An Artful Seduction Read online

  “The duchess and Lady Minerva have spotted me and are coming this way.” Brandon swallowed. “I feel as if my cravat is cutting off my air supply. You’d best escape while you can, Grayson.”

  “I’ll be on the terrace if you can extricate yourself,” Grayson said.

  He wove through the crowd, intending to exit through the French doors. The smell of hot candle wax and perspiring bodies was overwhelming.

  “Grayson.” A brisé fan tapped softly against his wrist. “I’ve been waiting to catch you alone.”

  “Leticia,” he said, looking down at a blond woman.

  “I didn’t know you’d be in attendance tonight.”

  “I do get out and about.”

  She arched a well-plucked brow. “Other than gallery visits, you used to visit me.”

  They’d had an affair months ago. Leticia, otherwise known as Lady Kinsdale, was a wealthy widow of a marquess. She was also a beautiful woman with sleek blond hair, blue eyes, and a willowy figure. She had been a good choice as a lover at the time, adventurous in bed, but had grown far too possessive. She made it known she’d wanted more than a pleasurable bed partner and sought to remarry.

  Marrying Lady Kinsdale would be perfectly acceptable in the eyes of polite society. She was rich, titled, and an admired hostess. The perfect choice to help launch Sara into society.

  But Grayson had stopped calling.

  Leticia took a deep breath and his eyes were drawn to the large ruby resting in her cleavage. She licked her painted lips. “I’ve missed you Grayson.”

  “It’s good to see you well, Leticia.”

  She ran her fan down his arm. “Do you not miss me?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “You were never too busy for me in the past.” She leaned close and grazed the buttons on his jacket with a gloved finger. “Come to my home tonight,” she breathed.

  An erotic invitation. Grayson should seize what she offered. But her well-practiced seduction left him disinterested. Her expensive French perfume, which he’d never minded before, was suddenly cloying. He felt the beginnings of a headache and eyed the open doors to the terrace.

  “Tonight is not possible,” he said.

  “Another time, then?”

  “Lord Huntingdon!”

  Grayson turned to see his host, Lord Ruskin, waving.

  “If you will excuse me.” He bowed to Leticia, glad for a reason to end their conversation. She pouted, but thankfully, did not seek to detain him.

  Grayson made his way to Lord Ruskin and shook his hand.

  “Lord Huntingdon. I’ve been looking for you all evening,” Ruskin said.

  A ruddy-faced man with a booming voice, Ruskin was a collector of anything expensive and thought himself an art connoisseur. He was also an immensely wealthy marquess and an important patron of the Royal Academy.

  “I’ve acquired a painting and I’d like your opinion. A Scottish artist by the name of Sir Henry Raeburn,” the marquess said.

  “I’ve heard of him, of course,” Grayson said. “Quite talented.”

  “I knew it! My wife thought I was wasting money.”

  His wife was usually right. Grayson’s headache began to increase in intensity, and he glanced at the French doors. “I’d be honored to see the painting. I’ll visit next week.”

  Grayson made to move past the man and continue to the terrace when Ruskin placed his hand on Grayson’s sleeve.

  “One more favor, Huntingdon. My niece, Mary, would love a dance,” Ruskin said, pointing to a female standing beside a group of older women by the refreshment table.

  Grayson glanced at the lady who was pretty with brown hair and eyes and a slim figure. She was a young debutante, possibly in her second or third Season, the type of female Grayson was expected to marry to ensure the integrity of the title. Lord Ruskin waited patiently for his response. Grayson couldn’t decline without insulting the marquess.

  “I’d be delighted,” Grayson said.

  He walked to where Mary stood beside her mother and bowed to both women. “If your card is not full, Lady Mary, I’d be honored for the next dance.”

  Mary’s face lit with excitement and she nodded. Her mother smiled in approval.

  As Grayson led the lady to the dance floor, he spotted Brandon dancing with Minerva Townsend. Even from across the parquet floor he could see the lady speaking nonstop.

