blinked in surprise at his unexotic answer.
He smiled. “An old sea dog retired from the Navy keeps a parlor there. Supports himself nicely in his old age, I daresay. He learned his art from the natives of Tahiti while serving aboard one of His Majesty’s frigates.”
“Did it hurt much?”
“Don’t recall,” he said with a lazy grin, scratching his scruffy jaw. “I was stone drunk every time.”
With a snort of amused disdain, she looked away.
As he commenced tending his wound, she stood awkwardly a short distance away, trying to keep her gaze averted. She felt she really ought to help somehow—his injury looked dreadfully painful—but she barely dared glance at him, belatedly unnerved by the presence of a very large, virile, half-naked man in the room with her. What her brothers would have said of this, she did not wish to contemplate.
With so many people to answer to, she wondered in a sudden surge of rebellion what it was like to be Blade. He was a ruffian, to be sure; but he was as free as an eagle, and she was deuced certain that no one ever told him what to do. He would laugh in their faces.
Glancing at him, chagrined to find herself envious of the lovely brute, she let out a sudden exclamation. “Blade! You’re going to get water on the painting! For goodness’s sake, it’s a Canaletto—”
“I think I know what it is. Why else would I have bothered to steal it?”
“Then you shouldn’t leave it where it can get covered in water spots!”
He watched her curiously as she marched past him to the chest of drawers and whisked the masterpiece out of harm’s way. Carrying it over to his writing table where it would not suffer the indignity of stray splashes, she took her time fussing over placing it just so, relieved to have some small task to distract her from gawking at him.
Looking back on it, she couldn’t believe that her best friend and lady’s companion, Lizzie Carlisle, hadn’t thought that Billy Blade was handsome. She had called him “A Nasty Man” and had been scandalized by Jacinda’s interest.
She wanted to laugh at the thought. Only Mama would have understood, she thought with an inward sigh, stealing another wicked peek at him from across the dim chamber. What a gorgeous air of wildness and rebellion he had about him, with his dark gold mane flowing back from his forehead and those pagan tattoos adorning his finely honed body.
Still, though the vast gulf between Billy Blade and the fashionable dandies of her acquaintance was obvious, she could not escape the nagging intuition that the gang leader was not entirely what he seemed. Perhaps he was the product of some highborn rake’s dalliance with a tavern wench, for he had a bold, strong, sensual face with a fineness to his features that whispered of loftier bloodlines than his seeming Cockney origins. The princely lines of his thick, tawny eyebrows winged over his wary yet thoughtful eyes. He had austere, knife-hilt cheekbones; a square, determined chin; and a generous mouth that would have tempted a paragon, let alone the daughter of the Hawkscliffe Harlot.
Yet his face also bore the marks of his rough life on the streets. His aquiline nose crooked slightly to the right, and above the outer corner of his left eyebrow was a scar in the shape of a scraggly star. As he began binding his lacerated side with a length of clean linen and an air of practiced efficiency, she dragged her stare away from him by sheer dint of will.
“You’re awfully good at looking after yourself, aren’t you?” she remarked in a tone of studied idleness, running her fingertip along the dusty top of the Canaletto’s gilded frame.
“Have to be. No one else is goin‘ to do it.” He got up and threw out the blood-tinged water, refilling the washbowl with fresh, cool water from the drinking pitcher. He leaned down and began splashing his face.
She fell silent, guiltily counting the number of servants who saw to her needs every hour of every
He smiled. “An old sea dog retired from the Navy keeps a parlor there. Supports himself nicely in his old age, I daresay. He learned his art from the natives of Tahiti while serving aboard one of His Majesty’s frigates.”
“Did it hurt much?”
“Don’t recall,” he said with a lazy grin, scratching his scruffy jaw. “I was stone drunk every time.”
With a snort of amused disdain, she looked away.
As he commenced tending his wound, she stood awkwardly a short distance away, trying to keep her gaze averted. She felt she really ought to help somehow—his injury looked dreadfully painful—but she barely dared glance at him, belatedly unnerved by the presence of a very large, virile, half-naked man in the room with her. What her brothers would have said of this, she did not wish to contemplate.
With so many people to answer to, she wondered in a sudden surge of rebellion what it was like to be Blade. He was a ruffian, to be sure; but he was as free as an eagle, and she was deuced certain that no one ever told him what to do. He would laugh in their faces.
Glancing at him, chagrined to find herself envious of the lovely brute, she let out a sudden exclamation. “Blade! You’re going to get water on the painting! For goodness’s sake, it’s a Canaletto—”
“I think I know what it is. Why else would I have bothered to steal it?”
“Then you shouldn’t leave it where it can get covered in water spots!”
He watched her curiously as she marched past him to the chest of drawers and whisked the masterpiece out of harm’s way. Carrying it over to his writing table where it would not suffer the indignity of stray splashes, she took her time fussing over placing it just so, relieved to have some small task to distract her from gawking at him.
Looking back on it, she couldn’t believe that her best friend and lady’s companion, Lizzie Carlisle, hadn’t thought that Billy Blade was handsome. She had called him “A Nasty Man” and had been scandalized by Jacinda’s interest.
She wanted to laugh at the thought. Only Mama would have understood, she thought with an inward sigh, stealing another wicked peek at him from across the dim chamber. What a gorgeous air of wildness and rebellion he had about him, with his dark gold mane flowing back from his forehead and those pagan tattoos adorning his finely honed body.
Still, though the vast gulf between Billy Blade and the fashionable dandies of her acquaintance was obvious, she could not escape the nagging intuition that the gang leader was not entirely what he seemed. Perhaps he was the product of some highborn rake’s dalliance with a tavern wench, for he had a bold, strong, sensual face with a fineness to his features that whispered of loftier bloodlines than his seeming Cockney origins. The princely lines of his thick, tawny eyebrows winged over his wary yet thoughtful eyes. He had austere, knife-hilt cheekbones; a square, determined chin; and a generous mouth that would have tempted a paragon, let alone the daughter of the Hawkscliffe Harlot.
Yet his face also bore the marks of his rough life on the streets. His aquiline nose crooked slightly to the right, and above the outer corner of his left eyebrow was a scar in the shape of a scraggly star. As he began binding his lacerated side with a length of clean linen and an air of practiced efficiency, she dragged her stare away from him by sheer dint of will.
“You’re awfully good at looking after yourself, aren’t you?” she remarked in a tone of studied idleness, running her fingertip along the dusty top of the Canaletto’s gilded frame.
“Have to be. No one else is goin‘ to do it.” He got up and threw out the blood-tinged water, refilling the washbowl with fresh, cool water from the drinking pitcher. He leaned down and began splashing his face.
She fell silent, guiltily counting the number of servants who saw to her needs every hour of every
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