The Art of Sinning (10 page)

“No, indeed.” She ate a bite of toast. “He's got family coming any day now.” She shot Jeremy a look of challenge. “If he's still working when they arrive, we can invite them to stay at Stoke Towers.”

To her surprise, a laugh burst from the American. “Mother would never do that. This is her first trip to London. She isn't going to settle for moldering out at your country estate when she can be shopping on Bond Street.”

Aha! That was one clue about his mother. “She enjoys shopping, does she?”

“Doesn't every woman?”

“Not your sister,” Edwin put in. “Not according to what you told me at the wedding.”

“He told you about his sister at the wedding?” Yvette said. “Why didn't you tell
me
?”

“Why would I?” Edwin looked truly bewildered. Sometimes he was too oblivious to be believed. “You didn't ask. And it had nothing to do with you.”

“Perhaps I'm curious to know why Mr. Keane chose to abandon his sister to their family mills to come here.”

“That's a tale for another time,” Jeremy said smoothly. Pushing away from the table, he stood and laid down his napkin. “If I'm to get any work done, I'd better go make sure that Damber has everything ready for when her ladyship is done with her breakfast.”

To her vast irritation, he gave a courteous bow and walked out, leaving her no more the wiser about why he was avoiding his family. It was so frustrating!

And Edwin was no help at all. That day, while she posed for her portrait, he chatted with Jeremy about everything except what she wanted to know. She didn't think he did it deliberately, but it was still vexing. Every time she broached the subject of Jeremy's mother and sister, Jeremy changed the subject to something that interested Edwin, and that was an end to her gaining any useful information about Jeremy's life outside his work as an artist.

So while they talked, she tried getting information from Damber. Unfortunately, she never got to be alone with the apprentice to really interrogate him about his master. Still, she was able to glean a few things from their long conversation about street cant and painting and such.

Apparently Jeremy's family was quite wealthy.
He'd received an excellent education at a boarding school in Massachusetts, then had left home to study painting in Philadelphia at the age of nineteen. He had only the one sister and was half heir to the family mills.

And he worked late most nights. How he managed that while also cutting a wide swath through London's stews and gaming hells was beyond her, but Damber wasn't forthcoming about
that
.

Later that evening, when she was posing privately for Jeremy, she came right out and asked him. He merely made some flippant remark and went on painting. Indeed, as the evening wore on and she quizzed him about his life in America, he continued to deflect her questions with jokes or facile tales of his travels, the sort she would imagine he used with any model.

Meanwhile, his formality chilled her to the bone. He called her “my lady” so often that she finally informed him acidly that only servants called her that. He refused to let her see the painting and threatened to expose her plans to her brother if she even attempted to look at it. And though he touched her sometimes to reposition her, his impersonal demeanor told her she was merely the model for his dratted work.

And that hurt. It was almost more than she could bear, to be alone with him with the reminder of their intimate kisses shimmering in the air while he treated her with cold professionalism.

He was a known rakehell, for pity's sake! Didn't they attempt to bed anything in skirts?

Not Jeremy, apparently. Over the next several
days, he and Edwin discussed art and America and society until she was sick of it. At night, Jeremy told her so many stories of his adventures she was sure she could publish an account of his travels.

Yet she learned from it only that he could be an amusing raconteur. Which perversely meant that when it came to his feelings or anything that really mattered, he was more impenetrable than the cockney slang of a Spitalfields doxy.

He sharpened his wit on her; she sharpened her wit on him. But it ended there. She saw nothing deeper of him. He might as well have been one of Edwin's well-crafted automatons, moving in carefully circumscribed ways, speaking of carefully circumscribed things in his brittle, removed manner. It was enough to make a half-dressed female scream.

Or cry. But she refused to cry over the likes of Jeremy Keane. She'd already told herself he was wrong for her. Why did she care if he agreed? She didn't. She wouldn't.

So on the morning of her ninth day of posing for the portrait, she'd decided to give up on trying to know him better. Tomorrow night was the masquerade ball and their visit to the bawdy house. Once that was done, she just had to suffer through his finishing the two paintings.

Clearly, whatever connection to him that she'd felt their first evening together had been imagined. Or else he was a master at keeping himself in check. And in her experience, that was never true of rogues.

