Not so Wicked, page 7
He should read through Sir Thomas’ papers, try to find a motive for murder, but he preferred to sit quietly with his thoughts.
Logic always found a way through the chaos.
One just had to be patient.
In the room next door, Mina was undressing for bed. By now, she would have found his gift, an exquisite cream silk and lace nightgown he’d purchased this afternoon. Had she slipped into the garment ready to play the dutiful bride, or merely cast it aside?
The suspense was killing him.
On the journey home from Carnaby Street, he had made his position clear. If Mina wanted his company, she must seek him out, and so he couldn’t knock on her door and make idle conversation. He would not force himself on his wife.
Devon snatched the goblet of brandy from the side table and tossed back the contents. He hissed against the burn, though it did little to temper his restless spirit.
He had meant what he’d said.
His new wife needed time to become accustomed to him.
But that didn’t stop lust rippling through his veins. It didn’t banish the memory of that night in the study where she had escaped her restraints and fucked his mouth with her tongue. Hell, he was near desperate to experience it again, to feel genuine human contact.
He slid his hand into his trousers and stroked his aching cock. “Mina,” he breathed, conjuring an image of her glorious breasts.
But the sudden knock on his chamber door jerked him from his erotic musings. He paused, unsure whether he was dreaming, and upon hearing another light rap called, “Enter.”
Mina opened the door slowly and stepped into his room.
He stood, hoping she wouldn’t notice his erection in the muted light. “I thought you’d be asleep. I trust everything is to your satisfaction?”
“Yes, but I’m finding it hard to settle.” She pulled the plaid blanket tightly around her shoulders—a shroud to hide the delights beneath. “Forgive me. Am I disturbing you?”
“Not at all.” He merely sought release from the lust clawing his veins, but he was eager to learn what she wanted. “Would you care for a drink?” He gestured to the other chair flanking the hearth. “You must be cold. Close the door and come sit by the fire. Here, give me the blanket.”
She obeyed his instruction, though seemed reluctant to relinquish her makeshift cloak. “I feared you might be annoyed with Miss Marmalade.”
Annoyed? The damn parrot had Lucifer’s impertinence.
“Do you mean when she commented on the size of my beak or when she chirped ‘Masters is a muttonhead’?”
The lady struggled to hide her amusement. “I’m sure we can train her to be polite. For the time being, I have asked Bates to keep her downstairs in the servants’ quarters.”
Poor Bates. “I’m sure he was thrilled at the prospect of hearing Miss Marmalade’s witty repartee.”
She laughed, her shoulders relaxing a little. “Perhaps Lillian might take care of her for a while. In the meantime, I shall try to ensure she is not a pest.”
To distract his thoughts from the ill-bred bird, he considered his wife’s bare feet and the cream silk evident beneath the blanket. “You’re wearing the nightgown I purchased for you. It’s meant to be worn loose. May I see if it fits?”
He was keen to discover what lay beneath the swathe of plaid.
“It’s a gown one would wear for a lover, not a man I married to ease his conscience.” A crimson blush touched her cheeks. “But I appreciate the gesture.”
“We will be lovers at some point soon.” Hell, if he let his body rule his head, she would be on the floor in seconds. He prowled towards her. “And this is our wedding night. Give me the blanket, Mina, and then you can tell me why you’re really here.” It wasn’t to talk about the annoying bird.
She relinquished her hold. “I suppose it is only fair.”
He understood her meaning as soon as he pulled the blanket from her shoulders and it came to rest on the boards in a pool of Scottish tartan. The silk was so sheer he could see the outline of her nipples, the flare of her hips, the dark hair at the apex of her thighs.
Devon swallowed hard.
She had seen him naked. Now he had the pleasure of knowing her more intimately. And the sight was so damnably arousing.
“I should have made another stipulation when listing my requirements for marriage,” he said, his fingers tingling at the thought of slipping the diaphanous material off her shoulder and kissing her soft skin. “I should have insisted on buying all your nightgowns.”
