Not so Wicked, page 8
Goldman grinned. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The room was dark and smelled of linseed and resin and, to the seasoned nostrils, the sweet scent of burnt opium. More went on in this room than teaching a lady how to master the perfect stroke.
Goldman tugged the heavy red curtains aside, sending a burst of daylight into the large space.
For long, drawn-out seconds, they gazed at the theatrical setting. A gilt chaise stood on a carpet of red silk. Different hats and masks and wigs bulged from a basket in the corner. There were marble busts, standing candelabra and a chest of old daggers and swords.
Was that where Goldman got the murder weapon?
“I provide the life model.” Goldman moved to stand near the easel and beckoned Mina forward. “Still, I encourage my students to paint a background that reflects something of their state of mind.”
Mina crossed the room, eager to know what was on the large canvas propped against the easel. Her eyes widened, and her chin sagged.
“Good heavens!” She shook her head, as if struggling to comprehend the vision before her. It proved so repugnant she turned away. “Mr Masters, you should look at this, though I warn you, I have never seen the like.”
Devon closed the gap between them and came to stand behind her.
Mother of all saints!
He met Goldman’s arrogant smirk. “Are you telling me a lady painted this?” He stared at the depiction of a naked male figure lying on the chaise. A pig mask hid his face. A sword covered in blood stood in place of his phallus. “It’s grotesque.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I assure you, it’s her best work to date.” Goldman pointed to the figure of a woman dressed in a black shroud, ten puppies nipping at her feet. “My student believes it represents the plight of young women, though you can see it isn’t finished.”
Mina snorted. “Now I know why I find it so abhorrent. There is some truth to the symbolism. But what has any of this to do with my dead brother?”
“Why, Sir Thomas is the life model. I paid him handsomely, though he begged me for the opportunity. You see, the models always remain hidden behind a mask of the artist’s choosing. The student has no notion who the subject might be.”
If Mina had looked shocked before, she looked positively astounded now. “I don’t know what evil trick this is, sir, but why would a baronet don a mask and prance around naked?”
“Sir Thomas had his reasons.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I have a signed contract. You can inspect the signature.”
Mina pursed her lips.
Devon placed a reassuring hand on her back for fear she might cast up her accounts. “Am I right in assuming the student is Miss Howard?”
It made sense. Sir Thomas was obsessed with the woman and the thought of spending hours in her company must have been the motivating factor.
“I cannot reveal such sensitive information. I’ve shown you this because you have as much to lose as I do. Heaven forbid, someone should learn of my student’s hobby or Sir Thomas’ deviant tendencies.”
The devious bastard!
“How many students have painted Sir Thomas?” Devon asked, eager to discover as much as possible while Goldman was willing.
“He would only sit for one student.” Again, he motioned to the canvas. “It’s not finished, so I doubt the lady murdered him. Indeed, she will be most aggrieved to learn of his death.”
Mina gave a weary sigh. “Is there anything you can tell us that might help catch my brother’s murderer?”
Goldman maintained eye contact. “No.”
“Do you have relations with your students?” Devon asked, much to the man’s surprise. “This place stinks like an opium den. Artists proclaim to do their best work when under the influence.”
A lady who felt trapped by the confines of her sex might like to experiment with a man she admired. Had Stanford witnessed something and made a scene?
The lothario winked at Mina. “I dabble occasionally. Please let me know if you would like art lessons, Mrs Masters. I’m known to give expert tutorage.”
Devon was on him in seconds.
He knocked the reprobate on his arse, grabbed a handful of his gold banyan and stuffed it into the bastard’s mouth. “Speak to my wife like that again and they’ll be burying you in this peacock’s outfit.”
Goldman’s arms and legs flailed as he choked.
“If I discover you’re lying, I shall be a little less forgiving.” Devon straightened and tugged his cuffs. “I’m sure you don’t want Captain Howard learning of his sister’s antics.”
He left Goldman squirming on the floor and led Mina downstairs and onto Great Queen Street. “After an insightful morning, we now have a motive for murder,” he said, his temper burning as hot as Satan’s pitchfork.
“Yes, Thomas might have attempted to blackmail both men. If so, Mr Goldman and Captain Howard had a reason to silence my brother.”
“Indeed.” They needed to speak to Miss Howard privately in the hope she might reveal damning information.
“We should hire a man to watch Mr Goldman. He strikes me as the sort who would do a moonlight flit.” She gripped Devon’s arm tightly as they walked towards the carriage. “Assuming, of course, he hasn’t choked on his silk banyan.”
“Forgive me if I frightened you.” The mere thought of the rakish gent seducing his wife had roused the devil’s own fury.
“On the contrary.” She gave a light laugh. “I don’t think I have ever found you more charming, Mr Masters.”
Chapter Seven
Two days had passed since Devon had almost smothered Mr Goldman at the artist’s studio. Two days since they had knocked on Captain Howard’s door to be told the family were out of town and not due back until Wednesday.
It had been a little more than two days since Mina had felt her husband’s mouth devouring hers, though the atmosphere was charged with a pulsing energy whenever they were alone together.
