A Scandalous Portrait: Rose Room Rogues ~ Book One Read online

  “At first I attempted to dismiss him, but he insisted he had the portrait in his carriage, and he wanted very much to bring it inside for me to see.” She wiped beads of perspiration from her upper lip.

  When she swallowed several times, he said, “Go on, sweetheart, just tell me.”

  “Thank goodness the portrait was covered in a sheet when he came back into the drawing room. He leaned it up against a chair and, once he had my complete attention, he whipped the sheet away.”

  All the blood left her face. and Hunt put his arm around her waist, certain he was going to have to catch her since she appeared ready to swoon.

  “And?”

  “It was my portrait, exactly as he painted it, but—” She chewed her lip until he was afraid he’d see blood. Then she blurted out. “I was naked!”

  Then she covered her face and burst into tears.

  J. D. Mallory is a dead man.

  4

  Hunt wrapped his arms around Diana as she sobbed against his chest. He was still having a hard time understanding exactly what happened and what else occurred after Mallory showed her the portrait.

  It was the sort of thing, however, that Diana had to tell in her own way and in her own time. While he waited for her to compose herself and continue with the story, he planned several ways to kill Mallory. Hopefully the most painful way possible.

  She accepted the handkerchief he held out to her and leaned back, wiping her cheeks and eyes. “Thank you.”

  Diana seeming somewhat calmer, he released her, and she sat back. Hunt took her hand again. “Tell me the rest.”

  Shuddering to take a deep breath, she fisted the handkerchief in her hands and looked at her lap. “I asked him how he got the portrait from my home, and he said he didn’t, that this one was a duplicate he made when he painted the first one.

  “Then he told me he had plans to sell the wicked portrait to a very wealthy client who wanted it but, considering my family’s status, he would reconsider and sell it to me instead.”

  Hunt’s blood continued to boil at the man’s avarice and downright evilness. “How very considerate. And for a hefty price, I’m sure.”

  “Yes. He wants twenty thousand pounds.”

  Hunt almost fell off the stone bench. “Twenty thousand pounds! That’s outrageous.”

  “Indeed.” She offered him a slight smile. “That sum would also drain my accounts. For all intents and purposes, I would be left almost penniless.”

  Hunt’s jaw worked as he considered the situation. To think with clarity, he had to push aside the tempting idea of racing to Mallory’s gallery and pummeling the man. Even though, given what she’d just told him, it was apparent why she’d asked him to steal the portrait, he still wasn’t sure that was the best solution.

  “Can you not notify the police? The man is blackmailing you, and I am sure there is a crime he has already committed by painting a second portrait without your permission.”

  She shook her head vehemently, her eyes wide. “I cannot let anyone know about this. Word will leak, and I will be disgraced.” She stood again and paced. “This is not some girlish caper I can recover from by escaping to Italy. With my reputation for the little bit of trouble I’ve already been in,” she looked in his direction, and he quickly removed the smile from his face, “everyone will believe I actually posed for the portrait. You know how the ton is. Given the choice between believing the truth or considering what causes the most gossip, scandal wins every time.”

  “What if I went to the studio and talked to the man?” He had no intention of ‘talking’ with anything other than his fists. Once the problem was solved to Diana’s satisfaction, Hunt still planned to beat the hell out of the cad.

  “No. If he thinks there might be a chance that I won’t pay him, or if I send someone on my behalf, he’s already said he would turn the portrait over to the interested buyer.” She threw her hands out. “And who knows what the buyer would do with the portrait?”

  This was indeed a muddle. As she clearly stated, this was no minor infraction of a young girl pushing at society’s strictures. Her life would be ruined, and her only recourse would be sinking to the level of the demimonde.

  He would never allow that; despite all her ‘adventures’ Diana was a well-bred, innocent young lady.

  Diana sat next to him and gripped his hands. “You must promise me that you won’t tell anyone about this. Not even your brothers. No one. Promise me, Hunt.”