A nervous smile touched her lips. “I haven’t a penny to my name. Everything new comes from your purse.”
The hungry imp on his shoulder demanded he peruse her form further. “You look like a queen of Egypt. If only you believed in the power of your own sexuality, then you might command a room.”
“For what purpose?”
The question had him stumped.
“The truth is, I cannot prance about like a peahen,” she added. “Make up your mind, husband. First, you demand honesty. Now, you want me to pretend to be something I am not.”
He cupped her bare arm gently. “I want you to know I find you attractive and should have spoken in earnest rather than skirting around the issue.”
“You didn’t find me so appealing at first glance.”
No, but like the sun edging slowly above the horizon, the more she revealed her character, the more she brightened his day.
“You were not what I’d asked for, that was all.”
“This won’t work if you try to change me, Devon.”
It was the first time she had used his given name.
Hearing the sound on her lips stirred something warm inside.
“I don’t want to change you, Mina. You’re the first woman I have met with an ounce of substance.” The first woman he believed he might come to trust. And he needed to make certain provisions before some bankrupt bugger shot him dead.
She glanced at his large tester bed. “I want to sleep here with you tonight as expected. I’ll not have the servants think there is something wrong with me. And we’ve not shared a meal together today. I’ve arranged for Bates to bring a light repast. All we need do is ring.”
“Yet I suspect you seek intimate relations, not food.” While his heart darted for cover, another part of his anatomy raised its head, eager for her answer.
She scanned the entire length of him, her gaze returning to linger on his bare chest. “I am not sure I’m ready to entertain all of you. But we could share another kiss. Make a move towards becoming accustomed to one another.”
He welcomed the move.
“I trust Miss Ware told you what to expect when you wake beside a naked man.” One used to having the bed to himself.
She flapped her fingers in his direction. “Yes, I know how it all works. Although, a man’s morning erection may be due to the sudden stimulation of the blood supply, not arousal.”
“And yet most men would not look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“Perhaps this is a conversation to have at first light.”
He chose not to inform her he would be stiff numerous times throughout the night. “Then, before we ring for Bates and discuss our plan to catch a murderer, let us test another of Miss Ware’s theories.”
Her eyes widened. “Which one?”
“That kissing is a more sensual experience when both parties are almost naked.” He slid his arm around her waist and brushed his mouth over the shell of her ear, yet he was the one panting. “And you are practically naked, love.”
She was responsive to his touch, her head lolling to the side as he sucked her earlobe. “Devon, why does everything you do leave me with such a profound ache?”
“Because I swore to always please you in bed, and I pride myself on being a man of my word.” While they hadn’t married for love, he was certain they would have many passionate encounters between the sheets. “Soon, I shall show you how to ease the tension.”
The air crackled with it—an electric blend of lust and need and utter desperation. His blood pumped fast through his veins. He had never been so hard from anticipation alone. Perhaps knowing he had to wait to take what he wanted accounted for his heightened senses.
Indeed, when their gazes met, he saw his own hunger reflected in her brown eyes. A second later, they were devouring each other’s mouths, plunging their tongues deep to satisfy the craving.
Such was this newfound addiction, he wanted to rip the fine silk from her body, feast on her flesh and make her come hard.
He was always in control of the game, yet hadn’t anticipated having such a skilled opponent. He hadn’t studied her methods. He couldn’t read her hand. Didn’t know when she might play her best card.
The sobering thought had him tearing his mouth from hers. “It’s late. I’ll not rush you tonight.”
“Yes,” she breathed. “We should ring for Bates.”
He could have seduced her and claimed her virtue.
He could have taken the prize.
Instinct said patience would bring a greater victory.
“I told Simpkin we’d walk from the corner of Great Queen Street,” Devon said, aware his wife was a little subdued since he’d stopped kissing her rather abruptly last night. They had slept in the same bed, but she had teetered on the edge, as still as a tomb effigy. “If Mr Goldman sees us alight, he may shut the shop.”
