Sinful Deeds (2 page)

No
tears fell. Josephine jolted when the front door slammed, rattling through the
house. But she did not cry—not now. Instead, a cold empty ache grew in her
chest. She sank onto the bed and stared at her hand that still felt warm from
where it had connected with Dante’s face. A numb sensation began to work its
way through her body.

She was
going to leave.

She
nodded to herself. The idea of leaving Dante had been building for over a month
now. There was only so long one could wait around for the man they loved. She
half-blamed herself. She knew what he was like and knew he’d never change. But
she’d always hoped...

Hoped
to be more than a mistress. Josephine gave a snort. “Foolish woman,” she told
herself, surprised at the husky quality of her voice.

A noose
of anguish tightened her throat and she shoved the melancholy thoughts aside.
Standing, she surveyed the room. The candles had been blown out and even the
fresh flowers she’d ordered looked wilted and fatigued. A little like her.
Exhaustion ate through every part of her, making simply standing hard work. For
too long, she’d been waiting for Dante. So many nights spent hoping for his return
only for him to wake her in the early hours with alcohol on his breath.

And
tonight she had really hoped he would make good on his promise to be on time. A
tiny sob welled from her, and she clamped her lips together. Tonight—she
glanced at the clock—no last night, was meant to be a celebration. All the
excitement of the previous day seemed to have wilted away, much like the lustre
of the flowers.

Josephine
glanced at the clock again and released a long sigh. She still had several
hours until dawn and, though exhausted, she didn’t think she could sleep.
Perhaps she should start packing her belongings. Although she couldn’t very
well leave yet, seeing as she had nowhere to go, she could make a start and
begin to look for new lodgings in the morning.

Her chin
trembled. She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes and sniffed. “No more
tears.” Dampness began to well in them. “No. More. Tears,” she commanded
herself. “You knew it would come to this.”

She
did. She really did. Dante was incapable of changing. She wasn’t sure she would
even want him to. After all, would he be the man she loved if he changed? The
numb realisation that he could no longer give her what she needed had been
working its way inside her for a while now. Illicit late night liaisons, beautiful
gifts and brief moments of pure joy followed by deep loneliness and sorrow were
too much for her. She had plans.

Yes,
plans. Those plans would drive her forward and help her forget Dante Cynfell.
The likelihood was she would still see him. It was hard to avoid running into
him whilst they still spent time in the same social circles. The quiet whisper
of gossip about them would run dry after it was accepted they had ended their
agreement and soon another woman would take her place. Dante wasn’t the sort of
man who could go long without a warm body.

Any
body, probably. Had it not been her he had taken up as his mistress those four
years ago, she was sure he would have found another woman that evening.

Josephine
skimmed her hands down the silk and recalled the deep jewel tone she had worn
that night at Lady Steele’s. It hadn’t been red. No, it had been a deep emerald
and had certainly been far more modest, but the moment Dante had set eyes on
her, she had felt it. It was the sort of moment of which a woman dreamed. Eyes
connecting across the distance, drawn together by some invisible force.

That
very night he had kissed her and begged to make love to her. He had seduced her
easily with his charming ways and beautiful words. But Josephine didn’t believe
herself easily seduced. There had been others who had tried to woo her into
bed. She was poor, attractive, and widowed. A great catch for many. Someone
they’d never have to wed but could be guaranteed of her loyalty by providing
for her.

However,
Dante had been different. He never failed to make her laugh or soothe away the
occasional tear. She supposed she couldn’t regret these past years. In Dante’s
arms, she had enjoyed some of the best nights of her life.

Pausing
to view herself in the full length mirror, Josephine began to undo the flimsy
gown, drawing it down to her waist and pushing it off her hips. She wore no
undergarments save from stockings—an outfit designed for seduction. She really
was foolish. What else could she expect from him when she dressed like this? He
would never see her as anything more than mistress material.