  He hesitated for a second. He’d just been considering asking his brothers for advice since he still didn’t care for the idea of breaking into a studio and stealing something. “I promise.”

  She wiped her nose. “Now will you agree to steal the portrait?”

  Hunt sat back and regarded her. “I’m still not comfortable with your solution.”

  “Do you have a better one? I cannot pay the man twenty thousand pounds. That’s impossible. I will not turn over my entire life to him.”

  “I agree. But you must give me some time to consider our next step.”

  She smiled brightly for the first time in days. “Our next step?”

  * * *

  Diana awoke the next morning with a sense of well-being that had been noticeably absent for the past week. Hunt was going to help her. She still believed the best—and possibly only—resolution was to remove the portrait from the studio and burn it.

  She told Hunt that when Mr. Mallory came to her house with the portrait, he said he would give her two weeks, and then he would sell it. One week had already passed while she went around in circles trying to think of what to do, and then chasing down Hunt to help her.

  She tossed aside those gloomy thoughts, along with the counterpane, and leapt from the bed. Marguerite knocked softly and entered the room. “Good morning, my lady.”

  “Good morning to you, as well. ‘Tis a fine day, is it not?”

  Marguerite crossed the room, opening the drapes. “You seem quite chipper this morning.”

  “Yes.” Diana stretched. “I feel good. In fact, I believe I will take a ride to the park this morning. Can you ask Briggs to notify the mews to tack my horse? And I’ll take one of the footmen with me.”

  “Yes, my lady. I will lay out your riding habit.”

  Feeling quite uplifted, Diana washed and dressed and sat for Marguerite to do her hair in a fashionable chignon. With one quick look in the mirror to adjust the feather in her hat that curled toward her lips, Diana smiled and left the room.

  As if to match her mood, bright sun warmed the balmy morning air, casting a glow over the tree-lined street. Diana headed down the steps to where Charles, one of her footmen, held the reins of her Chestnut mare, Lady Poppy.

  She loved the horse that was given to her by her father before he became more interested in his second family. Diana spent many hours flying over the hills at her estate, her hair streaming behind her as she flew over hedges. Of course riding in London was a bit more decorous, but it felt good to be out and about.

  She fed Lady Poppy the apple she had in her pocket and ran her palm down the mare’s velvet nose.

  Once Charles helped her mount, he climbed onto another mare from her small stable, and they trotted down the road, turning right, toward Hyde Park.

  She breathed in the fresh air and relished the warmth from the sun on her face. Grandmama would certainly chastise her for not keeping her face covered, but occasionally it felt good not to worry about maintaining her pure white skin.

  Her good cheer dimmed a bit. Grandmama had been her chaperone and champion for many years, and every day without her etched another hole in Diana’s heart.

  Only a few months after Papa’s second wife had taken over the only home Diana had ever known, Lady Abbott had arrived on Diana’s doorstep, along with numerous pieces of luggage, trunks of books, and a small dog clutched snug against her side by a hand with more rings than fingers. She had swept past the butler and announced to the startled governess that she had come to raise her g
randdaughter.

  Diana had hidden behind her governess’s skirts, taking peeks at the formidable woman who smelled of roses and stood only a few inches above Diana. In a very loud and determined voice, Grandmama declared to anyone listening that, despite a new stepmother—she sniffed—she, and she alone, would see to the welfare of her only child’s only child. It was years later that Diana learned Grandmama had never approved of the match between Diana’s parents. More telling was the fact that Papa had not objected to the removal of his daughter.

  Diana, Grandmama, and Diana’s governess, Miss Blackstone, departed a few weeks later. Papa, and particularly the new Lady Rockingham, were not happy with the addition of the formidable woman to his household.

  They then traveled to Grandmama’s manor home, right next to Hunt’s family estate, far from London and nestled in the lovely hills of Yorkshire, full of wild flowers, woods and snug cottages.