Probably he'd kissed her to shut her up about her desirability so he could keep her compliant with his
aims to paint her. Or something equally manipulative.

“Must you scowl?” Jeremy grumbled as he daubed and dabbed at his canvas. He seemed as out of sorts this morning as she.

“I didn't realize I was,” she said coolly. “How unfeminine of me. God forbid I look like anything but a delicate flower for my portrait.”

Her sharp tone must have caught Edwin's attention, for he glanced up from the accounting ledger he was going over. “You couldn't look like a delicate flower if you tried. And who wants a delicate flower, anyway?”

“No sensible man, that's for certain,” said a voice from the doorway.

She glanced over and broke into a smile. “Warren!” Abandoning her pose, she hurried over to the Marquess of Knightford, who also happened to be Edwin's oldest friend. “It's been ages!”

“Indeed it has.” With the usual twinkle in his eye, he bussed her on the cheek.

Warren Corry was the only man, other than Edwin and Samuel, allowed such familiarity. He was a flirt and a devil and notorious for breezing in and out of some of society's loftiest bedrooms, but to her he was part of the family.

Still, the impudent look he now gave her might make it difficult for an outsider to tell. “You're looking very lovely,” he said with a wink and a grin. “I don't believe I've ever seen you in that gown, but it's most fetching. Brings out the bit of red in your hair.”

She shot Edwin a triumphant look, and in the process caught Jeremy's gaze. He was staring daggers
at Warren. It gave her pause, especially since it was the first hint of emotion he'd shown in days.

How odd. Could he be jealous? Oh, wouldn't that be delicious? She could finally vex him the way he'd been vexing her.

Though he didn't seem the sort to be jealous. Probably he was merely irritated that she'd broken her pose. Well, she wasn't a machine. He would just have to get used to it.

Deliberately, she turned her back on him. “What are you doing here, Warren? You can't be visiting your aunt and cousin.” The estate of Warren's aunt lay quite close to Stoke Towers. “They're wintering in Bath.”

“They
were
, but as of last night they're home. My aunt got bored and decided she and Clarissa would be better off in the country after all. So I was charged with accompanying them back.” As guardian to his cousin Clarissa, he was often charged with such tasks. He sometimes even did them.

“You poor dear,” she teased. “But that doesn't explain why you came right over to visit us the minute you arrived.”

“Actually, Clarissa sent me to fetch you. She's still unpacking, but she hoped you might come help her and her mother pick her costume for tomorrow night's masquerade ball at the Keanes' in London. I assume you're going?”

“Of course! We all are.” She cocked her head. “I didn't realize that you knew Lady Zoe.”

“I don't, but my aunt went to school with Lady Zoe's aunt.”

“You mean, Zoe's Aunt Floria?” Jeremy put in.

As if Warren's coronet of rank had suddenly dropped onto his head from on high, the marquess stiffened and turned to stare coldly at Jeremy. “I don't believe we've been introduced, sir.”

A light glittered in Jeremy's eyes. “No. I don't believe we have.”

“Forgive my bad manners.” Edwin swiftly performed introductions, adding, by way of explanation, “Keane is painting Yvette's portrait.”

“Is he?” Warren said in a surprisingly testy voice. “Did you know that he is often seen out and about in Covent Garden?”

“So are you,” Jeremy countered. “I've seen you myself.”

A flush crept up Warren's neck. “I happen to enjoy attending the theater.”

“Among other . . . establishments.” Jeremy shot Yvette a veiled glance.

How odd. Why was he was being so vulgar? Wait—did he think Warren had something to do with her trip to the bawdy house?

Oh, for pity's sake. She lifted an eyebrow at Warren. “As it happens, Edwin and I are quite aware of Mr. Keane's love of nunneries.” She frowned at Jeremy. “We're equally aware of his lordship's preference for them. So why don't the two of you stop accusing each other of habits you'd probably congratulate each other for if I weren't around?”

Warren blinked. Edwin gave a choked sound that sounded something like a laugh. But Jeremy just watched Warren with a challenging gaze, as if ready to protect her should Warren assault her honor.

It was rather sweet. And utterly unexpected, given the way he'd been behaving lately.

“Now,” she went on, “if you gentlemen will excuse me, I'm going upstairs to change into something more suitable for strolling over to Clarissa's with Warren. I shan't be long.”