She
smoothed her hands over her curved hips and flat stomach. From now on, an
attractive figure would count for nothing. She reached for the nightrail she
had left draped over the modesty screen and tugged it on before slipping on a
robe. From this day forward, she wanted to be known as something more. No longer
would she be Josephine Beaumont, mistress to the notorious Lord Dante Cynfell.
From now on she would be J. Beaumont, renowned artist. If Mr Allen’s words
could be believed, that hope might not be so very false.

Heading
over to the dressing table, she cleaned off the rouge and eyeliner she had
applied in her excitement. She’d hoped to look her best while she shared her
wonderful news with Dante. Now that rouge was smeared and the eyeliner had run
onto her cheeks. She grimaced at her reflection in the freestanding mirror. How
quickly her mood had changed when she realised Dante would not be visiting her
at eight o’clock as promised. The hours ticked by, empty and lonely, until he
had awoken her, expecting a tumble.

Well,
no more. Having sold one painting, she would be able to rent a modest property
in London. She had some money saved, and on top of her dowry, she would be fine.
Hardy living at her current standards but better than nothing. Better than
waiting for a man who could never give her everything she needed.

No
matter how much she loved him.

She had actually gone. Dante pinched the
bridge of his nose. Josephine had left him. His Jo-Jo. Damn her. He glanced
over her dressing table and eyed the empty spots where her cosmetics had been.
The scent of her perfume still hung in the air but the housekeeper said she had
been gone for three days now.

Three
days. Where was she? She had nowhere to go. Her family were limited to a few
cousins and an uncle, he believed. She didn’t even know them. Would she have
really gone to them? He’d have to quiz Miss Smith and find out what she knew.
When Josephine had agreed to be his mistress she’d been a poor widow. Her dowry
had amounted to very little and her husband’s property had passed on to his son
by his first wife. As far he knew, little had changed. Josephine still had
nothing.

He
rubbed his chest where an uncomfortable burning sensation was building. He’d so
hoped to be greeted with her usual cheery smile. The other evening had been so
out of character. Yes, he wasn’t great at being on time, and admittedly she had
asked him several times to ensure he made a better attempt at time-keeping. But
honestly, it was not as though her life depended upon him being early or late.
What did it matter if he slipped into her bed a little late? He ensured she had
every comfort a woman could possibly need. Really her life was quite blessed.

Dante
uncurled a fist he hadn’t realised he’d clenched and scanned the room once
more. The bedroom appeared lifeless without her various lotions and potions
scattered around. Gone were the stockings and robes she tended to leave hanging
about. The vase that had once held a generous bouquet of flowers sat empty,
awaiting the very bunch he had abandoned in the hallway when the housekeeper
had informed him the lady was no longer in residence. The glass vase gleamed in
the sunlight filtering through the sash windows—mocking him.

“Bloody
damn well damn her!”

He spun
away, unable to bear looking at the empty bedroom where they had spent so many
fantastic hours. Josephine had always been his match, in bed and out. Sweet,
kind, funny but with a wicked side. He put it down to her artistic temperament.
Once he got her between the sheets, a veritable temptress awoke.

Striding
down the corridor, he paused outside what had become her art room. The light
was the best apparently as it faced out over the garden and received the sun
during the afternoon. The room was little more than an empty bedroom, and he
had intended to use it as her dressing room but she’d asked—in her usual quiet
way—to use it for painting. In the throes of lust, he’d been more than happy to
oblige.

Gone
were the easel and paint supplies, but one painting remained, propped against
the wall. His stomach seemed to drop to his toes. Feeling as though he was
treading on sacred land, he tiptoed into the room and knelt by the painting.

Half-fearing
it might disappear, he touched the canvas. Though he’d known of her studying
the arts as a young girl, he hadn’t realised Josephine possessed such talent
until she’d made him sit for this. It beat any of the awful, stiff portraits
their father had commissioned of him and his brothers when they resided at
Lockwood Manor.

Dante
glanced at the chaise on which she had made him sit for many an hour. Until, of
course, he’d persuaded her their time might be spent in more enjoyable ways. He
had to admit, however, watching her paint brought much joy. To see her
expressions and how she stuck out her tongue as she concentrated...it was no
wonder he had always been dying to tumble her after a short while.