  That was where she’d spent the next nine years before they returned to London for Diana’s come-out, two years before Grandmama’s death. They were marvelous years of learning, growing, exploring, and becoming the woman with whom she was quite happy and satisfied. All thanks to Lady Abbottt.

  Lord, how she missed that woman! Lady Abbott had been eccentric and outspoken and loved her granddaughter to distraction. From the time Diana had arrived at her estate, she’d received more attention and care then she’d seen all the years under her parents’ ministrations. Or lack thereof.

  Pushing those memories from her mind, lest she turn maudlin, she and Charles began their ride on Rotten Row with a few others out for an early ride. ‘Twas not usual to see members of the ton out and about so early since most would have attended some sort of social affair the evening before and arrived home barely before dawn.

  She stopped and chatted with the few people they met and, after about an hour, feeling refreshed and ready to take on the world, Diana returned with her groom to her townhouse in Mayfair.

  “Please ask Cook to send in breakfast. I am quite hungry, and I will be down as soon as I change my clothes.” Diana spoke over her shoulder to Briggs as she made her way up to the bed chambers where Marguerite had already straightened her room and had her day gown laid out for her.

  She loved the yellow, thin-striped, linen dress; ‘twas one of her favorites. Marguerite added a bright yellow ribbon to her hair and, with a very unladylike grumble in her stomach, Diana entered the breakfast room.

  Smells of savory sausages, eggs, toast and beans almost made her groan. She filled her plate with much more than she knew she would eat and poured tea.

  “My lady.” Briggs entered the breakfast room with a salver holding an envelope. “This came for you while you were in your bedchamber.”

  She wiped her mouth with the napkin and took the missive. “Thank you.” She placed it next to her plate and eyed it as she took a sip of tea. She didn’t recognize the handwriting, and it didn’t appear to be an invitation. Shrugging, she pushed it aside and ate her breakfast.

  After she was through reading the newspaper with her breakfast, a luxury many women did not have since in most households the husbands got the freshly pressed newspaper before his wife did, her eye was once again caught by the small cream-colored envelope.

  She broke the seal and flipped the parchment open.

  One week, my dear lady. My client is most anxious to take possession of the portrait.

  The writing was bold and crisp. Nothing elegant or mannerly about the words or the confident strokes of the letters.

  Diana tossed the letter down and took a deep breath. Her breakfast attempted to make a re-appearance on her lap.

  Please, Hunt. You must get it back.

  * * *

  Late that evening, Hunt entered The Rose Room, the club he and his two brothers, Driscoll and Dante, owned as a joint venture.

  Driscoll was his full brother and Dante his father’s bastard who was raised with them. There was never a difference in the way Dante was treated by their father, but Hunt and Driscoll’s mother made it known on occasion that Dante was not ‘one of them’.

  To Hunt, they were both his brothers, and he loved them as only brothers can. Over the years they fought, played, attended Eton together and vied for the same opera dancers.

  Three years ago, Driscoll and Dante had come to him with a proposition to open a gambling hell. Hunt thought it was a good idea since, although he was prepared to provide for his brothers, he knew it would be a much more rewarding life for them if they had their own means of support. The ridiculous edict of gentlemen not working be damned.

  Hunt threw in the financial backing, and he’d been well rewarded with their efforts since then. The club catered to the elite of London, the Upper Ten Thousand, and the newly rising wealthy merchant class. The only women permitted were mistresses and members of the demimonde. No true lady would ever step past the front door.

  Hunt walked through the club, satisfied at how busy the tables were, and made his way upstairs to the offices.

  His brothers sat at their desks, Driscoll’s head bent, going over numbers in one of his numerous ledgers and Dante slouching, his feet on the desktop, snapping a rubber band.

  “It’s nice to see that at least one of you is working.” Hunt knocked Dante’s feet off the desk and leaned one shoulder against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “We’re working. I’m taking a break.” Dante stretched and stood. “Now I’m about to go downstairs and mix and mingle. Encourage our customers to spend money.”