“Whatever you think is best,” she said in the same absent tone she used when they had discussed the investigation over breakfast this morning.
He might have explained his actions, stressed the importance of not rushing into something that might cause problems between them. Besides, her brother had died, and she had dressed in a black pelisse and pillbox hat and watched him from behind the lace veil. Perhaps that was the reason for her quietude.
Maybe she disliked feeling out of control as much as he did.
Whenever their mouths met, they lost their heads.
His abdominal muscles clenched at the thought.
The same happened again as he handed her down to the pavement. Hell, he needed to drive deep into her body and banish this damnable craving. Then they might return to some semblance of normality.
Mina accepted his arm. Her hand slid over his bicep in a sort of covert exploration. “It’s strange we have found no receipts for the portrait. Nor has Mr Goldman appeared at the house demanding payment.”
“I doubt Daventry has made a mistake.”
“But who told him?”
“Probably Crumley or your butler.” Daventry’s agents could be very persuasive but rarely revealed their methods.
They approached Goldman’s Portrait Studio, a four-storey building in good repair. Paintings of horses and hounds filled the bow window, miniatures in oval gilt frames were displayed in a glass case. The artist was skilled, the portraits lifelike.
“Good morning,” said a middle-aged gentleman whose paunch was so pronounced he may have been growing it since childhood. “Do you have an appointment or have you come to browse the collection?”
He introduced himself as Mr Dowling and gestured to the paintings filling every available wall space.
Mina raised her veil and offered the man a warm smile. “We were hoping to speak to Mr Goldman. He is the portrait painter who captured Sir Thomas Stanford’s likeness, is he not?”
Recognition flashed in Mr Dowling’s eyes, yet he said, “Mr Goldman rarely paints portraits these days, and I can recall no clients of that name.”
Devon knew when an opponent was lying. Mr Dowling clutched the oak counter while his gaze darted left and right, like a rabbit escaping a fox.
“You must be mistaken,” Mina said with a card sharp’s confidence. “Might you check your records? It is a matter of the utmost urgency.”
Devon stepped forward and hit him with a stare guaranteed to leave him trembling in his boots. “We wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
The assistant’s bottom lip quivered. He nodded, then disappeared through a door behind the counter. The plod of footsteps on the boards said he had ventured upstairs.
“I’m confident your brother has visited this establishment.”
“Yes, Mr Dowling had a hard time meeting my gaze.”
“How do you wish to proceed?”
Perhaps unused to men asking her opinion, she blinked in surprise. “We need answers and must employ Mr Daventry’s methods if we mean to find the killer.”
Devon noted the sudden tilt of her chin. Thomas Stanford had joked his sister was timid and easy to manipulate, but desperation had left her fearful and fainthearted. Devon saw a spirited woman whose determination would frighten most men.
“Then I shall follow your lead,” he said.
Mr Dowling returned with a heavy ledger which he said contained the names of previous clients, all listed in alphabetical order. “You’re welcome to inspect the tome.” Dust particles wafted into the air as he placed the book on the counter and turned it to face them.
Mina removed her black gloves and flicked through the foxed pages until she found the relevant section. “Freeman. Ferguson. You’re right. There is no one named Stanford in the records.”
“That is what I said, madam.” The assistant snapped the book shut so quickly he almost trapped her fingers between the pages. “You might try Thomas Phillips at the Royal Academy. He paints many distinguished gentlemen.”
Mina snatched her gloves off the counter. “Perhaps I have not made our position clear, Mr Dowling. We are dealing with the matter of murder. We have proof Sir Thomas spent many hours in this studio. Your refusal to acknowledge the fact means I must fetch the magistrate and have him inspect the premises.”
