The Artist and the Rake

by Callie Hutton

  Lizbeth patted her eyes again with Marcus’s handkerchief. “Yes. However, I would like to take back a few of them. Family members, pets, that sort of thing. There are maybe six or seven of those. The rest I would love to sell through your gallery, Mr. Walker.”

  Marcus leaned back in his chair and turned to her. “I have gone over Mr. Walker’s contract and I find it to be quite fair. I have studied contracts from other galleries and his is similar.”

  She raised her brows. “You’ve been quite busy.” Once more she patted her eyes. “Thank you.”

  “I would do anything to put a smile on your face.” His eyes told her so much more than his words.

  Mr. Walker broke in. “If you will wait for a few minutes, I will go through my ledger and write you a cheque for what is owed for the paintings that have already been claimed. I have been holding the money, reluctant to tell Mrs. O’Leary that paintings sold because I sensed something wrong with the whole thing.”

  “Yes. That is wonderful.” She turned to Marcus. “I’m being paid.”

  “Indeed, you are, sweeting. And rightly so.”

  * * *

  The next day being Saturday, Marcus had convinced Lizbeth to forego a visit to the police about Mrs. O’Leary stealing her paintings and instead spend the day painting and then attend the Assembly that night.

  He found the assemblies in Bath much more pleasant than the balls in London. The women in Bath didn’t seem as malicious as they did in Town. He’d certainly seen his sister, Addie cut down enough times to know how hurtful some young ladies could be.

  When he finished with his business each day, he spent some time watching Lizbeth paint and it was obvious from her initial sketching and then painting that she was extremely talented. He promised he would help carry her painting supplies outdoors once the weather was warm enough.

  “Are you saying you expect to still be here in Bath by spring?” She looked wide-eyed at him which did make him consider what exactly was he planning on doing? His initial idea had been to visit his sister in anticipation of meeting his new niece or nephew and to get a break from London. Then his visit turned into helping Lizbeth.

  She was now doing well, having recovered her paintings and making money on the ones she left at the art gallery. They would visit the police on Monday and give them the information on the stolen paintings. With a signed document from Mr. Walker, along with the copy of the contract Mrs. O’Leary had signed, there was no way they would not be able to charge her with thievery. Grand larceny.

  Once the new baby was born there would be no reason for him to remain in Bath. Except…

  While in Bath, he spent several hours a day on his father’s businesses and looking into new ventures or expansions of existing ones. The idea of new businesses excited him, and Bath was the perfect place to grow their holdings. What astounded him more than anything was how little he missed London.

  The lack of enthusiasm among his peers regarding the Parliamentary bill, the social events in the evenings that were either boring or full of mothers dragging their daughters in front of him, or the ridiculous bets at White’s, was far removed from Bath both in distance and similarity. He swore the air was cleaner, the traffic less congested, and the Avon river smelled better than the Thames, by far.

  And then there was Lizbeth.

  He constantly felt something tickling at the back of his neck when they were together, and a sense of absence when they were apart. One concern he could not shake off was the fact that they had gotten Lizbeth away too easily. The people who ran the ring that abducted young women were ruthless and did not like being thwarted.

  Just because the only repercussions they’d had so far was the visit from Mrs. O’Leary to the bookstore did not mean Lizbeth was safe. There were some days when he felt like he was waiting for the second shoe to drop.

  On another note, she was slowly, but definitely, crawling into his heart. Everything about her appealed to him. Her looks, her softness, the way she was coming back from her horrendous experience, the joy on her face when she’d spotted her paintings, and the sadness for her little brother when she hugged Michael.

  His years as a rake were behind him, even if he did decide to return to London and his life there. He had no desire to replace his mistress and could only think of one woman he wanted in his bed.

  Lizbeth.

  But would she ever get over what happened to her? Be able to share intimacy with a husband? Did he have the patience to give her the time she needed?

  Yes, to the last one.