  Brandon’s unhappiness struck a chord with Grayson. If he found pleasure in having Amelia paint his portrait, then who was Grayson to protest? Brandon could enjoy Amelia’s company while he posed by the fireplace mantle or in his study or wherever he chose.

  Grayson was suddenly envious. What he wouldn’t give for the excuse to spend an evening alone with Eliza without the mention of Dorian Reed, the stolen Rembrandt, or her father.

  What would it be like to take her to an establishment for a cozy dinner? To share a meal with her and speak of other things?

  Glancing down into Mary Ruskin’s smiling face, Grayson’s gut clenched. He was supposed to find a wife, do his duty by ensuring an heir to the earldom and a successful first season for Sara. As it stood, next in line was a distant second cousin who had a bad gambling habit. He would no doubt drain the Huntingdon coffers that Grayson’s investments had enriched, and he could not be trusted to provide for Sara’s future.

  That would never do. It was time he found a suitable wife.

  Mary Ruskin, like Lady Kinsdale, was also a good choice. Ruskin was a wealthy marquess and his family line impeccable. His niece was attractive enough, but Grayson felt nothing special in their connection, no force drawing him to her. He felt only an overwhelming need to flee the dance floor.

  A mounting frustration grew within him. He wanted to see Eliza again. It was pointless to deny his attraction to her. His life had grown routine, he realized, social events and gallery visits, until he’d sat next to Eliza at the Tutton auction. Her beauty was a drug, clouding his brain, stealing his logic, threatening his well-laid plans for vengeance.

  An image of Eliza in his private gallery gazing at the Hendrick Goltzius engraving arose in his mind. Her eyes had darkened to a smoky emerald. Her full lips had parted with pleasure. She’d been as entranced by the artist’s talent as Grayson had been when he’d first seen the Icarus engraving. He’d experienced that excitement again through her eyes—through the rapid pulse at her neck and the hitch of her breath—and a jolt of lust, swift and violent, had him reeling like a man starved.

  Sweet Jesus.

  He cursed himself as he spun his partner into the intricate steps of the quadrille.

  Why Eliza?

  Why the stubborn widow and shopkeeper who wanted nothing to do with him? Why her? What good could possibly come out of desiring the daughter of his nemesis?

  Chapter Ten

  The note arrived for Eliza on the morning of the fifth day.

  Eliza,

  Dorian Reed has returned to town. I’ll arrive at the shop at noon for you.

  Grayson

  Eliza scanned the letter, noting he had used their Christian names. Their relationship had become more familiar, and she frowned at the thought.

  She walked to the back room where Amelia was working. “Dorian Reed has returned to London,” Eliza said simply.

  Amelia set down her brush and stepped away from the landscape she had been painting. “When will Lord Huntingdon arrive?”

  Eliza folded the note and slipped it into her skirt pocket. “I’m going to see Mr. Reed on my own.”

  Amelia looked at her in surprise. “But you agreed to go with the earl.”

  Eliza sighed. “Things have changed. Huntingdon knows you’re the artist and forger of the Wildens painting.”

  “So? How is that any different from when he believed you were the forger?”

  Eliza looked at her sister in disbelief. “I’m not willing to stand by and watch you arrested!”

  “You think he’d turn me in to the constable?”

  She didn
’t think so, not really. But what if she was wrong?

  “I’m not willing to take the chance,” Eliza said.

  Amelia placed her hands on her hips. “What does any of this have to do with you going to see Dorian Reed alone?”

  “Nothing. Everything. I can’t help but wonder: what if Huntingdon wants to find Father more than he cares to find the stolen Rembrandt?” Eliza said.

  Amelia shrugged. “It should come as no surprise. Lord Huntingdon’s reputation was damaged.”

  “But if there’s a real possibility that Dorian Reed knows where Father is, then I want to find him first. I may not get the chance if Huntingdon gets to him before me,” Eliza said.

  “It’s dangerous, Lizzie.”

  “No more than any of the other times I’ve spoken with Father’s acquaintances.”

  Amelia removed her apron. “If you insist on doing this, I don’t think you should go alone. I’ll come, too.”

