And continued to feel both emotions as she watched Mr. Shaw remove his jacket and roll up the sleeves of his linen shirt. His browned arms were sprinkled with fine dark hair. Charles had been fair, looked rather golden in the firelight. Pru shut her eyes at the unwelcome image. She did not remember what he looked like. She didn’t.
Mr. Shaw rummaged through a leather satchel and unearthed a crowbar. With a few quick flicks of his wrist, the lid of the box popped open. Straw spilled out onto the rug, and Mr. Shaw sneezed quite violently.
“Damn. I mean drat. Pardon my language, Mrs. Thorne, but I seem to have an aversion to straw.” He pinched the bridge of his nose in an unsuccessful attempt to quell the second, even more alarming, sneeze. He fished a handkerchief out of his pocket. His eyes looked watery and red already.
Pru counted the number of crates. “How on earth will you be able to unpack all these boxes?”
“My man Malcolm will help. He’s a useful fellow, although he doesn’t have a gentle touch. He’s dropped more than his fair share of valuables.” He stuck an arm into the straw and pulled out a bronze chalice. “This is as good a place as any to instruct you on the Shaws’ wicked business. Step a little closer, Mrs. Thorne.”
“I will not, you silly man. Bring it out into the hallway where you will not be subjected to the packing material any longer than you need be.”
“Why, Mrs. Thorne, I’m flattered. Are you concerned about my health?”
“I don’t wish to be sneezed on. What are you waiting for?”
Mr. Shaw grinned. “How did your cousin dare defy you? You frighten me to death.”
“Nonsense,” Pru grumbled, not letting herself be swayed by the twinkle in his eyes. Very fine eyes—moss green with bits of gold. They navigated through the stack of boxes to the black-and-white-tiled hallway. The chalice gleamed in the shaft of sun from the front door’s sidelights.
“Very detailed work, isn’t it?” Pru began, but then she saw all the details. “Good heavens.”
“I believe it’s meant to be hell, actually. See the little cloven hooves? Shaw Antiquities specializes in sensual, some might even say pornographic, artwork and artifacts.
We are the go-to people for those collectors who fancy something a bit different from the run-of-the-mill Staffordshire dog. I’ve traveled the globe to fulfill the wishes of my clients, always on the lookout for the rare and randy.”
“I—I see,” Pru said faintly. She certainly did. And despite her innate objections, her eyes remained open and in wonder at the cavalcade of sex acts depicted on the chalice. She squeaked. “That is possible?”
“Everything is anatomically correct and within the purview of a normally limber and morally ambiguous man,” Mr. Shaw said, his twinkle now blinding.
Pru knew she was blushing, could feel the heat blossom from her breasts to her hairline. She wiped a bit of damp from her brow, inadvertently loosening the corkscrew curl she had pomaded down. She had just the one curl on her temple in her mass of straight, boring hair, a twirling little worm that got caught in her eyelashes. She blinked it back and aimed for a look of indifference.
“I really must be going, Mr. Shaw. I suppose I should thank you for showing me part of your collection, but I would be lying if I told you I felt any gratitude at all. This is—you are—I don’t know what I shall tell Sophy about the family she’s married into.”
“You may tell her that Cyrus has no hand in the family business. And assure yourself that after I dispose of this lot, Shaw Antiquities will shutter its doors for good. I’ll have enough to invest in something more respectable, and I’m tired of traveling. It’s time I settled down. Like my brother.”
Somehow Pru could not see this man at the center of domestic tranquility, surrounded by dogs and children. Instead, a vision came of him robed, riding an Arabian stallion, flashing a scimitar. And in the next second, she was beside him, veiled and warm from the desert sun. There would be sugared dates and roasted lamb at the oasis, and long lovemaking in a silken tent beneath a brilliant moon.
They would whisper hours into the night, the gentle breeze beyond rattling the palm leaves.
“Mrs. Thorne, I say, are you all right? You look flushed. I would be happy to escort you home.”
Mr. Shaw had brought her back to reality. How long had she been standing in the hallway with these inappropriate thoughts? She focused on the tile at her feet.
“That won’t be necessary. As you know, Jane Street is conveniently close to the best addresses. I shall walk.”