No. He
stood so quickly his head span a little. No, this would not do. She could not
simply walk out on him like this. Not after four years together—four fantastic
years. Why would she want to throw that all away?

Marriage.
Damn that institution. That word put ideas of fairytales into women’s heads.
Dante knew well enough the opposite sex spent years planning the most romantic
event of their lives. He had been with enough women before Josephine to
understand that.

He
snorted. Romance? As far as he could tell, marriage removed any chance of
romance. His brother had suffered two miserable marriages and even his one
happy one had ended badly. Now he was married to an American woman, the fool.
Julian wouldn’t be any happier with her. As nice as Viola was, that would
change soon enough.

 Marriage
only made people unhappy as near as he could tell. Why would Josephine wish to put
them through that?

Dante
spun on his heel and strode downstairs to find Miss Smith standing in the
drawing room, ringing her hands.

“What
is it, Miss Smith?”

“Forgive
me, my lord.” The young woman drew her lip under her teeth. The housekeeper had
served Josephine since he had rented the house for her, and in spite of being
only twenty when she took the post, Dante had recognised her intelligence and
ambition.

“Well?”

“I
suppose you will no longer be needing me.” She dropped her gaze to the floor.
“Forgive me, I don’t mean to be selfish, but my siblings...”

He
waved a hand. Miss Smith had several younger brothers and sisters—he couldn’t
remember how many. But she was their sole provider and, as such, needed constant
and well-paid employment. Dante paused to curl a hand around the door frame.

“You
are to remain here, Miss Smith. Keep the house clean and in order. Ensure Potts
and Mrs B continue as usual.”

“My
lord?” Miss Smith’s bold blue gaze flicked to his.

“Mrs Beaumont
will be returning,” he assured her. “Just ensure everything is ready for her.”

Yes,
this was good. She would return to him. She simply had to. Josephine loved him.
Why would she deny the company of the man she loved? He would just have to be extremely
persuasive.

“Do you
know where she went?”

“No, my
lord. She only said to send her apologies and to thank you for everything. But
you will see her soon, will you not? London is not so very big.”

The
housekeeper was right. They ran in the same social circles, which was how they
had met. At some point, he would run into her. But
some
point
wasn’t soon enough. He needed to see her now. Bloody hell, what if she was
rotting in some boarding house somewhere? He had to save the damned woman from
herself.

“She
took a cab?”

“Yes,
my lord.”

He
hissed his discontent. He had no way of tracking her down. Unless... “Miss
Smith, I shall bid you good day. I’ll be along again soon.”

This
very day if he could help it.

After retrieving
his hat, he shoved it on his head and made his way out into the street. He
waved a hand to his driver to indicate that he remain. Barnaby’s wasn’t far
away so he walked. Tourists, merchants, and locals crowded the streets,
hindering his progress. He cursed when a woman wheeled over his foot with her
heavy pram but managed to offer her a polite smile and a tip of his hat when
she apologised.

The art
shop sat down the narrow alleyway on Chapel Street. The green-painted wooden
front and bevelled windows were grimy and chipped, covered in a faint sheen of
coal dust. Dante smirked. For the prices Barnaby was charging, he ought to be
able to get the place cleaned and painted.

When he
entered the art shop, dust tickled his nose and the acrid scent of paint made
him wince. The bell on the door tinkled and the old man behind the counter
perked. He came around the counter and pressed his glasses up his nose to peer
at him. He dropped into an obscenely low bow.

Dante
took a moment to glance around. The place was deserted. Perhaps he did
understand why Barnaby had to charge so much money for his supplies. Apparently
the shop wasn’t frequented by patrons often.

“My
lord, it is an honour.”

Dante
waited for the white-haired man to straighten. Straightening looked to be an
impossibility. From the paint smudges on his hand, it appeared as though the
shopkeeper had spent too many days bent over a canvas and his posture would
remain deformed. The man stood at an odd sort of angle and had to peer up at
him from under bushy white eyebrows that matched his hair.

“Has
Mrs Beaumont been in recently?”

“Why,
yes, only two days ago. She came to settle some accounts.”