  Eliza raised a hand. “No. I need you to stay here with Chloe.”

  She turned and left the workroom, conscious of Amelia trailing behind. Careful not to look at her sister in case Amelia’s worried expression should sway the course she’d chosen, Eliza donned her cloak and opened the shop’s door.

  Amelia grasped her sleeve. “Wait! What do I tell the earl when he comes looking for you?”

  Eliza spared her a quick glance. “I’ll be back before he arrives.”

  She hailed a hackney and gave him the address for the artist’s district. It was in a run down part of town, not quite the rookeries, but far from the fine town homes and shops near Bond Street. The buildings were much closer together here with dark, narrow walkways between them.

  The cab stopped in front of a two-story red brick building. The exterior was unkempt, and the brick was crumbling in places. The shutters had peeling paint, the front step was broken, and the hedgerows were overgrown.

  From what she recalled, the dealers that had sold her father’s forgeries had lived affluent lifestyles. Dorian Reed must have fallen on bad times.

  Eliza retrieved her reticule, stepped down, and paid the driver.

  “Should I wait for you, Miss?” the driver asked.

  She glanced nervously at the neighborhood. “Yes, please,” she said, making a quick decision. It would cost her, but she knew she had no choice. This was not the sort of street that teemed with hackney drivers looking for patrons.

  Gathering her skirts, she headed for the front steps. The door opened before she had a chance to knock. A tall man with massive shoulders and a crooked nose that looked as if it had been broken numerous times eyed her ominously. He was a far cry from Grayson’s proper butler.

  “What do ye want?” he said tersely.

  She handed him her card. “I’m here to see Mr. Dorian Reed.”

  He glanced at it and scowled, making her wonder if he even knew how to read.

  “Who are ye?” he demanded.

  She raised her chin and met his hostile glare. “My name is Eliza Somerton. I’m Jonathan Miller’s daughter.” It had been five years since she’d willingly revealed her true identity for fear of the consequences.

  He blinked, and his lips curled at the corners. “Miller’s daughter, ye say?” He opened the door wide, grasped her arm, and pulled her inside. “Ye should ’ave said so.”

  He released her arm abruptly. She had to make a conscious effort not to rub the spot where his beefy fingers had grasped her.

  “Is Mr. Reed at home?” she asked.

  He eyed her from head to toe. “Who would ’ave thought Miller ’ad a pretty daughter like ye. Aye, Reed’s ’ere and he’ll agree to see ye. Follow me, then.”

  Eliza followed him past the small vestibule down a dimly lit hall. Dust motes swirled in a faint ray of light from a dirty window. The faded wallpaper was peeling, the furniture dusty and old, and the carpet runner bare in spots.

  She stopped short in what had been a dining room. After the dimness in the hall, the bright light made Eliza squint. Two large candelabra with a dozen wax candles burned upon the mantle, with additional candles on end tables in the room. A man stood before an easel. Dressed in trousers and a striped waistcoat, his shirtsleeves were rolled up and he was humming softly to himself. A quick glance at his canvas revealed a charcoal sketch of a sword and a double-barreled pistol. Both weapons were artfully positioned on a nearby sideboard.

  Dorian Reed turned when she entered the room. Her first instinct was that he was younger than she’d imagined. Late thirties, early forties, with a full head of straw colored hair and a classically handsome face. She’d expected a man her father’s age.

  “There’s a lady ’ere to see ye. She says her name’s Mrs. Eliza Somerton. She claims to be Jonathan Miller’s daughter,” the butler said, handing Reed the print shop’s card before leaving.

  Reed lowered the charcoal in his hand. “Well, well. Miller’s daughter, you say? What a pleasant surprise.”

  His English was impeccable, and she could easily imagine him fitting in seamlessly in any fine London gallery. Yet there was a steely glint in his blue eyes that made her uneasy.

  “Thank you for receiving me, Mr. Reed.”

  He studied her face with a curiosity with which one would gaze at an object displayed in a curio. Her hands, hidden from sight, twisted nervously behind her.