“I know you did not bring a maid or footman with you.”
“How could I? It would have been even more scandalous to involve one of the servants in this scheme. Poor Sophy. Even if your brother is innocent of having an affair, I cannot think he will make her a good husband.”
“Give him a chance, Mrs. Thorne. We Shaws are full of surprises.”
Pru snorted. She fetched her gloves and reticule from the parlor sofa, and pinned her veiled hat to her chignon. “Good day, Mr. Shaw.”
“I hope we meet again soon.”
Pru was glad he could not see her face. Mr. Shaw was not a man she trusted herself to meet again.
Chapter Three
Sophy had inherited her father’s well-appointed town house, and it was there she brought her new husband for the one week they lived as man and wife before Carmela’s letter disrupted their connubial bliss. In the ensuing weeks, Sophy had attempted to make the place her home, rearranging outdated furniture and trying to order the skeleton crew of servants about between bouts of hysteria. Pru knew Sophy’s domestic skills were lacking, so she was not at all surprised to find the front door ajar and the butler nowhere to be found.
Pru would have to see to it that the staff knew their proper place—for almost two decades they’d had Number Eight Rex Place to themselves without a mistress’s interference. Sophy was young, but Pru was confident she could help her cousin get the upper hand over both the servants and her husband given enough time. Then Pru, duty done, would go back to Bath and her boring life.
But it might not be so boring now. Pru hated to admit it, but with her demanding mother gone, she might have opportunities she did not have before. Even if she was in mourning, she could still indulge herself, attending lectures and concerts. She might even travel once Sophy was settled—perhaps to some of the exotic places that Darius Shaw had been to. She, of course, would not bring back such shocking souvenirs.
She crossed the threshold and removed her hat before the hall mirror. All the veiling in the world had not kept her safe from Darius Shaw. But she would never see him again unless they were in church, standing as godparents over the baptismal font with the newest little Shaw. Pru shuddered at the thought.
And then she heard Sophy’s bloodcurdling scream. Pru dropped her hat to the floor, grabbed a brass candlestick from the hall credenza, and rushed into the parlor.
For the second time today, she was unwillingly exposed to an image she would have to scrub out of her mind with very strong mind soap. Pru could only presume that the bare arse of the gentleman rutting over Sophy was her husband Cyrus. Neither one of them were aware that she was standing there armed as they bounced on the divan, engaging in conjugal relations with unbridled enthusiasm in an extremely inconvenient place. Pru could not imagine sitting on the worn blue brocade cushion ever again. Perhaps she could persuade Sophy to recover it when they redecorated the house.
She crept out of the parlor, returned the candlestick to its rightful place, gathered up her hat and reticule, and climbed the stairs as quietly as she could, not that Sophy and Cyrus were apt to hear a thing. The house was absolutely silent save for Sophy’s incessant screeching and Cyrus’s manly grunts. Pru locked herself in her room, but the door was not quite thick enough to muffle the noise completely.
Good Lord. Pru devotedly hoped Sophy had given all the servants the afternoon off, else she would never get control of them. Pru had left her own maid in Bath when she received Sop
hy’s summons. Barlow had a spring cold, and the trip would only have exacerbated her misery. So now Pru found herself alone—and more than likely un-wanted—in the house with the newlyweds.
She had been a newlywed once. She had never, however, made noisy love on a parlor couch in the daytime where anyone at all might have come upon her. Charles had come to her bedroom quietly in the dark wearing a respectable nightshirt. He had pulled up her respectable nightgown and put his thing in, sometimes even forgetting to kiss her. Pru wondered if he bothered to kiss Lady Merrifield before her husband shot him. It seemed a shame to go to one’s Maker—or more likely the devil—kissless.
Pru touched her own lips with her still-gloved hands. She would bet a crate of valuable indecent statues that Darius Shaw could kiss a woman senseless. He had a fine mouth—full lips that quirked in mischief. Heavy lids fringed with dark lashes. Capable brown hands, a little nicked from his adventures unearthing such dreadful objects. Shaggy dark hair that just begged for brushing back. A tall, rangy body—
Good Lord, again. Pru had been infected by lust. For ten years she had not permitted herself to think of sexual congress and all that it entailed. But after a few hours on Jane Street and a few seconds on Rex Place, she was ruined.
