One Wicked Night

by Noelle Mack

  He bowed and retreated. I looked through the sealed letters on the silver tray, recognizing Xavi's by the handwriting. These I tucked into my waistcoat to read at my desk. At least she'd had the common sense to leave her name off them.

  There was one from Sir William Thurlow, a barrister and friend of mine who was advising me on matters pertaining to my business plans. That was far more important at the mo­ment. He wished to see me at my earliest convenience, et cetera.

  I went into my study and dashed off a reply, asking to see him this afternoon. I then opened my strongbox and removed a sum of money for Thurlow's fee, which I hid inside a pocket that could not be picked. The note I sent off to Thurlow at Lin­coln's Inn with the boy who helped in the kitchen. The lad was barely presentable, but as far as I knew he was trustworthy. I lacked Xavi's advantage in that respect. There were no footmen in livery at my beck and call.

  Whatever was she upset about? I took out the envelopes from Xavi and looked at the hurried handwriting. My name was barely legible. Bah. I felt deeply annoyed and tossed them down upon the desk. At the moment, I was sick of women.

  For daring to suggest that Anne rid herself of Kitty, I had been banished. It was presumptuous of me to offer advice she had not asked for, but it was not enough of a reason to turn me out on the street. My odd encounter with the strange girl still haunted me, if truth be known.

  Damn it all. Sex could be all-consuming. When I had bragged to Thomas that I did nothing to excess, I had not been entirely honest about that aspect of my life, despite his jab about my prowess as a lover. In sensual pleasure and no other, I was likely overindulge. And I had.

  Decimus knocked and brought in the newspapers. He had ironed these, setting the ink with dry heat so I would not dirty my fingers. He was followed by a housemaid carrying a tea tray laden with food and, of course, tea. Such homey comforts were a welcome change from the louche atmosphere of Anne's house. The usual polite obsequies followed, curtseys and so forth. I nodded as patiently as I could, and leaned back in my chair, open­ing the first paper and quickly scanning the columns of print.

  The gossip took pride of place over the news, as usual. I glanced at the recordings of social events and realized that I was mentioned, in cryptic fashion, to be sure, but mentioned.

  An invitation from Lord D —means only one thing to the ladies of London. They must surrender! By all reports, he is a masterful lover and we have heard they find pleasure beyond their wildest dreams. He has spent much time of late in the company of a certain scandalous widow, a Mrs. A —

  Infuriated, I gritted my teeth and threw the newspaper on the floor. Whoever had provided that information? Of course, there was more than one Lord D— in the peerage but the veiled mention of Anne narrowed the field of possibilities.

  We had parted courteously not three hours ago, but she seemed distant and said she felt unwell. I took her word for it— it is never a good idea to call out a woman on a white lie—al­though I assumed the circles under her eyes were the result of lack of sleep.

  If she saw this scurrilous report, she would be upset, despite her remarkable sang-froid. Such coolness was necessary in the business she was in, but Anne was more vulnerable than she liked to admit. I wondered again about her refusal to end her involvement in her lucrative but unsavory profession. She was driven by great fear of poverty, that much was clear.

  I was awash in guilt. To play the hero and rescue her was not something she wanted. It began to dawn on me how deep her distrust of men was, although she had never turned her affec­tions toward her own sex. Her marked avoidance of Kitty's embrace was something I had noted.

  Anne's behavior was a puzzle that I could not solve at this moment. I sighed and looked again at the unopened letters from Xavi. I opened them all, not knowing which had arrived first, and flattened the folded paper inside. The scent of her per­fume reached me before I read the words, evoking sensual memories of her that distracted me from the business at hand.

  I ought to join a monastery, I told myself. I needed the rest.

  Quickly I read the letters, noting again the hurried appear­ance of the penmanship. The lines were closely spaced and dif­ficult to read. To make matters worse, she had written up and around the margins, adding endearments, second thoughts, and pleas for urgent assistance. Making sense of it all was impossi­ble in my distracted mood. I began by arranging the letters in ascending order of the emotions they conveyed, from mild agi­tation to frantic haste to utter hysteria.