  “I would never turn away Jonathan’s daughter,” Reed said. “I can’t help wondering, however, how much of your father’s blood runs through your veins? He could never stay away for long. Do you have artwork you’d like me to sell?”

  Thank heavens, no.

  “That’s not why I’m here,” Eliza said.

  “Oh? Do enlighten me.”

  “I was approached by a gentleman looking for a stolen painting. I agreed to help him, and we will be arriving together later today,” she said.

  “But you decided to visit me alone first, Mrs. Somerton?”

  She’d expected him to question her and was prepared with her answer. “Suffice it to say, I’m not interested in the stolen painting, Mr. Reed. I seek information about my father’s whereabouts.”

  “And this gentleman that you will be accompanying also wants to know about your father?” he asked.

  “I have reason to believe so, yes.”

  “You were wise to come alone.” His eyes pierced the distance between them. “Tell me, Mrs. Somerton, do you know precisely what I did for your father?”

  “I didn’t know anything of you until recently,” she admitted. “I can only assume that as an art dealer you sold Father’s paintings to interested clients.”

  “You mean his forgeries.”

  “Yes.”

  He laughed softly. “It’s true. We would split the profits of the sale. Your father was very, very good. Half of London still has a Jonathan Miller forgery hanging on their walls. Not all the paintings were traced back to him.”

  “I see.”

  “I consider myself a shrewd businessman, but your father was the shrewdest. You see he didn’t only fool the clients and art critics. He fleeced me as well before he disappeared.”

  Her unease ratcheted a notch. “I…I’m sorry.”

  She hadn’t expected this turn of events.

  But she should have.

  Silly, Eliza! She thought to herself. We’re talking about Father. How often will you give him the benefit of the doubt only to be disappointed time and time again?

  Reed stepped away from the easel and approached, until she could see the ring of blue ice lining his irises. The hair on her nape stood on end.

  “Your arrival is perfect timing, Mrs. Somerton, as I find myself in need of money. Forgers of your father’s ability are scarce. He stole a particularly large commission.”

  Dare she ask? “How much?”

  “A thousand pounds, to be exact.”

  A thousand pounds! She stared at him, her mouth agape.

  “As his offspring, you owe your father’s debts,” Reed said.

  �
�You cannot be serious!” she said incredulously. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “But you are the owner of a business, correct?” He held up her card and read aloud, “The Peacock Print Shop.”

  Her heart raced as she stared at him.

  “I shall have to be content to take your business.”

  Take her business! “But…but—”

  He waved his hand. “Don’t fret. I’m not interested in the day to day operations of a print shop, just a reasonable share of the profits. Let’s say a little more than half should do.”

  “We barely survive! Surely there’s another way.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Do you have a thousand pounds?”

  Apprehension swept through her. She had nothing to bargain with nor any money to pay him. “Of course not.”

  “Then I see no other way.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  He advanced toward her like a stalking predator, and she felt a jolt of panic.

  “I’m not a man you want to cross.”

  …

  Grayson’s pulse pounded on his way to collect Eliza. Dorian Reed was back in town and she could help him get answers.

  In particular, the answer to who had purchased the stolen Rembrandt.

  But more importantly, the answer to where Miller was hiding.

  Soon, he thought. Soon he’d possess the information to finally be able to find the criminal.

  He buried a nagging guilt regarding Eliza. He’d waited for justice for five long years. He must not allow anyone—even Eliza and her sisters—to dissuade him now. Not when he was so close.

  His carriage pulled up before the wooden sign emblazoned with a gilt and blue peacock that swung gently in the breeze. Not waiting for his footman, he opened the door and hopped down. Three strides later, he was inside.

  Amelia stood behind the counter framing a print.

  “Good afternoon,” Grayson said.

  She stilled and stared at him. “Good day, my lord.”

  He was relieved to find the small shop warm and coal blazing in the grate. He scanned the room with its racks of prints and shelves crowded with small busts, ivory trinket boxes, and miniature oils.