A Perfect Scandal (6 page)

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 me. One word from ’is lordship, an’ ye’ll be ruined. Yer days of sellin’ fancy art to the stinkin’ rich will be over. Lucky fer ye, ’is lordship ’as more plans fer Hawksley that require yer services.”

Robby Bones turned his back on Dante and walked to the corner of the room. He picked up the wrapped Gainsborough painting and made to leave.

“Where are you taking that?” Dante asked. Despite everything, Dante was a true art lover, and the mere thought of what a rancid criminal like Robby Bones would do with such a masterpiece disturbed him.

Bones stopped and shrugged dismissively. “’Is lordship knows Hawksley wanted it and that’s why ’e’ll keep it. Ye can hide from Hawksley, but don’t leave London, Dante. Next time, if the chit gets in the way,
I’ll
take care of ’er.”

Marcus went up the steps of the impressive mansion on Berkeley Square with the foreboding enthusiasm of a front line foot soldier marching into battle. He had wanted to put off the visit for another day, but duty prevailed. Gritting his teeth, he banged the solid brass knocker.

The door swung open to reveal a heavyset, glum-faced butler. The servant’s mouth pulled into a sour grin as he stared at Marcus.

“Mr. Hawksley, sir. Lord Ardmore was not expecting you.”

“I’m certain my father will want to speak to me today, Bentley.” Marcus stepped past the butler and into the hall. “Where is he?”

Bentley blinked and hurried to close the door, his formal demeanor abandoned as he rushed to catch up with Marcus. “Perhaps you should wait in the parlor while I advise Lord Ardmore of your visit.”

“Good idea,” Marcus replied. “If you would be so kind as to advise my brother of my presence as well.”

Marcus walked down the hall and paused in the parlor doorway, watching Bentley rush off in the opposite direction. As soon as the butler was out of sight, Marcus spun on his heel and headed for the library.

Wait in the parlor like hell,
Marcus thought.

He suspected Bentley was under strict orders not to summon the master of the house if his younger son was to pay an unannounced visit. No doubt Bentley would return advising Lord Ardmore was indisposed, but would send a note when he was available. Marcus refused to wait around like a secondhand guest only to be turned out.

This was, after all, his childhood home—no matter what his father’s current attitude was toward him.

He found his father sitting behind a massive desk, reading the latest issue of
The Regal Hound
. The library, with its rich mahogany furnishings and bookshelves lined with priceless volumes, was as opulent as the rest of the home.

“Good morning, Father.”

Randall Hawksley, the Earl of Ardmore, stiffened, and his eyes snapped to the doorway. His mouth thinned with displeasure as he spotted Marcus. Although the earl was close to sixty, he appeared younger with a full head of dark hair, just graying at the temples. Shrewd brown eyes beneath thick brows glared at his younger son.

“What are you doing here?” Ardmore said tersely.

Marcus stepped into the room. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, too, Father.”

Footsteps echoed down the marble hall and Bentley appeared at the door. “I requested he stay in the parlor, my lord, until I could find you and advise you of his presence, but—”

“No matter, Bentley,” Ardmore said with a wave of his hand. “Marcus was never good at following instructions.”

“Not true, Father,” Marcus said as he took a seat. “Just your instructions.”

Bentley, discreet as always, disappeared from the doorway.

Ardmore slapped down the hunting paper in his hand, irritation written on every line of his face. “Have you come to torment me in front of the hired help or is there another reason for this untimely visit?”

“I apologize if I’ve disturbed your reading,” Marcus said, a bitter edge of cynicism in his voice, “but I’ve come to give you good news. I’m to marry.”

Ardmore looked at him in surprise. “To whom?”

“Lady Isabel Cameron, the daughter of Edward Cameron, the Earl of Malvern.”

“You’re jesting.”

“No. Why would you think that?”

“I heard about the scandal at the Westley mansion. It explains everything,” Ardmore said.

“What do you mean?”

“Why else would a titled heiress marry
you
?”

Despite anticipating his father’s response, Marcus’s temper flared. “What? No toast to celebrate your son’s impending nuptials?”

Ardmore ignored Marcus’s hard tone. “I always said you would bring shame upon the family name, and I was right. First you became a reckless gambler, a drunk, and a womanizer. Then there was that distasteful incident with that girl, that commoner, who killed herself rather than spend a lifetime with you, after which you completely lost whatever breeding was instilled in you by entering trade. Now you blackmail a titled lady into marriage just to clear your name from stealing a—”

“That’s enough, Father.”

At the sound of an authoritative voice, both Marcus and Ardmore turned to the door of the library. Roman Hawksley, heir to the earldom and Marcus’s older brother, eyed the occupants of the room. Tall, dark, and broad-shouldered, there was an inherent strength in his face. Where Marcus had jet eyes, Roman had deep green eyes, which seemed to blaze in his bronzed face. Women had always flocked to him, and Marcus had suspected it was due to his physical appearance even more than his status as the heir.

Roman walked forward and extended his hand to Marcus. “I overheard. I believe congratulations are in order.”

Marcus met his brother’s green gaze. A silent battle of wills raged between them, before Marcus stood and reluctantly extended his own hand. “Thank you, Roman.”

Roman strode to the liquor cabinet. “Let’s drink to the lovely Lady Isabel Cameron, shall we?” He poured three glasses and handed the first one to their father.