  Then I read them.

  At last the reason for her risky attempts to contact me di­rectly became clear. Just last week, engravings of a nude woman that looked very much like her—but who was not her—had ap­peared in a different printseller's window. Not the one that had sold the reproductions of her demure portrait. Like those prints, these were unsigned, but the style was Quinn's. Her maid had told her of them, surprised at the likeness to her mis­tress. Xavi beseeched me to help her.

  Diego, she wrote, had not seen them, but she was terrified of his wrath. He would assault her, break her nose, make her so ugly that no one would ever want to look at her again. And he would do the same to the maid, assuming the girl had lied about where her mistress was and what she was doing—

  Damnation!

  Quinn was a loose cannon on his best days. And he was a great one for getting drunk and doing outrageous things on a dare. In my exhausted and irritable state, I was willing to be­lieve that he might have done it. Or had he merely been care­less, imagining a naked Xavi—there was not a pretty woman he didn't imagine without her clothes on—and drawing away? Quinn's risqué prints were enormously popular and an original drawing on which an engraving could be based was well worth stealing. He threw most of his drawings on the floor of his stu­dio, anyway, and left them there for Miss Reynaud to pick up.

  Either way, he deserved to be thrashed. But the first thing to do was go and see the prints for myself.

  The reproductions of her original portrait were no longer for sale at the other shop, of course. Not caring that Quinn declared them forgeries of his style, Don Diego had discreetly bought as many as he could through intermediaries, had the plates destroyed the same way, and threatened Quinn with cas­tration if it happened again. Xavi had said at the time that Diego had not blamed her—but—I could fill in what would happen in this case.

  I feared for Xavi. Diego might go instantly on the attack if he thought she had posed nude—wanton as she was when we made love, I knew she would never, ever do such a thing. As it was, the idea that her beautiful body could be the object of leers and sniggers made me wild with jealousy.

  And frustration. As she pointed out in a postscript that I had not noticed right away, she would not be able to see me until the matter was resolved. She longed with all her heart to see me again... but it was not safe... I could almost hear her sobs and my heart ached for her.

  I folded the letters and hid them with the rest of our papers in the secure place appointed to them. The tea in the pot had steeped too long, but I poured a cup and drank it cold, grimac­ing at its bitter strength. My mouth was dry but I needed it. I was about to do battle.

  Quinn's voice floated down the stairs, giving Rob instruc­tions for the errand he was about to run. I shoved past the ap­prentice and burst through the half-open door, ready to break every bone in Quinn's body.

  "Edward! How nice to see you—but you look angry, my dear fellow—whatever is the matter—argghh!"

  His face turned a shade of red-purple that would not have been out of place in one of his lurid sunsets. That was because I was holding him by the throat. By the merest fraction I relaxed my hold and let him breathe, but I kept him against the wall.

  "Damn you, Quinn, " I snarled. "I demand to know why you did it!"

  "Agh—what—are—you—" He grabbed my wrist and pulled my hand away from his throat, regaining some of his strength with what little air I had allowed him. "What the devil are you talking about?" He could not roar the wor
ds, but he tried.

  I stepped back. Quinn was a burly man and I knew he could take me on, although he was older. Still, I had the advantage of surprise.

  "The engravings at the printseller's—Mr. Martin's—I saw them on my way! In the window! With her face!"

  He shook his head. "Have you gone mad? Whose face?"

  I grabbed his ear. "Must I drag you there like a schoolboy? You know what I am talking about!"

  Quinn bellowed, confused and furious with pain, and knocked my hand away with his upraised arm. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Rob edge back into the studio, looking warily at both of us.

  The artist lowered his head and charged me like the bull he was. I dodged him swiftly and he landed a-sprawl on the floor, but scrambled up and seized a chisel from among his tools. Holding it over his head—the sharp edge glinted in the light— he charged me again and I ran for the door.

