Nicole Jordan (38 page)

Thorne forcibly summoned his most charming smile. “Becoming fodder for the cartoonists is hardly pleasant. It is not, however, my injured pride that concerns me, but rather Miss Sheridan’s reputation. Having so risqué a piece brandished in such a prominent exhibit as yours, my good sir, will have the tongues of every gossipmonger in town wagging about her. She never intended it for sale. It was to be her wedding gift to me.”

“Then ’ow did I find it in that gallery?”

“I expect it must have been stolen from her studio.”

“Stolen! But who would do such a cavey thing?”

Thorne had his suspicions, but refrained from sharing them. “I wish to buy the portrait back from you, Mr. Attree. I assure you, I will make it worth your while.”

The merchant clasped his hands together, as if in dismay, yet a cunning gleam entered his eyes. “I would be ’appy to oblige, milord, but you ken my reluctance to give over such a stunning work—”

“Just name your price.”

“Perhaps Miss Sheridan could be persuaded to exchange it for a different piece of equal value?”

“Two works of your choice. Will that suffice?”

“Done!” Attree agreed with glee.

“Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to have it wrapped so that I may return it to Miss Sheridan.”

“
Now,
milord?”

“I would prefer to get it out of the public eye immediately—I’m certain you understand. I give you my word, sir, that you will have your replacements before the day is through.”

When Thorne arrived at Diana’s house a short while later, he found her pacing her studio, too distraught to work. She felt cold, sick inside, knowing that the cartoon could ruin her for good this time, destroying everything she had worked for.

The sight of Thorne’s dark expression, however, penetrated her despair, for she suddenly realized the theft of her painting would hurt him, as well.

“I am truly sorry about that dreadful cartoon, Thorne,” Diana began. “I have no notion how it came about, but your portrait is missing. I have searched the entire house twice—”

“Don’t worry. I have the portrait in my possession now, where I intend to keep it.”

Her eyes widened with bewilderment. “Wherever did you find it?”

“I purchased it this morning from your ardent admirer, Mr. Attree. And
he
purchased it yesterday from a gallery on Bond Street. I assured him that it must have been stolen, since you never meant it for public consumption.”

“Of course not! I would never sell so brazen a work. I only just now realized it was missing from my studio. I’ve been too busy even to notice until I saw that wretched cartoon. I can’t imagine how it disappeared—”

“I can,” Thorne said tersely. “Has Amy visited here since our confrontation about bribing her fortune-hunter?”

“Actually…” Diana frowned, trying to remember. “She called the day afterward, when I was out.” Diana gave Thorne a troubled look. “I know Amy was furious, but surely she wouldn’t be so devious as to steal your portrait and sell it?”

“Oh, I have no doubt she is devious enough. And she’ll be fortunate if I don’t throttle her. Go fetch your bonnet,” Thorne said in a tone that made Diana shiver. “I think a visit to my ward is in order.”

His seething anger did not bode well for Amy in the least, Diana knew. But during the drive to Berkeley Square, she tried to come to terms with her own anger, and to determine the best course to take with her aggravating young cousin.

When they arrived, they were informed that Miss Lunsford could be found in the drawing room, as could Mr. John Yates, who had come to call.

When Thorne strode into the room, followed closely by Diana, Lady Hennessy was there, too, no doubt acting as chaperone.

Upon spying her glowering guardian, Amy leapt up from the sofa, all color draining from her face. She stood staring, the picture of guilt, while Thorne pointed an accusing finger at her.

“What do you have to say for yourself, brat? You stole my portrait and sold it, didn’t you?”

Amy’s hands twisted nervously, but her chin rose with belligerence. “Yes, I stole it! I wanted to repay you for driving Reggie away from me. It was no more than you deserve!”

A muscle in Thorne’s jaw worked visibly. When he took another step toward his ward, however, as if he might truly do her violence, Diana placed a restraining hand on his arm. “Thorne, please, you cannot strangle her—”

“Why not?” He pinned Amy with a fulminating glare, while his tone took on a lethal softness. “I don’t give a damn that you made me into a laughingstock for the ton, but you hurt your cousin far worse. She has struggled for years to gain the respect of London’s art authorities, not to mention acceptance by the arbiters of society. This incident will only savage her reputation and give her critics and detractors ammunition to shun her as scandalous. After this, she’ll be fortunate not to be drummed out of town.”

Amy’s expression suddenly turned stricken. “Oh, my God…I didn’t think about Diana—”

“Obviously not,” Thorne said scathingly.

Her gaze flew to Diana, before returning to Thorne. “I didn’t mean to hurt her,” Amy insisted hoarsely. “I only wanted to get back at you. You ruined my life.”

“So your revenge is to ruin Diana’s life? Do you have any inkling of the sacrifices she has made for you, you spoiled, selfish little brat?”

Though staring white-faced, Amy remained mute.

John Yates, who had been watching the entire interchange, stepped slowly forward then, a dark scowl knotting his brow as he regarded Amy. “It is true, isn’t it? You actually stole a painting of Thorne from your cousin.
You
were the cause of that despicable cartoon.”

She held out her hands pleadingly. “John, I can explain!”

He stiffened, his shoulders drawing back, ramrod straight, the bearing of the cavalry officer he’d once been. “I do not believe you
can
explain, Miss Lunsford. Nothing you say can excuse such dishonorable acts as you have perpetrated.”

Amy’s dismayed expression showed how sharply his harsh accusation had pierced her. But Yates was not yet finished, it seemed.

“I have made allowances for your tender age, Miss Lunsford. I hoped you would grow up someday. But I see now how foolish I have been. This is beyond childish. This is
criminal.
Thorne is right—you are nothing but a spoiled, selfish child. And I am through catering to you.”