The air between them thrummed now, even in this house of God. Indeed, as they stood at St George’s Fields chapel doors and thanked the mourners for attending Thomas’ funeral, the Divine did not strike them down for entering into a sham of a marriage.
Still, when Devon placed a warm hand on her waist and pressed his mouth to her ear, her body reacted like that of a harlot from Gomorrah.
“The men approaching are my friends from Cambridge,” he whispered. “The red-haired fellow on the left is Mr Justin Bradbury. He acted as my second at Bromley Common.”
Mr Bradbury came to a halt a mere two feet away and bowed. “Please accept my condolences on the death of your brother, Mrs Masters.”
“Thank you, Mr Bradbury.” She did not call the man a hypocrite. He had come merely at Devon’s behest to ensure the pews weren’t empty. Although, she sensed he disapproved of his friend marrying to settle a debt. “Devon tells me you’ve been friends for many years.”
“Seventeen. We went to Harrow together, as did Anderson.” Mr Bradbury gestured to the inconspicuous man beside him. “We’re like family, as close as brothers.”
Devon had mentioned his parents were alive and living in Boston. She made a mental note to ask him why he had remained behind and not made a new life in America. Perhaps it had something to do with his sister’s death.
“Then I look forward to knowing you both better.”
The men were forced to move on when Lord Denton stopped to express his sympathy. “Should you need anything, madam, you can call on me night and day.” He shot Devon a Medusa-like glare and made way for his sister, who, despite facing many objections, had insisted on attending the service.
Helen scanned Mina’s face as if looking for bruises or any sign of mistreatment. “I’m so worried about you,” she whispered while her husband, Nicholas St Clair, spoke to Devon. “Was he kind to you?” she mouthed, a deep frown marring her brow. “On your wedding night, was he gentle?”
Mina nodded. “All is well. There is nothing to fear.”
All was not well.
For some reason, they had lost their way the last two days. Yes, they had dined together and spoken for hours about unimportant things. They had played cards and laughed like they hadn’t a care in the world. Devon was kind and attentive, but he had not kissed her again.
That said, she had not given him leave to.
She might have asked for advice, but this was not the time or place, and how could Helen understand Mina’s dilemma when she was so in love with her husband?
Equally determined to defy convention, Lillian was next to leave with her brother Lord Roxburgh, and a brief conversation ensued.
Lillian reached for Mina’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “Remember, you’re a strong, beautiful woman with the power to create the life you want. Let nothing stand in your way.”
Everyone needed a friend like Lillian, a constant voice for the downtrodden. Happiness was often a state of mind. Worrying and playing through scenarios in one’s head achieved nothing.
As it was uncustomary for ladies to attend the service, let alone the burial, Mina had requested a private interment. Besides, she did not want men who despised her brother standing over his grave, silently cursing him to the devil.
The vicar waited for them to take their positions, for the burly men no one knew to act as pallbearers and ready the coffin.
“You did pay the gravedigger?” She turned to Devon, who stood beside her like a tower of strength, watching the vicar find the relevant page in his dog-eared Bible.
Skilled resurrectionists could dig up a body and fill the grave in twenty minutes. Many of her brother’s creditors might be eager to see if Thomas had been buried with a secret purse of gold sovereigns.
“Yes, the grave is eight feet deep, not six. And he will ensure the stone tomb I purchased is in place before the week’s end.”
“Thank you.” She’d never been more grateful to anyone.
They fell silent as the vicar read a psalm followed by the “ashes to ashes” liturgy, and the coffin was lowered into the ground. The creaking of wood reminded her of those nights when Thomas had crept through the house, broke and sotted. The coffin swayed on the ropes, back and forth like her brother’s fragile state of mind.
Such were Thomas’ debts, he might have been buried in a common grave had it not been for Devon’s generosity. Devon had helped her prepare the body and arrange the service.
Had he thought it inappropriate to kiss her again?
Could he not get past the fact he found her unappealing?
It was up to her to find out.
Though she was scared of the answer.
“I couldn’t have done this without you,” she said, tossing a handful of soil on the coffin and blinking back tears. “You despised him more than any man, yet you have been nothing but respectful to his memory.”
She found his benevolence as arousing as his hard muscles and sinful smile, as the trail of dark hair leading down past the waistband of his trousers.
“It is my duty to support you.”
Is that all this was… an act of duty? Payment for a debt?
“You must have read the manual on how to be a good husband. You always say the right things, do the right things. You’re kind and generous, always thoughtful.”
“So why do you sound disappointed?” Reluctantly, he turned to speak to the vicar, thanking him for the service. Then he mentioned a sizeable donation, and the vicar’s eyes brightened like he had witnessed a heavenly vision.
The vicar left them alone at the graveside, and Devon scattered a handful of soil over the coffin too. “I should have found a way to help you,” he said, almost to himself. “It seems to be the story of my life.”
The words echoed a sentiment she had expressed often. “Believe me, I tried many times. All to no avail.”
Devon faced her, his dark, unfathomable eyes meeting hers. “What do you want from me, Mina? Did you hope to marry a rogue and live a life of adventure? Does it grieve you that I am not as wicked as people portray?”