“What about your portrait?” Jeremy called as she walked away.

“Oh, let her have a few hours off,” Edwin put in. “She's been a good sort about posing. I confess I didn't expect her to last
this
long.”

She paused to look back at Jeremy with a blithe smile. “Why don't you work on the background? Or on one of those other paintings Mr. Damber says you work on at night?”

At her reminder that he owed her for doing him a favor, Jeremy stiffened, then gave her one of his mocking bows. “Whatever her ladyship wishes.”

Edwin's chuckle followed her up the stairs.

Let Jeremy retreat into his cold fortress. If she didn't escape him for a few hours, she might do something reckless.

Like remind him she was a woman he supposedly desired. And that wouldn't be remotely wise.

Ten

It took all of Jeremy's will to hold his tongue after Yvette left the manor with the marquess. Not that she wasn't behaving entirely respectably; she did
have her maid with her.

Still, she was wearing a fetching brown walking dress that accentuated her lush shape. While she'd paired it with an enormous pink-and-brown bonnet that would poke a man's eye out if he tried to kiss her, bonnets could be removed. Even a maid's presence might not prevent that if Knightford were the devious sort.

And he was bound to be. Jeremy didn't like the marquess. Or how the fellow looked at Yvette. Or the fact that the two had apparently known each other forever. She called him by his Christian name, for God's sake!

Thunderation, he was starting to sound like the English. Who cared what she called the ass? Who cared that “Warren” had salivated over her in that red evening gown she'd worn for the portrait?

No one could blame the man. Jeremy had spent the past several days staring at her in that gown and aching for her. Getting hard for her as he never had for any other model. It made their nights together unbearable, especially now that he knew what it was like to kiss her, caress her . . .

“Since Yvette's gone, I believe I'll get some estate work done with my steward.” Blakeborough rose. “The servants will let me know when she returns.”

Only with difficulty did Jeremy not ask when that was likely to be. He'd managed to put Blakeborough's suspicions about him and Yvette thoroughly to rest in the past week, and he wasn't about to ruin that by appearing overly concerned with her disappearance.

Still, that didn't keep him from spending the morning with one eye on the clock. Then doing the same thing all afternoon, while he worked on
Art Sacrificed to Commerce
without her. He should be glad of the chance to finish the Commerce figure—which he was modeling after himself using mirrors—but it merely kept her provocative image in front of him, making him wonder what in thunder she was doing over there with Knightford.

When she didn't return for dinner at six, Jeremy had to bite his tongue half off to keep from saying anything. By the time he and Blakeborough had dined without her and were making serious inroads into an excellent bottle of brandy, he could keep silent no longer.

“Does your sister mean to spend the night over there with her friends?” He knocked back the remainder of his third glass and poured himself a fourth, despite being well on his way to becoming foxed.

“Oh, I doubt it.” Blakeborough swirled the liquor in his own glass. “Knightford will send her and her maid back in his coach before it gets too late. He always does.”

Always
? Jeremy frowned. “They see each other quite a bit, do they?”

“When he's visiting his aunt's estate, yes. Yvette is like a sister to him.”

Jeremy had heard that one before. “Still, do you think it wise to let her spend time alone with the fellow?” He prided himself on the fact that he sounded unaffected. Unconcerned.

Or maybe not, because the earl eyed him closely. “Knightford has known Yvette since she was a babe. At eleven, he dandled her on his knee. At fifteen, he let her give him her lost teeth for safekeeping. He called her ‘Pest' up until a year ago.” He chuckled. “She said if he kept calling her that in public, she'd box his ears. He stopped.”

That account of a friendship more familial than flirtatious didn't soothe Jeremy one bit. “Maybe he stopped because he started thinking of her as a desirable woman ripe for the plucking.”

Blakeborough laughed outright. “I doubt it. Just a month ago, she tried to marry him off to one of her friends. He told Yvette he would wed after he got Clarissa situated with a husband.” The earl snorted. “Whenever
that
magical day might arrive. The little witch keeps bedeviling him. And me. And any man foolish enough to take her on.”

Jeremy eyed him closely. “Are you still talking about your sister? Or do you mean Clarissa?”