She tossed her reticule on the bed, and then remembered that Darius Shaw had stuffed something into it. Drat and damn. Whatever it was, she could send it back to Jane Street with a footman, if any of Sophy’s came back. Curious, she tugged open the drawstring of her fringed little bag and pulled out the velvet pouch. Whatever was inside had not been heavy enough for Pru to notice that she’d inadvertently filched it away from Mr. Shaw.
When she shook the bag open, she gasped. An old gold ring studded with an oval of small rubies and a larger diamond at the apex fell into her hand. The design was oddly flowerlike, with a hole at the center where the flesh of one’s finger would show. The rows of ruby petals curved around the opening and the diamond—a good-sized stone—was at the top, peeking out from a layer of red. Pru stared at it as it sparkled in a shaft of sun. She had never seen anything like it. An urgent need to strip off her gloves and slip the ring on her finger overtook her, so she did. The ring covered her knuckle completely, save for the circle of skin that was visible. Her finger grew warm, and she stroked the unusual setting, checking for loose stones.
She should return it immediately. Definitely. But Mr. Shaw had been prepared to give it away to Carmela de Castro, so perhaps he wouldn’t miss it. Wanting to examine it in natural light, Pru walked to the window that faced the little garden in the back of the house and wiggled her finger. The ring’s dazzle was most satisfactory. She was so blinded by it she almost missed the shadow of movement below. Reluctantly breaking her stare, she looked down. Somehow Sophy and Cyrus had managed to leave the sofa and were now writhing naked in the spring-green grass for all the neighbors to see. Pru looked up and saw the quick swish of lace curtains from the house opposite.
Double drat and damn. Sophy’s reputation was ruined, even if Cyrus was her legal husband. One didn’t engage in an al fresco affair with one’s husband. It simply wasn’t done. And just blocks from Hyde Park. She shoved the window open.
“Sophronia Prescott! Stop that this instant!” she hissed. She kept her voice as low as possible, although the couple’s acrobatic activity had already attracted attention.
To Pru’s relief, the writhing stopped. Cyrus Shaw cricked his neck up and frowned at her. “Mind your own business, Mrs. Thorne,” he said loud enough to be heard at Speaker’s Corner. “And it’s Sophronia Shaw now.”
“How dare you befoul my cousin outdoors like you are a common laborer and she a common streetwalker? Sophy is a lady. We are in Mayfair, for heaven’s sake.” Pru spoke a little louder, out of temper. Cyrus Shaw’s smugness was enough to make anyone scream.
Sophy piped up, pink cheeked and sounding not one whit sorry. “It was my idea, Pru. To be under God’s sky, to declare our love before nature—”
“Rubbish. Bad enough you used the parlor sofa. You have a perfectly good bedroom, Sophy. And may I remind you we have neighbors.”
“I declare my love before them, too,” Sophy said stubbornly. “You wouldn’t understand, Pru. A woman like you—you’re old! You have no romantic soul. But now that I know Cyrus was never unfaithful, my love for him has no boundaries. We shall never be subject to foolish conventions. We want to be free—free to love and laugh, to flout silly rules. Kiss me again, Cyrus.” And with a parting sneer at Pru, he did.
Pru slammed the window shut. This was worse than she thought. Unconscionable. She could not remain here while Sophy threw away every bit of good sense Pru had tried to drum into her and behaved with such a shocking lack of decorum with a gazetted fortune hunter. She would go back to Bath at once.
Ungrateful brat. Stupid girl. Empty-headed twit. Pru let vent every epithet she’d held back in the raising of Sophronia Eugenia Maria Prescott. She, Prudence Jane Thorne, née Prescott, had given up the best years of her life to nurse her peevish mother and nursemaid petulant Sophy. Neither one of them had ever appreciated her. And her one attempt to escape her responsibilities had ended in ignominy when she married a fortune hunter of her own.
As she stuffed bits of clothing in her valise, Pru considered herself lucky that she had not brought much with her on her flying trip to save Sophy. Hah. The child did not want to be saved, but copulate in the grass like a cat in heat. Well, Pru washed her hands of her. Let her husband run through her monthly allowance, then run through her inheritance if they were still married in three years. Pru would not stand by and watch it happen. She was going back to Bath.