He let
his eyebrows dart up. “All her accounts are paid up?”

“Yes,
my lord. In full. She asked that we do not send the invoices to your address
anymore. Is that why you are here? Were you expecting them to come to you?”

Dante
rubbed his temples. Josephine’s art supplies cost him more money than most of
her jewels and dresses over the years. How had she been able to settle the
account?

“Tell
me, does she still have an account with you?”

“Yes,
she ordered some new brushes and paints the very same day.” The old man gave a wistful
smile. “She was quite excited to try the new Lefranc and Bourgeois colours.
Perhaps you would like to see?”

Dante
shook his head. He had no interest in Lefranc and...whatever it was. “Where
were these new paints to be sent?” he demanded.

Barnaby
drew down his glasses and eyed him over the wire frames. “If there is a reason
you don’t know where she is, my lord, I would think that is probably how Mrs Beaumont
wants it to stay.”

Stiffening,
Dante tried to put on his most impervious air. “I have some of her belongings
still,” he lied. “Some things that are very dear to her. I have no ill
intentions. You know Mrs Beaumont well enough to know that she would not have
tolerated any ill behaviour from me and that I wish only the best for her.”

“She
certainly was fond of you, my lord.” He sighed and huddled behind his desk to
leaf through a blue leather-bound ledger. He glanced up at Dante once more
before skimming the worn pages and settling upon an almost illegible scribble.
“Berwick Road. Number Twelve.”

He
nodded. So she was not living in a boarding house. That was a relief. It wasn’t
the finest part of London but nor was it the slums. He wouldn’t have to worry
about her safety there.

But how
in the devil could she afford the rent, unless...

No, she
couldn’t have.

Could
she?

Had she
run into the arms of another man? Had she been unfaithful? He shook his head.
No, Josephine couldn’t lie to him. It simply wasn’t in her nature. But he
supposed she could have received another offer or was shopping for a new lover.

He
muttered a vague
thank you
to the shopkeeper and hastened out of the
shop. Jealousy, as sharp and as ragged as broken glass sliced his insides.
Perhaps she would find another man who would want to spend every evening
sitting around in his slippers and drinking port while she painted. The image
made him sick to his stomach. Fine, she might be able to find some boring
codger of a man but she’d never find someone who could fulfil her needs as he
had.

By the
time he had returned to his driver, ordered him to make for her address, and
settled in the cabriolet, the jealousy had turned hot and searing. It ate into
him, making his jaw tight. He rarely lost his temper but if he wasn’t careful,
he’d lose it now. The mere idea of her being with another man put him so on
edge that he felt as though each breath was coming as hot and heavy as a bull’s
just before he charged.

The
time it took to reach her new lodgings aggravated him and made it worse. He
forced himself to take several breaths before leaping down from the vehicle. He
glanced up at the three storey white building and looked around the
neighbourhood. Really, it was quite pleasant. If she was indeed mistress for
someone else, however, he had to be a fairly poor man not to put her up in
better accommodation. Josephine deserved more.

Him,
for example. He straightened his waistcoat, ran a hand through his hair, and
practiced his most charming smile. As long as no one else was in the picture,
he’d win her back easily enough. She never had been able to resist him. And if
there was someone else, he still liked his chances. Women had always come
easily to him.

Dante
pulled the door bell and waited. He had to clamp his hands behind him so he
didn’t tap his fingers against his legs. The door swung open and his heart threatened
to leap out of his throat.

“Jo-Jo.”

Christ,
he hadn’t realised how much he’d missed her until now. He’d stayed away a week,
as planned, and it had been the longest week of his life. He needed her
already. She wore a prim shirt, buttoned up to the collar and embellished with
an amber broach. Her dark blue skirt enhanced the curve of her hips. That
golden hair that he longed to see over her shoulders was coiled up high. He
couldn’t help running his gaze up and down her.

“Dante,
whatever are you doing here?”

He
offered her a lopsided smile, one that usually made her melt into him. Instead
her posture remained rigid and she folded her arms across her chest.

“Do I
not get a welcome kiss?”