Blakeborough started. “
Lady
Clarissa.” He swallowed some brandy. He looked as if he, too, might be growing foxed. “I mean, I'm talking about both. Peas in a pod, those two. Sure, they seem different at first glance. Clarissa's a bottle of champagne that explodes when you shake it, and Yvette's a pot coming to a slow boil. But if you ever see bubbles in either, you'd best take cover. Because trouble is brewing. Those two have a penchant for it.”

Yvette sure did. She'd been coming to a boil for over a week now, getting more witty and effervescent the more annoyed she got with him. Which she'd been ever since the night they kissed.

How stupid he'd been to kiss her. That was why trouble was brewing, and he couldn't even regret it. Her supple mouth, so warm, so sweet . . . Oh, God, and those soft, silky thighs that Knightford might even now be—

Damn it. “You're saying you trust Knightford with her. Even though he's known for his flirting and his . . . women.” Falling back against his chair, Jeremy cast the earl a belligerent look.

“So are you.”

“Yes, and you keep me under a watchful eye. But not him.”

The earl shrugged. “I know his character. He and I became good friends while getting Yvette and Clarissa out of scrapes.” He waved his glass distractedly. “Warren might . . . flatter my sister, but she knows he doesn't mean it as anything. Plus, he only dallies with loose women, not respectable ones.”

Jeremy scowled. He wasn't so sure. Any respect
able woman who kissed like Yvette had been kissed before, and intimately, too. By Knightford? Or somebody else?

Knightford made the most sense. The man had apparently been allowed to see her whenever he pleased. And girlhood crushes sometimes
did
lead to more once the girl became a woman. Could the marquess be the one who'd prompted her to request that Jeremy sneak her into a brothel?

“Why do you care, anyway?” Blakeborough asked.

“Excellent question.”

He didn't realize he'd said it aloud until the earl said, “I know. That's why I asked.”

Thunderation. Jeremy couldn't admit the truth. That the idea of her being manipulated by Knightford into risking her reputation ignited something ugly in his chest.

Not jealousy. That'd be foolish. Very, very foolish.

“Because I like your sister.” Avoiding the earl's gaze, he stared down into his brandy. “Admire her spirit. Hate to see it damaged by a man who didn't respect it.”

“Me too.”

The hard clip in Blakeborough's voice made Jeremy look up. Did the man suspect what had been going on in the evenings between him and Yvette?

How could he? Blakeborough would've already tossed him out on his ear.

“Well, then.” Jeremy lifted his glass. “If you're not alarmed, neither am I.” He set the glass down a bit harder than he'd intended, and some of the liquid sloshed over the edge. “I was just thinking of my own sister. How I'd react if some ass took advan
tage. If your sister's a boiling pot and Lady Clarissa's exploding champagne, then Amanda is a churning hot spring.” He scowled. “And plenty of men are drawn to the heat.”

“Too true.” Blakeborough finished off his glass. “Haven't forgotten my promise to you, y'know. About finding your sister a husband. I made some inquiries. Haven't heard much yet, though.”

“You haven't had a chance. You've been in the country ever since we first talked.” Jeremy swigged more brandy. “But you can ask around at the masquerade tomorrow, right? Or go to your club after and ask there? I'll go with you. Yvette can stay with my cousin till we get back.”

Blakeborough leaned forward unsteadily. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure. Why not?” Jeremy bent forward, too, nearly oversetting his chair.

“I don't much go to my club. Don't like it.”

“Oh, right. Yvette says you don't really like people.”

Blakeborough drew himself up. “Now see here, I like people. Some of them. Just . . . not the ones in gentlemen's clubs.”

“Don't blame you. I don't like 'em, either,” Jeremy admitted.

“You've been in a club?”

The earl sounded so incredulous that Jeremy glared at him. “A few. As a guest. I'm a famous artist, y'know. Got relations in high places, too.”

“True, true. I keep forgetting.” Blakeborough poured himself more brandy. “Why don't you like the clubs?”

“I'm a solitary man. Prefer my own company.”

“Or the company of whores.”

Jeremy scowled into his glass. “At least whores aren't boring. Like the gentlemen in clubs.”

“Club men
are
dull
,
aren't they?” The earl shook his head. “No one says anything interesting. It's all cards and bragging about mistresses and betting on which drop of water will reach the bottom of the window first.”

“That really happened?” Jeremy snorted. “I thought that was a joke.”