  I had no wish to have my features sculpted anew by a renowned artist. My boots made a tremendous noise as I gal­loped down the stairs, and a woman on the ground floor peeped out of her door to see what the commotion was.

  Bellowing louder but still one flight of stairs behind me, Quinn threw the chisel. It stuck in the doorframe near the woman's head and she slammed the door shut with a terrific bang. I heard the intended instrument of my destruction fall, but I was already at the street door and did not wait to see if Quinn had picked it up again.

  I dashed into the street, heading more or less in the direction of Mr. Martin's shop before I thought better of it and pressed myself into a deep niche in a brick wall. The rough bricks grated against my back, but I kept still, hoping that Quinn, if he had followed, would run past without seeing me.

  Sure enough, he did, the chisel clutched in his fist. A minute later, I heard people curse and his loud voice cursing back, and looked out. He had scattered the crowd gathered under the green-and-white striped awning that shaded Martin's bow win­dow and was peering inside. He shook his head and frowned.

  I had not lingered there after my first glimpse of the nudes. The style seemed identical and my eye was not untrained. The likeness of Xavi was very good—oh, God. That above all had triggered my rage. But Quinn's bafflement, which I could see clearly, was not feigned. He had no idea I was observing him.

  Perhaps the sensual nudes were not his after all. My heart sank. The man was my good friend and I had not given him the chance to defend himself or explain. Did I dare venture out and confront him again? Quinn's temper came and went as quickly as a thunderstorm, and I had certainly provoked him. But if he was not responsible, who was? I had to find out for Xavi's sake, get my hands on the damned things, see to it that the engraving plates were destroyed. I had gone off half-cocked myself.

  Keeping that in mind, I left my hiding place and surveyed the scene. Perhaps the people in the street would keep Quinn from fighting openly with me—no. They did not have the gen­teel appearance of art-lovers, but were a rough lot who would undoubtedly egg him on.

  I decided upon another plan and edged into an alley that I hoped led to the back of Mr. Martin's shop. Several steps later, I found that I was right—but I narrowly missed being drenched by the filthy water the shop assistant pitched out the door. The dissolved acid in it would have made holes in my clothes if not my skin.

  I stepped carefully around the puddle and went into the rear area of the shop, looking for the proprietor. Mr. Martin, who obviously manufactured the prints he sold, was wiping his inky hands on a long, green-and-white striped apron.

  I took a deep breath and began. "May I ask the name of the artist who did those prints in your window?"

  He smirked at me. "Do you want the naughty ones of the whore, then? That is the last set.”

  His insolence enraged me but I kept my voice calm. "There are others?"

  "I have already sold six sets. There are no more.”

  I only nodded.

  At that moment, Quinn walked in through the front door, still holding the chisel. I supposed he had heard my voice in­side. His expression was chastened and his anger had vanished. "Not my style, although the girl might be—"

  I coughed to interrupt him before he could say Xavi's name or mine and took him outside through the open door, out of earshot. I was unsure whether he was telling the truth about the prints, but I would have to apologize and make him believe I was sincere.

  Xavi had not been identified on the mezzotint replicas of his now-famous portrait of her. And the same was true of the much more cheaply done erotica in this fellow's window. I wanted to keep it that way.

  My impulsive confrontation with Quinn might get us all in trouble if the printseller remembered such details. What if Diego heard of this latest outrage from someone who knew his wife and had seen the pictures by chance? Questions would be asked.

  "You must not reveal Xavi's name or mine, " I hissed at him. "She is frantic about the unexpected appearance of these pic­tures and afraid of her husband, who knows nothing as yet. The news of it sent me into a jealous rage and I assumed the worst. I am sorry for what I did to you, more sorry than I can say.”

  "Good. Let's go.”

  "We can't. We have to get those prints. So play along. For her sake.”

  "Yes, yes—of course. I understand.”

  "Does this man know you?"

  "Martin knows my work. And he probably knows me by sight. This neighborhood is crawling with artists.”

  An apt phrase. "Good enough.”

  We went back into the shop.