  He’d always been a patient man and once he decided Lizbeth was for him—and that day was coming closer—he would wait as long as she needed. As difficult as it might be once she was his wife, a long and happy marriage depended on it.

  Did he say once she was his wife? Had he made up his mind? He grinned. Apparently so.

  He pushed the meandering aside when he realized Lizbeth sat at her easel, paint brush in her hand, patiently waiting for his answer.

  “Yes. There is a good possibility I will be here in the spring.”

  She turned back to her easel. “Good.”

  What the devil did that mean? Surely, she wasn’t thinking along the lines he was? He whistled a soft tune as he left her happily painting.

  * * *

  The carriage pulled up in front of the Assembly a little past ten o’clock. The hundreds of candles and lamps burning inside lit up the front of the building as if it were daytime.

  There was a man in America, Mr. Thomas Edison, who claimed to have invented what he called a ‘light bulb’ that had all the world excited about the possibility of having lighting at night that was almost as strong as sunshine.

  Marcus felt it would be a good thing for no other reason than all the fires caused as the result of inept handling of candles and oil lamps.

  “Oh, I think I just saw Pamela and Nick enter the assembly. I thought they would be on a wedding trip,” Lizbeth said as she took Marcus’s arm and they started up the stairs.

  “He told me at their wedding that they weren’t going to take more than a few days honeymoon because while he’d been in London Carter had found him a buyer for his club.”

  “That’s right, Carter Westbrooke is his solicitor, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. And Berkshire’s and mine.” Marcus helped her off with her cloak.

  Lizbeth smoothed out the few wrinkles in her gown from the short carriage ride. “Nick is selling the club?”

  “Yes. Apparently, it has always been his goal to sell the club and reinvest his money into something he referred to as ‘respectable’. I’m sure taking Pamela to wife encouraged him to do it sooner than later.” Marcus took her arm as they made their way past the throngs of attendees to where Lottie, Carter, Pamela and Nick stood.

  “Oh, so nice to see you Lizbeth!” Lottie hugged her and turned to Marcus. “And you, too, Marcus.”

  He bowed to the group. “It is a pleasure to see all of you, as well.”

  “If only Addie could b-be here, then we would all be t-together.” Pamela took Lizbeth’s hands and squeezed them.

  Lottie looked over at Marcus. “How does Addie fare? I promised her that Pamela and I would come for tea this week.” She turned toward Lizbeth. “We want to be sure to pick a day when you will be there, as well.”

  “Addie is doing fine,” Lizbeth said. “She is at the point, however, where she is uncomfortable no matter what position she is in.”

  “It must be n-near time for her n-now,” Pamela said.

  “I think it’s time the gentlemen take a stroll to the refreshment table,” Nick said. “Do you ladies want lemonade, or that horrible ratafia?”

  “Well, since you put it that way, I will have lemonade,” Lottie said in her soft voice.

  “Lemonade it is, then,” Lizbeth added, and Pamela nodded.

  The three men made their way to the refreshment table. “You seem to be spending a great deal of time with Lizbeth,” Nick said as he picked up two
glasses of lemonade.

  “I’ve been helping her. We visited with the police who took her information, but I got the impression they wanted us out of their way. I’m hoping it’s because they are working diligently on catching these people.”

  “Do you need my help?” Nick said. “Did the contacts I sent your way do any good?”

  “Yes. They did. But all we can do at this point is provide the information to the Bath and London police, and hope they make good use of it. Right now, we have something on the landlady. We will visit the police on Monday.”

  Carter shook his head. “The police work slowly, but if you keep on them, they’ll have to do something.”

  Marcus nodded. “I’ll bet if Pamela had been kidnapped, the wrath of the entire Beau Monde would have come down on their heads.”

  Nick’s eyes narrowed. “If anyone was stupid enough to put their hands on my wife, I would not need the upper crust, or the police. An undertaker would do just fine.”