Kindness had been her only consideration—until she’d kissed him.
Now she couldn’t stop the sinful train of her thoughts.
She swallowed hard, debating how honest she should be. “You’ve not kissed me in days. What happened to your demands? One might think you cannot bear to lay a hand on me.”
Amusement played across his rugged features. “Did I not tell you to inform when you might welcome my advances?”
“I don’t want you to think I’m heartless. My brother is dead. It hurts that we weren’t close.” That she had grown to despise him. “It hurts that I’ll never get a chance to put things right. Indeed, I have never felt so alone.”
Was that why she longed for his touch?
He cupped her elbow. “You want me to pursue you? You want me to seduce you? Make you my wife in more than name?”
“I want to feel like a desirable woman, Devon.” She glanced at her poor brother’s grave, deep in the cold ground. “Life is precarious. I am tired of hiding in the shadows, of tiptoeing around the ton for fear of causing offence.”
“I need a simple yes or no, love.”
“Yes, I want you to seduce me.”
“Very well,” he said, as if it were all part of repaying his debt to her. “Your needs are duly noted.”
Mina sighed to herself. Devon Masters hid behind an impenetrable fortress. He’d let her peek through the window, but she wanted to gain admission. Was there a special key? Had he ever let anyone cross the threshold? And how did she go about achieving her goal?
How might she seduce him, too?
“Do you mean to start immediately?” she said, her attention suddenly drawn to the iron railings and the line of trees flanking the road.
The hairs on her nape prickled to life.
Someone was watching them.
“If I’m to tempt you into bed, it’s best to catch you unawares.” Noticing her attention waning, he frowned. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. I thought I saw a figure by the railings.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t make it obvious, but look a few feet to the left of the oak tree.”
“Pretend you’re whispering in my ear so I can turn my head.”
She came up on her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck. He smelled of leather and expensive cologne, and she resisted the urge to press her mouth to his jaw and nip gently.
“Can you see the figure?” she uttered against his ear.
A hum escaped him. “It’s a woman in widow’s weeds.”
“Oh, thank heavens. Doubtless, she means to visit her husband’s grave and is waiting for us to depart.” Still, it was most odd.
“Damn it, she’s seen me and bolted.” Devon grabbed Mina’s hand and sprinted towards the gate. “If she’s visiting the churchyard, why run?”
They navigated the old headstones, though Mina struggled to keep Devon’s pace. “Wait. I cannot run in these skirts.” She couldn’t hike them up any higher.
He slowed. “I’ll not leave you alone. It may be a trap.”
They burst through the open gate onto the Uxbridge Road and spotted the woman climbing into a hackney parked two hundred yards ahead. Though her face was hidden behind a black veil, she stared in their direction before slamming the door shut.
The jarvey flicked the reins, and the vehicle jolted forward before picking up speed and disappearing amid a host of carts, carriages, and cabs.
“Interesting,” Devon mused.
“She was young.” She’d covered the distance quickly.
“Yes, she raised her skirts and ran.”
“Do you think she came to pay her respects to my brother?”
Devon stared into the distance. “Undoubtedly.”
“But why hide in the shadows?”
Devon frowned. “That’s what we need to find out.”
Mina sighed. In a case that was already proving complicated, and with very few leads, the last thing they needed was to add another suspect to their list.
“But I already have a gown suitable for a ball.” Mina glanced at the sign above the door of the elegant shop. Mrs Clancy of Chancery Lane was renowned for her daring evening dresses. Every lady of fashion had paid the extortionate sum to have a gown made by her magical hands. “Besides, the modiste has a waiting list as long as Hadrian’s Wall.”
Devon cupped her elbow and propelled her forward. “If we’re to attend Captain Howard’s ball tomorrow night, you need a new gown.”
“We don’t have an invitation.”
“We don’t need one.” He gave a devilish grin. “But you need to look like the wife of a notorious devil else it may damage my reputation.”
He was joking, yet she supposed he had a point. It was time she accepted her new life, and she had been wearing the same dowdy old dresses for years.
“Maybe I do need to look the part if I’m to steal into a ball uninvited and question the guests.” Would Miss Howard confess to her scandalous meetings at the artist’s studio? Would the captain admit to murdering Thomas? It was unlikely. “But the party is tomorrow, and I doubt a modiste like Mrs Clancy has dresses already made.”
“Trust me. It’s all in hand.” Devon opened the door, the overhead bell tinkling. “I sent her your measurements on Saturday once I learnt of Captain Howard’s ball.”
“My measurements?” Keen to tease him, she whispered, “So it was a wooden ruler prodding my buttocks in bed last night. You wished to be certain you hadn’t made a mistake.”
She had lain awake for hours, waiting for him to slide his arm about her waist, to draw her closer, an unbearable anticipation hardening her nipples and tightening her core. Yet still he had not taken her virtue, nor had he kissed her passionately or eased the infernal ache as he had promised.
So what was he waiting for?
“Perhaps I’ve been watching you closely while you sleep.” His deep drawl slipped over her like a lover’s caress. Warm. Stimulating. “Studying every curve.”
“I—I would have known.”
“I promise you, I have the lightest touch, love.”