Turning abruptly, Yates gave a curt bow to Lady Hennessy and then to Diana. “You will forgive me, ladies, if I refrain from calling here in future.”

Amy watched, stunned, as Yates’s rigid, uneven gait carried him out the door. Then she promptly burst into tears and, after another moment, ran blindly from the drawing room.

Lady Hennessy had wisely kept silent all this time, but now she rose wearily and gave a disgusted sigh. “I suppose I had best try to stem that wretched child’s histrionics before she makes herself ill.”

“No, I’ll go,” Diana said abruptly. “I have a few words of my own that I intend for her to hear.”

Upon going upstairs, she found Amy in her bedchamber, sprawled facedown on her bed, sobbing her heart out into her pillow.

Ruthlessly Diana crushed the urge to console the girl, and instead, settled grimly in a chair to wait while Amy lay there weeping passionately.

Eventually she must have realized her dramatics would get no sympathy, for her sobs finally quieted a measure. She hugged her pillow, gulping great tearful gasps of air and shuddering. When at last she pushed herself up to face Diana, her face was mottled red and still streaming with tears.

“You needn’t scold me any further. I am miserable enough as is.”

“You know very well that you’ve brought this misery on yourself.”

Amy looked away, the picture of bleakness. “I do know. I behaved wretchedly, Diana. I can’t imagine how you will ever forgive me. Or John either.”

“It will doubtless be difficult for him,” Diana replied, suspecting the girl was just now realizing how much she cared for John Yates.

Amy flung herself back down on the bed, burying her face in her soaked pillow. “My life truly is ruined now,” she declared in a muffled wail. “I have driven him away. He is the only man I have really ever cared for.”

“Is he indeed?” Diana said sardonically. “What of Reginald Kneighly?”

“That snake? I cannot believe what I ever saw in him! John is ten times the man Reggie is.”

“He is indeed,” Diana agreed, wishing to encourage this line of thinking. “But Mr. Yates is hurt and disappointed in you, with good reason.”

Amy turned her head and sniffed. “I know you are hurt and disappointed in me, too.”

Diana sent her cousin a chill smile. “Well, yes. Not to mention furious.”

“I swear I did not mean to hurt you, Diana. I only wanted to get back at Thorne.”

“Well, that should be a lesson to you. Such puerile behavior not only wounds others, but can also hurt you yourself, since it can drive away the people you care about.”

Wiping her eyes, Amy sat up again. “Have I driven you away?” she asked in a small voice, her lower lip trembling. “Please tell me you will forgive me.”

Diana pressed her lips together, refusing to give in too easily. “I don’t know, Amy. If I thought you were truly remorseful—”

“But I am—
truly
!”

“Well, we shall see.” She rose then and turned away.

“Diana!” Amy cried. “You
must
forgive me!”

“Actually, I needn’t, dearest. Until you prove yourself worthy of forgiveness, I intend to withhold judgment.”

At her cousin’s fresh sob, Diana walked out of the room, leaving the girl to stew in her own despairing reflections.

Eighteen

D
iana’s day
was
not
going well.

First she’d awakened to find that dreadful cartoon in the morning paper, which rudely alerted her to the latest brewing scandal. Next she’d discovered Thorne’s portrait missing. Then the furor with Amy.

Then, when Thorne had driven her home from Berkeley Square, he’d announced his intentions of procuring a special license to marry without delay, insisting that an immediate wedding was the only possible way to salvage what was left of her reputation. Diana had firmly refused, declaring she was determined to weather the tempest. She had no intention of forcing Thorne into marriage in order to save her.

Additionally, upon arriving home three hours ago, she’d discovered that her current client had canceled her afternoon appointment for a sitting without a word of explanation. The defection was no doubt due to her newest disgrace, Diana knew, since when she’d finished her first commission two days before, Lady Ranworth had been so delighted with her portrait that she’d vowed to tell all her friends of Miss Sheridan’s “magnificent talent.” Diana had the sinking suspicion this cancellation was only the beginning of her downward slide in popularity.

And now her footman had just informed her that the Duke of Redcliffe was waiting below in her parlor, requesting a word with her.

Diana wasn’t certain what had brought Thorne’s father to her doorstep, but she had a good notion. With trepidation, she went downstairs to meet the duke.

He stood, tall and elegant, at the parlor window, staring out at the street, but he turned at her entrance, a grave frown upon his brow.

“I presume you are here because of this morning’s cartoon,” Diana said guardedly once polite greetings had been exchanged.

A humorless smile twisted the corner of Redcliffe’s handsome mouth. “Certainly I am not pleased that my son is the object of notoriety once more. I have a severe dislike of imbroglios that reflect poorly on my family name. For shame, Miss Sheridan. I had not thought you would abet Christopher in his rebel tendencies.”

Diana clasped her hands together, wondering what she could say in her own defense without seeming the coward. “I assure you, your grace, I did not set out to embroil your son in scandal, and I regret it enormously, even more than you yourself do, I expect.”

The duke gave an elegant shrug. “I do not lay the blame entirely upon you, of course. Scandal follows my son around like a shadow. I had hoped your betrothal would be the making of him, perhaps cure him of his wild ways, but….” Redcliffe hesitated, pinning her with his gaze. “If I may be candid, it is not this new stir that troubles me. Christopher has survived far worse. I am not so certain, however, that his heart will emerge unscathed this time.”

Diana raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, your grace.”

“I wish to ask you a highly personal question, Miss Sheridan. One that is more normally the purview of a father harboring concerns for a daughter. What are your intentions toward my son? Are they honorable?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you love him, Miss Sheridan?”

“Well…yes, of course,” Diana stammered, determined to uphold their pretense of a love match—although she was no longer certain it was wholly pretense on her part. She winced inwardly at the thought. “Why do you ask?”