  What no one except the three of them knew was, while the gambling hell was the two younger brothers’ true source of income, all three brothers took occasional sensitive assignments for the Crown.

  With his low-key attitude and extraordinary way with numbers, Driscoll Rose was a trained agent who worked on the more difficult assignments that even the bravest of the brave shunned. Dante’s lackadaisical attitude got him the reputation as rake, libertine, and bon vivant. However, the easy-going gambling hell owner possessed skills with his fists and knives, along with the ability to remain cool and calm in any situation that put him at the top of the Crown’s list to call in when an assignment was about to turn sour.

  Hunt, as the head of an old and respected family and title, had contacts among the upper class that provided the Crown with an inside agent when they had no other way to gain imperative information.

  What the world saw were three brothers working together in a successful business, living the life of young, wealthy, handsome men who every debutante in London would welcome as a husband. Even the bastard son.

  Dante opened the door to return to the gaming floor, then turned back to Hunt. “Did you hear about Lady Diana?”

  Hunt’s stomach sunk to his toes. Had word already spread about her up-coming disgrace? “What about Diana?”

  5

  Dante stepped back into the room and frowned. “What’s wrong? You look angry.”

  “What did you hear about Diana?” The words came out more clipped than Hunt would have liked.

  Dante shrugged. “Only that she is back from Italy.”

  Hunt let out the deep breath he’d been holding. “I know.”

  “Have you seen her?” Dante asked, still viewing him with a puzzled expression.

  Although he would love his brothers’ input on Diana’s situation, he promised to keep silent about it, so he merely shrugged. “Yes. Briefly at the Billingsley ballroom the other evening.”

  “I heard she’s looking quite dazzling.” Dante winked.

  Hunt’s jaw muscles tightened. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Driscoll’s jaw dropped as his brother looked up from his work and regarded Hunt with raised brows. “Blasted hell, brother, since when are you so touchy about Lady Trouble?”

  “I am not touchy about Diana. And don’t call her Lady Trouble.” Damn, if he didn’t shut his mouth soon, his brothers would start a lot of speculation and asking questions which he didn’t nee
d right now with her predicament looming over his head.

  Also, it was highly unusual for him to be touchy about the girl. She’d been a thorn in his side for years, as well his brothers knew. Normally, he treated her with reserve, or at the very least, provided her with a wide berth.

  Now the situation had shifted. He hated to admit it but, ever since their conversation, he’d thought about nothing except how she would look in the nude. Did she have pale or dusky rose, or deep brown nipples? Was the silk hair that covered her mound the same lovely shade as the hair on her head?

  When he realized his body was beginning to react to his thoughts, he quickly switched the subject before his brothers noticed. “Didn’t you say you were about to go back to work, Dante?”

  “Yes. I did say that.” Dante cast another bemused look at his brother and left the room.

  Hunt pulled out a chair and sat, facing Driscoll. “How are we doing? It looks like a good crowd down there on the gaming floor.”

  His brother laid his pencil on the desk and leaned back. “Very good. We had to cut off young Wentworth last night. He is too far in debt and rumors abound that he has been selling just about everything at his estate not entailed.”

  Hunt shook his head. “What a fool. All that will get him is heavily into the market for a rich bride.”

  Driscoll smirked. “No doubt. Better keep him away from Diana.”

  Hunt stiffened. “What does that mean?”

  Driscoll stared at him. “Damn, brother, you are definitely out of sorts when it comes to Lady Tr—”

  “Don’t. Say. It.”

  Driscoll raised his hands, palms up, in surrender. “Personally, I prefer not to delve into whatever it is that’s bothering you, big brother.”

  “There is nothing bothering me.”

  Liar.

  “As you say. Are you here merely to keep me from my work, or do you have a purpose?” Driscoll tapped his pencil on his desk.