.

A few moments later, Mrs. Gough came bustling in, but she could add little to her husband’s recollections about Madeline Forrester.

“When she first came to us, she was a bitter, silent child, but she was a little beauty even then. I always feared her looks would lead her to a bad end.”

Perhaps they had, Thorne reflected. Young Madeline wound up selling her body in a high-class brothel, and eventually became a madam herself. Had her parents not died, she likely would have had an entirely different life. Another strong reason to want vengeance.

“Do you recall anything about her brother, Mrs. Gough?”

“Not much, my lord. Only that he was also sent to a workhouse. Likely it was a parish close to where he lived. There must have been no homes for girls there if Madeline was sent here.”

Thorne thanked both Goughs and made a donation to the home’s charity fund. Once he and Yates were settled in the traveling chaise on their way back to London, they discussed the possibilities and agreed that their next step was to determine what possible connection the Guardians might have to the murder of Madeline and Thomas Forresters’ parents.

“I want you to send a report to Sir Gawain at once,” Thorne told Yates. “Request that his records be searched for any missions twenty or so years ago that might have involved the senior Forresters. You’re his secretary, so you can best direct him where to begin looking.”

“Very well, my lord. But a reply from Cyrene will take a month or so to return to us.”

“Too long, I know. Which is why I also want you to write every retired or active Guardian in England who could have participated back then. I’ve already questioned all our current London agents about Thomas Forrester, to no avail. I also asked the Foreign Office to examine their files for reports of him—although with Boney threatening a new war, I suspect their priorities lie elsewhere. But perhaps one of our older agents can recall something about the Forresters’ deaths.”

Yates nodded thoughtfully. “An excellent notion. Hopefully we will get lucky, since I discovered nothing from the tenants who lived in that burned-down lodging house where Thomas died.” Yates paused. “It was fortunate Miss Sheridan was able to lure the clue about the orphanage from Madam Venus. Otherwise we would still be at a standstill in our investigation.”

“Yes, it was fortunate,” Thorne agreed grudgingly. “But that will be the last of Miss Sheridan’s involvement. Venus’s portrait should be finished shortly, and I don’t want to risk exposing Miss Sheridan to any potential danger.”

“Do you mean to tell her about our discovery regarding Thomas Forrester?”

“No. If she asks, I’ll say only that we visited Rye, and that the visit might result in some new leads. I want her well out of it.”

Thorne was determined to end her participation in his investigation. If there was any benefit from the scandal, he realized, it was that the emotional turmoil provided Diana a distraction and kept her mind off Nathaniel’s death. Thorne also thought it advantageous that four weeks from now, she would have her art classes to occupy her time.

Now he just had to ensure that Diana terminated her relationship with the notorious Madam Venus as soon as possible.

Separating her from Venus, however, wasn’t as easy as he had expected, for again he’d underestimated Diana’s independent-mindedness. He should have known that once that genie was let out of the bottle, it couldn’t easily be stuffed back in.

At week’s end when he called at her studio, Diana informed him that she had shown Venus the completed portrait yesterday for the first time. “She seemed to be extremely pleased with the result.”

“Of course she was,” Thorne replied, studying the stunning portrait with its luminous highlights and shadings. “I suspect this may be some of your best work.”

“Venus believes I should have no trouble finding art patrons to support my career.”

Thorne looked up at that, meeting Diana’s gaze with narrowed brows. “I have no doubt I could find patrons for you.”

She cast a swift glance across the vast studio, at the chambermaid who was busily cleaning. “You have done quite enough, Thorne,” Diana muttered. “I want my work to be respected on its merits, not as the result of bribes or coercion.”

“Of course you do,” he said soothingly. “But it won’t benefit your reputation any to rely on Venus’s clientele for patronage.”

Her eyes sparking equally with defiance and wry amusement, Diana put her hands on her hips. “I don’t believe it! The wicked Lord Thorne spouting advice about following the stuffy rules of propriety.”

He grinned. “It does strain the imagination, doesn’t it? But be that as it may, you should end your connection with Venus now.”

“It would be shameful of me to cut her simply to protect my reputation. Venus has been very kind to me. And frankly, I
like
her.”

Thorne gave Diana a penetrating look. “I think you’re forgetting her possible implication in Nathaniel’s death.”

She frowned, the sudden flash of guilt and pain in her eyes telling him that he’d struck a nerve. “I suppose I had forgotten,” she said lamely. “She seems so congenial.”

Deciding he had pressed the issue enough for the moment, Thorne took her arm and led her toward the studio door. “We needn’t discuss this now. Go change your gown. I’m abducting you for the day.”

Shaking herself, Diana frowned. “Why?”

“There is a garden party in Richmond where we must be seen. Enough elderly dowagers will be attending to make an appearance worth our while. I intend to put you back into their good graces by charming the stockings off them.”

Thus, Diana shortly found herself accompanying Thorne to Richmond, an hour’s drive southwest of London. Despite the anxiety gnawing at her stomach, she enjoyed the journey. The scenic stretch of countryside along the Thames River boasted numerous magnificent estates with splendid gardens and lush woodlands, so Diana spent most of the time gazing out the windows of Thorne’s town coach, admiring the view.

When they arrived, he remained by her side for the entire afternoon as they mingled with an elite company consisting mainly of noble and genteel elderly ladies.

Thorne made good his promise to figuratively relieve them of their stockings. His outrageous charm made Diana smile, while his powers of seduction awed her.

There was only one difficult moment, when a viscountess made a cutting remark in Thorne’s hearing about riffraff artists. With a lethal smile, he leapt to Diana’s defense, offering a few choice words of his own, commenting that the British Academy did not admit riffraff into their hallowed halls as they had Miss Sheridan, and how it was a pity that snobbery and ignorance kept even members of the quality with claims to taste and refinement from perceiving the benefits of artistic culture.

The sun was setting by the time he handed Diana into his town coach to return to London. Feeling a surge of relief and weariness, Diana lay her head back on the squabs, glad the ordeal was over.

“Tired?” he asked solicitously.

“Mmmmm,” she replied, shutting her eyes. “Being on display like that is absurdly exhausting, especially when I’m far from certain all this effort to redeem my reputation will have any effect.”

Yet when Thorne tried to gather her against him, Diana sat bolt upright and retreated to the opposing coach seat. “I’ll thank you to keep your grasping hands to yourself, my lord. I might see the wisdom in attending these functions with you, but that doesn’t permit you to use them as an excuse to molest me.”

Thorne gave a low chuckle and left her alone to rest unmolested.

It was perhaps a quarter hour later, when dusk had started to settle, that the coach unexpectedly began to slow. Puzzled, Thorne lowered the window to look out.

On the deserted road up ahead, a rider waited, masked and armed with pistols. In fact, there were two riders flanking the road, Thorne realized grimly. Both brandishing weapons at his coachman and the liveried footman, who stood perched on the rear boot. Evidently the coach was being held up by highwaymen.