the closed parlor door to ensure no servants were about, and then turned to look at Charlotte. “We are to be together in name only,” Isabel whispered.
Charlotte blinked. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Our relationship shall remain passionless until the gossip has subsided, and Marcus can discover the true thief of the Thomas Gainsborough painting. Then we will be free to live our separate lives. I can travel to live with Auntie Lil in Paris, and Marcus can return to his…his former life.”
For some reason, Isabel could not bring herself to divulge—even to Charlotte—that Marcus Hawksley had a lady friend waiting for him.
Charlotte set her teacup on a saucer with a loud clink and sat forward. “Have you lost your wits, Isabel? How in the name of Hades do you plan on remaining passionless around Marcus Hawksley—a man you used to pine after and secretly watch? Did you not sneak into his guest room at your father’s country manor, rummage through his wardrobe, and wear his shirts?”
Isabel’s face grew warm at the memory. “I told you that was years ago.”
Charlotte dismissed Isabel’s argument with a wave of her hand. “I don’t believe you. Perhaps you should give true marriage a try.”
“No! You know what I have planned, what I have looked forward to for years. Marriage will ruin everything. Married women must forgo all their freedom to the dictates and whims of their husbands. My own mother was no different. Even though she loved my father, she sacrificed her dreams of writing because it was not socially acceptable for a countess to pen love stories. She always had regrets that even my loving father was aware of and dismissed as a woman’s unimportant fancy. I’ll not follow in her footsteps.”
Charlotte sighed. “All right, Isabel. I’ll support you in this as in everything. I can only hope to be as unlucky as you are and find myself engaged to a man as ruggedly attractive as Marcus Hawksley.”
Isabel cracked a smile. “Thank you, Charlotte.”
Charlotte leaned close. “Now tell me about the auctioneer who was after Marcus. What if he tries to accuse Marcus again?”
“Marcus plans to find the true thief, or at the least, determine who hired the thief to frame him. He believes the culprit has wealth and status.”
“Oh, I do love a good mystery,” Charlotte said, licking her lips. “I shall help you investigate the members of the beau monde. They are all hypocrites as far as I am concerned. You should hear Mother’s friends. Their vicious tongues are nothing less than shocking in their attempts to discredit others behind their backs.”
Isabel gave a grudging nod. “I told Marcus that I would help him infiltrate high society in order to find the evildoer. But what I failed to mention was that my involvement would be more than as a titled lady on his arm at every social event of the Season, and that I would take on more of an active role.”
“Ah, it seems Marcus Hawksley has yet to learn the true constitution of his 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 part of high society, whether he held a title or not; second, he was sufficiently wealthy to pay the exorbitant price Dante had required; and third, he hated Marcus Hawksley with a vengeance.
Dante’s temper rose to his defense. “The chit turned out to be Isabel Cameron, the daughter of the very influential and wealthy Earl of Malvern. She wasn’t a common whore whom no one would notice had gone missing. The disappearance of a titled lady would have invited unwanted attention, to say the least.”
Robby Bones stepped forward, his dishwater brown eyes hard and filled with dislike. “Ye failed at a simple task. Hawksley is a free man, an’ ’e’s not the type to sit back an’ do nothin’. ’E’ll search fer ye to get the truth.”
Dante’s nerves tensed immediately at the mere notion that Marcus Hawksley would hunt him down. He felt as if the temperature of the room rose twenty degrees, and he wiped at the increased perspiration on his brow. “What shall I tell him?”
“That’s yer problem, Dante. But keep yer mouth shut about