betrothed.”
“Everyone will soon learn what has occurred at the Westley mansion,” Isabel said. “Lady Yarmouth happened to be visiting from Paris and had accompanied Lord Yarmouth to the auction. Your mother is a friend of hers, is she not?”
“Of course. My mother and stepfather are having a ball next Saturday, and Lord and Lady Yarmouth will be in attendance.”
“With my mother gone, do you think your mother would officially announce my engagement?” Isabel asked.
Charlotte’s face creased into a sudden smile. “What a wonderful idea! My stepfather, even more than my mother, loves attracting attention to their events, and what would attract more attention than the engagement of Lady Isabel Cameron to the Earl of Ardmore’s youngest son?”
“You mean the Earl of Ardmore’s damaged son.”
“No matter. It will add fuel to the fire. My stepfather will be in his glory.” Charlotte licked her pink lips and lifted her teacup. “Now tell me about Lord Westley’s room of erotic art and don’t miss a detail.”
Chapter 7
The artist’s studio was like all the others Dante Black had frequented over the years. Dilapidated and drafty, it stank of paint, turpentine, and the desperation that oozed out of the pores of every struggling artist in London. Bottles of paint in every color of the rainbow crowded wooden shelves on the walls. Canvases and wood frames were scattered around the perimeter of the room. Brushes and dirty rags soaked in jars of cloudy water, waiting to be cleaned.
The only difference today was a package wrapped in plain brown paper—slightly larger than three feet by four feet—which rested in the corner of the room. None would suspect the nondescript wrapping held the valuable 1791 painting by Thomas Gainsborough, Seashore with Fishermen .
Dante turned away from the hidden painting and paced the small space. He had arrived before his contact, and his stomach churned with anxiety. Sweat trickled down his bald head and ran into his eyes. Every five paces, he swiped at his forehead with an impatient hand.
“Damn,” Dante spat out loud. “The bitch ruined everything.”
He viciously kicked at a can of turpentine on the floor, splattering the contents across the paint-stained hardwood and onto his polished Hessians. He cursed again, and the strong stench of the spilled turpentine burned his nostrils.
“We expected better from ye, Dante.”
Dante whirled around at the sound of the raspy male voice.
Robby Bones, the criminal who had recruited Dante, slithered into the center of the studio. Although he was near the same impressive height as Dante, the physical similarities between the two men stopped there. Whereas Dante was thin, Robby Bones was a testament to his name—gaunt, cadaverous, near-emaciated in appearance. Black hair hung in greasy strands to his shoulders, hiding sunken cheekbones and deep eye sockets. His fingertips, as well as his teeth, were tobacco stained to an uncomely brown. His trademark, which he boasted about, was a chipped front tooth that had sheared in half during a bar brawl, and that he now used to hold a cheap cigar in place without having to clamp his lips together. It was rumored that Bones worked as a grave digger when his illicit activities were not sufficiently profitable.
Disgust, comingled with disquiet, infused Dante. He considered himself a gentleman and the riffraff before him was insulting. “The girl’s presence was unforeseeable. Her testimony was beyond my control.”
“’Is lordship paid ye good blunt fer yer services. If ye ’ad used yer men like ye should ’ave, ye would ’ave known that Hawksley wasna alone in that room, an’ ye could ’ave seen to the chit.”
At the mention of “his lordship,” the anonymous employer who’d hired both Dante and Robby Bones to do his bidding, Dante’s curiosity rose again. Dante had no idea as to the true identity of “his lordship,” but he suspected three things: First, the man was
“Everyone will soon learn what has occurred at the Westley mansion,” Isabel said. “Lady Yarmouth happened to be visiting from Paris and had accompanied Lord Yarmouth to the auction. Your mother is a friend of hers, is she not?”
“Of course. My mother and stepfather are having a ball next Saturday, and Lord and Lady Yarmouth will be in attendance.”
“With my mother gone, do you think your mother would officially announce my engagement?” Isabel asked.
Charlotte’s face creased into a sudden smile. “What a wonderful idea! My stepfather, even more than my mother, loves attracting attention to their events, and what would attract more attention than the engagement of Lady Isabel Cameron to the Earl of Ardmore’s youngest son?”
“You mean the Earl of Ardmore’s damaged son.”
“No matter. It will add fuel to the fire. My stepfather will be in his glory.” Charlotte licked her pink lips and lifted her teacup. “Now tell me about Lord Westley’s room of erotic art and don’t miss a detail.”
Chapter 7
The artist’s studio was like all the others Dante Black had frequented over the years. Dilapidated and drafty, it stank of paint, turpentine, and the desperation that oozed out of the pores of every struggling artist in London. Bottles of paint in every color of the rainbow crowded wooden shelves on the walls. Canvases and wood frames were scattered around the perimeter of the room. Brushes and dirty rags soaked in jars of cloudy water, waiting to be cleaned.
The only difference today was a package wrapped in plain brown paper—slightly larger than three feet by four feet—which rested in the corner of the room. None would suspect the nondescript wrapping held the valuable 1791 painting by Thomas Gainsborough, Seashore with Fishermen .
Dante turned away from the hidden painting and paced the small space. He had arrived before his contact, and his stomach churned with anxiety. Sweat trickled down his bald head and ran into his eyes. Every five paces, he swiped at his forehead with an impatient hand.
“Damn,” Dante spat out loud. “The bitch ruined everything.”
He viciously kicked at a can of turpentine on the floor, splattering the contents across the paint-stained hardwood and onto his polished Hessians. He cursed again, and the strong stench of the spilled turpentine burned his nostrils.
“We expected better from ye, Dante.”
Dante whirled around at the sound of the raspy male voice.
Robby Bones, the criminal who had recruited Dante, slithered into the center of the studio. Although he was near the same impressive height as Dante, the physical similarities between the two men stopped there. Whereas Dante was thin, Robby Bones was a testament to his name—gaunt, cadaverous, near-emaciated in appearance. Black hair hung in greasy strands to his shoulders, hiding sunken cheekbones and deep eye sockets. His fingertips, as well as his teeth, were tobacco stained to an uncomely brown. His trademark, which he boasted about, was a chipped front tooth that had sheared in half during a bar brawl, and that he now used to hold a cheap cigar in place without having to clamp his lips together. It was rumored that Bones worked as a grave digger when his illicit activities were not sufficiently profitable.
Disgust, comingled with disquiet, infused Dante. He considered himself a gentleman and the riffraff before him was insulting. “The girl’s presence was unforeseeable. Her testimony was beyond my control.”
“’Is lordship paid ye good blunt fer yer services. If ye ’ad used yer men like ye should ’ave, ye would ’ave known that Hawksley wasna alone in that room, an’ ye could ’ave seen to the chit.”
At the mention of “his lordship,” the anonymous employer who’d hired both Dante and Robby Bones to do his bidding, Dante’s curiosity rose again. Dante had no idea as to the true identity of “his lordship,” but he suspected three things: First, the man was
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