“Yes,” Ardmore said. “I can use a strong drink right now.”

“There’s no need for hostility, Father,” Roman said. “It’s not every day one of your sons gets engaged.”

Randall Hawksley’s glare moved from Marcus to Roman. “I had expected it to be you. Perhaps Marcus can give you a few pointers on how to ensnare an heiress.”

Ah,
Marcus mused.
Isn’t that just like Father to pit brother against brother to serve his needs.

A sudden anger lit Roman’s eyes. “No lady has appealed to me of late. Perhaps I find myself yearning for the type of marriage you and Mother had,” Roman said, his tongue heavy with sarcasm.

Good one!
Marcus thought.
That should put the old dog in his place.

Their parents had despised each other. Their deceased mother, who had been passive by nature and had hated conflict, had been dominated by their father. The only matter in which their mother had prevailed was in choosing her sons’ Latin names. She had loved mythology and had chosen both—Marcus, the Roman God of fertility, and Roman, a man of Rome.

Ardmore downed his glass and slammed it on the desk. “I’ve had enough of my offspring for one afternoon.” He rose and strode to the door. Turning back, he glared at Marcus. “I await the wedding invitation, Marcus. I admire Edward Cameron and thus approve of the match, however it came about.” The door slammed behind him.

“Well, that’s as close to a compliment as I have received from him in my adult memory,” Marcus said dryly.

“Be glad of it,” Roman said. “He’s been ruthless in his quest for me to marry this past year. He’s quite pleased by your choice and will incessantly throw it in my face, you know.”

“You deserve it.”

Roman shrugged. “I suppose I do. Another drink then? We can toast my anticipated misery if you like.”

Marcus waved his brother off and rose from his seat. “Sit. I’ll get the liquor. We may polish it off.” Marcus brought over a crystal decanter, and the two brothers pulled up chairs across from each other.

“I heard about the Thomas Gainsborough painting,” Roman said.

“It never ceases to amaze me how fast gossip travels in this town. It has only been a day.”

“Do you know who stole it?” Roman asked.

“No.”

“Do you have any idea why the auctioneer claimed you did?”

“No.”

“Have you questioned the man?”

“Dante Black is missing. No one knows his whereabouts,” Marcus said, his frustration evident in his voice. He had tried to locate Dante, but the auctioneer had not appeared at his place of business or his residence since yesterday’s auction.

“Do you need help investigating?” Roman asked. “I have resources—”

“No. I can handle the matter.”

“Just as you handled Bridget?”

Marcus’s head snapped up. “Ah, your true feelings always surface, don’t they, Roman?”

The tragedy and treachery of Bridget always came up between them. It had destroyed their bond as brothers. And here it was again, like water when it freezes between a tiny crack in a rock, splitting the rock in two, separating it forever.

Marcus was the first to admit he had been a reckless fool in his early twenties. For years, Marcus’s father had told him he was worthless. Marcus had grown to believe his father’s prophecy and had become a rogue and a womanizer.

And then Marcus had met Bridget Turner, the flirtatious daughter of a prosperous London merchant whose family was not included in the tedious workings of the
beau monde
that he had grown to resent. At first Marcus had avoided her like he did all self-professed virgins. Messy business, he had thought. But
she
had been relentless in her pursuit of
him
, and despite Roman’s warnings to end the liaison, Marcus and Bridget had continued their affair.

When she had become pregnant, he had at first been alarmed. But the more Marcus had thought about it, about having a child of his own, he became thrilled. Here was a chance to raise a child with love, unlike how he and his brother had been brought up. Marcus secretly proposed to Bridget, and on the morning of their anticipated elopement, he had shown up an eager groom.

But Bridget had tricked and betrayed him; she had not been the innocent, loving girl he had believed her to be. She had aspirations above her station, and unbeknownst to Marcus, she had mistakenly thought him the heir to the earldom. Once his status as the younger son was revealed to her, she had cruelly rejected him as valueless. When Bridget’s double-crossing had failed, her father had threatened to toss her into the streets. She had retaliated by doing the unthinkable: She had taken her life and that of their unborn babe. Marcus had been devastated, not just from the murder of his child, but from Bridget’s shocking deception.

When Roman learned of the girl’s death, they had a fierce fight. Roman was angry that Marcus had not ended the affair as he had advised, and he hadn’t believed the story of Bridget’s duplicity. Whereas Bridget’s chicanery had failed during her lifetime, it created a bitter rift between the once-close brothers after her death.

Marcus had felt betrayed by everyone he had ever trusted. Bridget had killed herself and his child. Roman had rejected him. His father thought him a useless spendthrift. Marcus had left home and had begun to drink himself into oblivion when, by the grace of God, he met Blake Mallorey. The newly returned Earl of Ravenspear had fled his own past demons and had introduced Marcus to the Stock Exchange.

Roman leaned forward, his expression serious. “I didn’t mean to bring up old wounds, Marcus. I only offer aid if you need help finding the real culprit,” he said, his tone apologetic.

Roman had recently tried to make amends with Marcus, and as a result, their relationship had gone from frigid to irritably tolerant.

“I appreciate your offer,” Marcus said, “but I am not the same man as in my youth. I don’t need my older brother to fix my problems. I’ll find the man responsible and it will be on my terms.”