  "My dear Quinn!" I said loudly. "They are very good! I rec­ognized your style—"

  He waved the chisel grandly. "Fred, you are mistaken. My style can be copied and someone obviously did. I suspect Fotheringay—the bastard hopes to discredit me before the academy show.”

  I scowled at him. "You and Will have always quarreled about who is the better artist.”

  "I am, " Quinn said, as if all the world knew that to be true.

  He set the chisel upon a worktable and sat down on a chair piled with fresh-from-the-press etchings of rustic subjects. En­tirely innocent and quite uninteresting, I thought. The shop's proprietor squawked with dismay.

  "Oh, dear.” Quinn rose and looked down where his but­tocks had left double dents in the damp paper. "However, my imprint will only improve them. I did look before I sat down and I know they are Fotheringay's.” He picked one up and squinted at it. "I recognize his work. Weak line, poor composi­tion—the man has no talent whatsoever.”

  Quinn tossed the etching back upon the chair with disgust.

  "His art sells well enough, " Mr. Martin said. "But the rustic pictures are not so popular.”

  "I should think not. Cottages and chickens. Bah.” He waved dismissively. "I would rather look at a woman's—"

  I gave him a steely look and he shut up.

  "The ladies like cottages, " the other man said. "But men are different. Fotheringay can do both, you know. He's a dab hand at a naked female. Good for business.”

  "Are you saying that he did the etchings in the window?" I asked.

  The printseller gave me an alarmed look. "N-no, sir. Those are not by him.”

  I stared at him for a long moment, as if the sheer force of my gaze might induce him to tell the truth. The man said no more, but turned away and made himself busy, ignoring the two lu­natics who had blundered into his shop.

  "Well, I will take the last set, " I said. "How much?"

  Martin turned around and named an extravagant sum, on the general principle that a fool and his money are soon parted. I dug into my hidden pocket and tossed down a handful of guineas.

  "We want the engraving plates also, " Quinn said.

  "Certainly not. They are far too valuable. I can make thou­sands of prints from them.”

  "Exactly my point. We will pay you double what you think they are worth. Name your price.”

  The ink-stained wretch thought it over. I blanched when he came up with a figure he thought reasonable. But the plates
had to be destroyed and there was no other way to get him to part with them.

  "We wish the set we just bought to increase in value, you see, " Quinn said blandly. "If the plates are destroyed, then no more can be made.”

  The proprietor hesitated and I wanted to kick Quinn. Did he not know that there was such a thing as too much explain­ing?

  I put all the money I had brought with me on the counter and added my gold watch. Mr. Martin seemed quite pleased with it.

  "Done, " he said at last. "The plates are yours.” He took up a pad of lined paper and a pencil to jot down the details of the transaction: a description of the set, its price, a note to the effect that the engraved plates had been sold with it, and the day's date. He paused and looked at me. "Name and address?"

  "Ah—" That was not information I wanted to give out and my mind had gone blank.

  "In case you wish to resell them through the shop, sir. So I can contact you. "

  Quinn stepped up. "Give me that pencil, Mr. Martin. You can have my address. Fred here must be discreet about this pur­chase.” He elbowed me in the ribs and laughed.

  "Quite right, " I said, relieved. I watched him put down his name and address. Mr. Martin took the receipt from him and filed it in a metal box with an ingenious slotted drawer. Even if he was covered with ink and kept a sloppy shop, he was metic­ulous in matters that had to do with money.

  Quinn snapped his fingers at the assistant. "Quickly now. Bring the plates here. I believe there must be ten. I can count, even if I am an artist. There were that many pictures in the win­dow. "

  It seemed to take forever and we continued to josh each other. Affable to a fault, Quinn promised the proprietor a first look at other, better, far filthier engravings than these in future. Finally the assistant returned, lugging the plates in a wooden box. Quinn looked them over, then watched him wrap them in canvas and tie it up with heavy string.

  Mr. Martin brought out a green-and-white striped portfolio and handed it over. "Would you like to look at them before I wrap this up?"