A woman like you. Old. No romantic soul. Sophy’s insulting words rattled around Pru’s head. It was true she was practical. She’d had to be. Her one step on a romantic path had resulted in a grievous stumble. But now with her mother dead and Sophy married, she supposed she might do anything she liked.
The ring caught on one of Pru’s sensible cotton stockings. She really should return it before she left London. It was indeed rare and valuable. And old, like her, a nasty little voice in her head said. An air of ancient mystery was steeped in its stones. She gave a tug, but the ring remained in place.
How embarrassing. Mr. Shaw would know she had tried it on. But perhaps he had something in his tool bag that would remove it. She was not going to stay on Rex Place one minute longer to look for a dab of butter.
Twenty minutes later, with her crewelwork valise in hand, Pru rapped on Mr. Shaw’s blue Jane Street door. He opened it himself, tears streaming down his face.
“Good heavens! Whatever is the matter?”
Darius Shaw waved his hand and shook his head. “Can’t talk,” he rasped. “Throat’s closed.”
“Have you been at those boxes again, you foolish man? Where is Malcolm?”
“Errand.”
“Then you should have waited for him to come back! It is clear you cannot unpack everything by yourself. Why, you might even perish! I can almost hear a death rattle in your chest right now!” It was true. Mr. Shaw wheezed and sniffled, sounding much like her mother’s snappish bulldog Jack. The dog had sounded like it was dying for years, but much to Pru’s annoyance, it clung to life until smelly old age. Pru liked dogs in general; however, Jack was just one more disagreeable thing she had to take care of over the course of her life.
Mr. Shaw took an unsteady step toward the parlor, but Pru held him back. “Do not go in there! Come, I’ll take you down to the kitchen and make you a cup of tea. You might also stand over the steam to clear your head. Really, I don’t know what you were thinking. Straw! Surely you could have found sawdust or cotton batting when you know you cannot abide the stuff. If you don’t live long enough to enjoy your profits, what good is it to hurry? Patience is a virtue.” She pushed him down the hall.
“Need the money.”
“I agree, money is very useful,” Pru said. “But it won’t help you when you’re dead.” When they reached the botto
m of the kitchen stairs, she fished a clean handkerchief from her reticule. “Here. Dry your eyes.”
The kitchen was square, white, and pleasantly clean. Pru set about opening all the windows and propping the tradesman’s door open. The sooner Mr. Shaw got some fresh air and the irritants out of his system, the better.
Obedient, Mr. Shaw fell into a chair and mopped his face. He stared at her with vampire-red eyes as she pumped water into a kettle and put it on the boil. “Thank you,” he croaked.
“Think nothing of it. It’s what I do, take care of people. Not that it’s been worth my while. My cousin Sophy, for example. Hopeless.” She slammed the sugar bowl down on the table. “Why, do you know what I found her doing when I got back to Rex Place? I couldn’t possibly tell you. It’s too shocking.”
“Sex.” Mr. Shaw coughed.
“Yes. Exactly. I cannot stay there. I am going home.” She filled a teapot with tea leaves and waited for the kettle to whistle.
“Why are you here?”
Pru felt her face flush. “Two reasons. I hoped you could talk some sense into your brother. He cannot go cementing his relationship on furniture and back lawns forever. Sophy will not be able to go about in society if people think she’s a hoyden. She may not be of the peerage, but Prescott Shipping was a well-respected business. Her mother was the daughter of a baronet. She could have a place in society, despite your brother’s background.”
“Doubt it. Shaws are beyond the pale.”
“Sophy told me your maternal grandfather was Baron Allgood.”
“Yes, but the Shaws are all bad.” Mr. Shaw laughed at his own joke, which had the unfortunate effect of making him gasp for breath for a full minute. When he recovered, he added, “My mother made an imprudent match, much like Sophy. My grandfather didn’t acknowledge us, but his brother Algernon did, bless him. It is he who left us this house. Which I must sell as soon as possible. Time really is of the essence. I have clients waiting for their treasures as well. The sooner I go through all the crates, the sooner my future and fortune are assured.”
Lords of Passion Page 19