  The men all knew Nick did not bluff. Marcus had heard some things about Nick that gentlemen did not discuss. But, in all fairness, he found the man to be the most honorable of men. There were just different types of honor.

  They returned to the ladies who were busy with their heads together, talking and laughing. Marcus watched how comfortable Lizbeth was with the group. She’d been so much happier since her paintings had been recovered. It was almost as if she turned a corner in moving on with her life.

  As he studied them, he decided he was ready. Lizbeth seemed to be on a path to being ready.

  It was time.

  Bloody hell. Mother would be thrilled.

  Chapter 14

  Lizbeth and Marcus were greeted by the same officer sitting at a desk in the entry hall of the Bath Police.

  It was Monday morning and they arrived without an appointment, Marcus carrying with him the papers that condemned Mrs. O’Leary with thievery. Even the sun showed its favor by shining brightly as they’d made the trek from Berkshire Townhouse.

  “Inspector Lewis will see you now.” The young officer nodded and turned on his heel. They followed him down the corridor to the same room they’d met the Inspector before.

  ‘Twas almost as if the two men had not moved since their last visit. Same room, same chairs, and Lizbeth swore the inspector wore the same brown suit.

  “Good morning, Miss Davenport. Mr. Mallory.” The Inspector waved them to a seat, and then took his. He laid his hands on the table. “What can we do for you this morning?”

  “I don’t suppose you have information for us about Miss Davenport’s kidnapping?”

  The two men looked at each other. “No. I’m afraid any information we have cannot be shared at this time.”

  Marcus nodded, and withdrew the papers he carried from his jacket. “I have here paperwork proving that Mrs. O’Leary—the landlady—brought thirty-seven stolen paintings to The Walker Art Gallery for the purpose of selling them and keeping the money.”

  Inspector Lewis straightened in his chair and leaned forward. “What do you have there?” He pointed to the paper.

  “A sworn testimony from Mr. Walker that Mrs. O’Leary had the paintings delivered to his gallery after she signed a contract with him, alleging that she had authority to sell the paintings and was, in fact, the artist’s representative.”

  “And how do you know these paintings were stolen?” Inspector Lewis asked as he looked over the paper.

  “Because I am the artist, Inspector,” Lizbeth said.

  Lewis’s head snapped up and he stared at Lizbeth. “You are the artist in question?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have proof of this?”

  “Indeed. My initials are at the bottom, right-hand corner of each painting.”

  The two men looked at each other again, a smile breaking out on Lewis’s face. “This is quite interesting.” He continued to look over the documents they’d brought.

  Once he was through, he asked, “I assume I can keep these?”

  “As long as we receive a receipt for them,” Marcus said.

  Inspector Lewis grinned. “Smart man.” He began to tap the table with the end of a pencil. “I assume Mr. Walker—who I know to be a legitimate art dealer—would be willing to come in for a statement?”

  “Absolutely,” Lizbeth said, her heart pounding in her chest. She could almost taste victory. “Mr. Walker said he had suspected from the start that Mrs. O’Leary was falsifying her claim to the paintings.”

  “Yet he took them.”

  “Yes, but he had not paid her when Mr. Mallory found the paintings. Mr. Walker said he was not comfortable doing so until he met the artist, who Mrs. O’Leary said lived the life of a recluse,” Lizbeth said.

  Inspector Lewis continued to read the documents over one more time. “Please wait here and I will get a receipt for you.”

  Both men stood and left the room. Marcus turned to Lizbeth. “I finally feel as though we are getting somewhere.”

  Lizbeth let out a deep breath. “Yes. I can’t tell you how happy I am. Mrs. O’Leary will finally be charged with something.” She paused. “She will be charged, won’t she?”

  “They have to, love, the evidence is right there in their hands.”

  Lizbeth chewed on her lip. “What if the police tore up the papers?”