Mr Dowling paled. “I—”
“I suggest you speak up, sir,” she continued, so brazenly pride flickered in Devon’s chest. “My husband wishes to rip this place apart in a bid to find answers. I would hate for anyone to get hurt in the process. The worst accidents happen amid chaos.”
Mr Dowling raised his hands in surrender. “I cannot give you the answers you seek and would tell the magistrate the same.” In a panic, he glanced at the door behind him. “I assure you, the man you mention has never had his portrait painted by Mr Goldman. Now, I must ask you to leave, else I shall call a constable.”
“What an excellent idea,” Mina said. “We will wait while you fetch him. Perhaps then we might discover the truth.”
Aware the assistant’s resolve was crumbling, Devon added, “We are not leaving until we’ve spoken to Goldman.”
A tense silence ensued, broken only by someone muttering in the hall. The door behind the counter creaked open a fraction, and a man whispered an instruction and closed it again.
Mr Dowling gestured to the door and stepped aside. “Mr Goldman will see you in his private studio. First floor. There’s a cavalier painted on the door.”
Mina tugged on her gloves and led the way upstairs.
All four doors were painted with portraits of different people. A man in a red military uniform. A scholarly figure. The naked goddess Venus. A cavalier.
Devon knocked, and Goldman called for them to enter.
They found him seated in a red velvet throne chair on a small dais. He wore a gold silk banyan over a white shirt and black trousers. His feet were bare, and though Devon suspected the man was approaching forty, there wasn’t a single streak of grey in his dark brown hair.
“I would offer you a seat,” Goldman said, gesturing to the lay figure perched on a wooden stool and dressed in the black and gold coat of a naval captain, “but as you can see, there are no more chairs.”
There was nothing else in the room but easels and paints, the floor scattered with drawings and crumpled paper.
The pompous popinjay roused Devon’s temper. “A gentleman would offer the lady a seat, not prattle on like an indulgent coxcomb. Be assured, Mr Goldman, I could ruin you in a heartbeat, so I suggest you take our visit seriously.”
The man’s arrogant grin faltered. “I might if you’d bothered to introduce yourselves and state your business.”
Devon straightened. “I am Devon Masters, and my wife is sister to the late Thomas Stanford. Unless you’ve spent the last few days with your nose pressed to the canvas, you will know the man is dead.”
“Murdered,” Mina added. “We are helping the magistrate with his inquiries. Evidence confirms my brother spent time here and visited your premises only last week.”
“Murdered?” The news wiped the smirk off Goldman’s face.
“I doubt you were painting Stanford’s portrait,” Devon scoffed. “The man hadn’t a penny to his name, and you strike me as someone who charges over the odds.” Though one could not dispute he was talented.
Mina stepped forward. “If we are wrong, show us the portrait. Failure to offer an explanation will result in a visit from Sir Oswald of the Great Marlborough Street office. The new Metropolitan Police Force deals with crimes swiftly.”
Goldman sighed and scrubbed his hand down his face. “You leave me in a predicament. If I tell you, do I have your word you will not mention the matter to anyone else?”
“That all depends,” Devon said, suppressing a grin.
“We must report evidence of a crime, sir.”
“Oh, there has been no crime committed here.” Goldman stood and brushed imagined dust off his silk banyan before stepping off the dais. “But should the ton learn of my private art classes, all parties would find themselves scandalised, and I shall be forced to flee to France.”
While Mina appeared confused, Devon understood. He would bet these private classes took place behind Venus’ door. Doubtless, Goldman charged an extortionate rate for his services.
“Stanford couldn’t afford your classes.”
Goldman strode ahead, his banyan billowing behind him. “No, but the wealthy ladies of the ton will pay anything for the experience.” As predicted, he led them to the door decorated with the naked goddess. “I would advise your wife waits downstairs.”
Mina huffed. “I have a name, Mr Goldman.”
“Mrs Masters’ courage knows no bounds,” Devon said, suspecting they were about to gaze upon erotic images.