“Nope. Two fools made a bet on it.”

“Stupid.”

“Ridiculous. But that's the clubs. I only went to mine to drum up a husband for Yvette. That was pointless.” He rolled his eyes. “Bunch of whoresons and doddering old fools and reckless gamesters.” Sitting back against his chair, he gulped some brandy. “It did help me figure out who
not
to throw at her.”

Jeremy blinked. “Did throwing men at her ever work? Haven't tried that with Amanda.”

“Don't bother. The women don't like it. Talk about
trouble
 . . .”

Blakeborough shuddered, and they both drank in a silent gesture of camaraderie.

“Honestly,” the earl went on, “would you want a chap from the clubs to marry
your
sister?”

“Probably not.”

“We need better suitors. Good ones. Steady ones. If we could find a club with those . . .”

“We should start our own club,” Jeremy said with a sweep of his glass. “For gentlemen looking out for their sisters.”

“Or their wards. Or daughters.” The earl sat up. “We could compare notes on suitors. My brother was a scoundrel, and I didn't even know how bad. By the time I found out about the women he . . .” He lapsed into a long, brooding silence.

“The women he what?” Jeremy prodded.

“You don't want to know.” He shivered. “But if anybody had told me what he was up to, I could have . . . I don't know . . .”

“Stopped him? Probably not. But you could have warned the women off.”

“Exactly! Or their brothers. Or fathers. Or . . . whoever cared for them.” Blakeborough set his glass down firmly. “We
should
start a club. To protect our women from bad suitors. Who better than us? Oh, and Knightford. We should bring him in.”

“Knightford? He's got a reputation!”

Blakeborough's eyebrows shot up. “You do, too. That's why you'd both be good members. You could ferret out the scoundrels. And he knows dirt about everybody.”

“Because he's down in the muck with 'em.”

“Like
you
.”

“Oh, for God's sake, I'm not in the—” Jeremy made a disgusted noise. “Anyway, why include him? He doesn't have a sister.”

“But he has a cousin to marry off.” The earl scowled. “
Someone
should find out about those fellows flirting with Clarissa.”

“You seem awfully interested in Clarissa.”

A dull flush colored Blakeborough's cheeks. “It's just a brotherly sort of concern.”

Jeremy wasn't so sure, but he didn't want to
poke the bear. Not when they were getting along so well.

“So Knightford would
want
to join, because of Clarissa,” Blakeborough went on. When Jeremy muttered a curse, Blakeborough added, “Better to have him close, where we can keep an eye on him. Right?”

Hmm. Good idea. They could make sure Knightford behaved. Didn't try to court Yvette.

Slumping in his chair, Jeremy scowled. What did he care who courted Yvette? Wasn't his concern
.
He had two paintings to finish.

And when the hell was she coming home, anyway? How could he paint her if she spent all her time with that ass Knightford?

“Excuse me, sir.”

Jeremy glanced over to see his apprentice lurking in the doorway.

“Come in, come in, young Damber!” Blakeborough said with an expansive gesture. “We're just having a bit of brandy.”

When Damber snorted, Jeremy rose to interrupt the young fool before he insulted the earl. “What is it?”

“I wondered if you were done with me for the evening, sir. I thought I'd go down to supper with the servants if you don't need nothing else.”

The servants. Hmm. “Actually, I did want to speak to you about one matter.” He dipped his head at Edwin. “That is, if your lordship doesn't mind my getting back to work.”

“Do as you must,” Blakeborough said genially, and poured himself another glass, clearly intent on finishing the bottle. “See you in the morning. We'll discuss our plans for our club more then.”

“Certainly,” Jeremy said, though he wondered if either of them would remember much of their conversation in the morning.

He'd better sober up. He still had to paint Yvette tonight, assuming that she returned.

Nodding Damber from the room, he waited until they were a short way down the hall before he halted the lad. “You and the earl's servants get along well, don't you?”

Damber eyed him warily. “I think so. Why?”

Yes, why? Oh, right. Yvette.

He bit back an oath. He really needed to clear his head. “I want you to try to learn what they know about her suitors or other male admirers. 'Specially Knightford, but anyone else they might mention, too.”

After all, this was for her own good—to make sure this brothel visit wasn't the result of some devious fellow scheming to harm her.