  Marcus took her hand. “You are fretting over nothing. First of all, I have faith in the police department. And second, even if they were that corruptible, Mr. Walker will just sign another paper and we can go higher up.”

  “Suppose they—”

  “Enough.” He squeezed her hand. “Please don’t worry. It will all work out. I promise.”

  The two men returned. “Very well, here is your receipt,” Inspector Lewis held out a paper to Marcus.

  “Will we be notified when she is arrested?” Lizbeth asked.

  “No. We do not notify victims with the steps we take. However, if we need you to provide additional information, I assume you are at the same address?”

  Marcus stood and tucked the paper into his jacket pocket, then took Lizbeth’s arm. “Yes, we are both residing at Berkshire House. Thank you, Inspector.”

  They left the building and headed to the carriage. “I feel so good about this.” Lizbeth smiled. “At least this time they believed us, and I honestly feel like justice will be done.”

  Marcus took a deep breath. “Don’t get your hopes up too much, sweeting, about how fast this will work. The law moves slowly.”

  They were quiet on the way home. Lizbeth kept envisioning Mrs. O’Leary in handcuffs. She knew it was unkind and un-Christian like for her to applaud someone’s downfall, but it provided her with one more step away from what had happened to her. Maybe she would even heal.

  Why that word made her glance over at Marcus was not something she wished to dwell on. Yes, he was handsome, and charming, and honorable, and caring, but he was still a man. With a man’s desires and needs.

  What would intimacy be like with Marcus? Surely, with what she could see with him in his clothes, his form would be quite acceptable without them. With his caring he would certainly not make her feel that she was being used like the two men she was forced to endure at the brothel. And considering his reputation as a rake, whether present or past, he would be an excellent lover.

  She shivered, thinking of his hands on her body. Hands that didn’t grope, squeeze and otherwise hurt her, but loving caresses. The thought of his hands on her flesh caused her nipples to harden and the place between her legs to moisten. Whatever did that mean?

  Maybe the next time he attempted to kiss her, she would not turn her head or pull away.

  Now that she’d made that decision, she was anxious for Marcus to try to kiss her again. Should she let him know she was willing? Would he think she was a loose woman because of her experience in the brothel?

  “Here we are.” Marcus tapped Lizbeth on the shoulder. “You were far away somewhere, sweeting.”

  She felt
the heat rise from her middle, knowing her face was bright red. He looked at her oddly, as if he could ascertain where her thoughts had wandered. Of course, he couldn’t, but all the same, instead of embarrassment, a different sort of excitement raced through her.

  “Are you well, Lizbeth?” He studied her.

  “Yes.” She fanned her face with her hand. “Just a bit overheated.”

  Whether it was her words or her demeanor, the look he gave her only caused her insides to heat up more. His smirk as he handed her out of the carriage confirmed her suspicion.

  “I would like a word with you in the library once we are settled.” The heat in his eyes warmed her even further.

  Good grief! She gasped as another thought flitted through her mind. Had he assumed that since she had asked him to help her overcome her terrible experience in the brothel that she expected him to then offer her his protection? To become his mistress?

  What else could he possibly be thinking? Rumor had it that he had declared often and loudly for years that marriage was not for him.

  Well, we will see about that. If he suggested such a thing, she would slap his face and with all the dignity she could muster, she would order him from the house.

  Except the house was his sister’s.

  “Oh, thank heavens you’re here.” Sybil raced down the steps, her unfastened coat flying behind her as she tied the strings of her bonnet under her chin.

  “What is wrong?” Lizbeth asked.

  “Lady Berkshire says the babe is on the way and his lordship is not home.” The young maid wrung her hands and looked back and forth between Lizbeth and Marcus.

  * * *

  Marcus raced past Sybil into the house almost knocking the poor girl down. “Where is Lady Berkshire?” he asked as he sped past Penrose.

  “Miss Sybil said she is in her bedchamber.” Penrose wiped the sweat beaded on his forehead. “His lordship is not at home.”