A Scandalous Portrait: Rose Room Rogues ~ Book One

by Hutton, Callie

  Plus, Marguerite already knew about the humiliation looming on the horizon. “Marguerite, Lord Huntington will be here momentarily. Please have Cook send in tea once he arrives, then join us in the drawing room so there will be no talk of us being alone together.”

  Tea, indeed. What she really needed was a glass of sherry, or even brandy, but it was necessary to keep her faculties if she wasn’t going to make a complete cake of herself.

  “Yes, my lady.” The girl curtsied and hurried to the kitchen.

  Diana wandered the drawing room, picking up objects, not really seeing them, then placing them back down, trying her best to calm herself. If Hunt refused her plea for help, she had no idea what she would do.

  Her head jerked up and her pulse jumped, butterflies taking up residence in her stomach. The echo of a horse riding to the mews behind her house announced the arrival of her guest. Just be calm. State your problem and appeal to his sense of duty and honor, on which he always prided himself.

  Within minutes, a knock sounded at the front door. Her butler opened the drawing room door and stood aside to let her guest enter. “His lordship, the Earl of Huntington, has arrived, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Briggs.”

  She sucked in a breath as she beheld the man she needed to save her from ruin. Tall—indeed much taller than he seemed in the ballroom last night—his presence overwhelmed the space in her drawing room. His thick, light brown hair, known for its inability to be tamed, fell over his broad forehead and teased the back of his cravat.

  No tailor needed to pad his chestnut sack jacket, which his broad shoulders filled out nicely. His deep tan trousers below a snug brown and black checked waistcoat outlined well-muscled thighs. A starched white pristine shirt set off his slightly tanned skin.

  He’d gone from the gangly youth who had plucked her from trees and tended to her scrapes to a man who knew his place in the world and commanded a good part of it with aplomb and a touch of arrogance.

  He offered a slight bow. “My lady.”

  She waved to a chair in front of the fireplace. “Won’t you have a seat? I am expecting tea any moment.”

  She hated how breathless she sounded but convinced herself her disquiet was due to what she was about to reveal, not from his overwhelming presence. Had he truly been so very masculine prior to her trek to Italy? She attempted to remind herself this was Hunt. Her childhood friend.

  And savior.

  No sooner were the words out of her mouth than the door opened and Michael, one of her footmen, entered. He carried a tray with her favorite tea things that she and Grandmama had used for years. Alongside the lovely blue and while teapot sat a plate of small sandwiches and another plate of tarts. She gestured to the table between the two chairs, where the footman placed the tray. Her lady’s maid, Marguerite, slipped into the room and took a seat near the door.

  With shaky hands, Diana poured the tea, adding cream and sugar as was Hunt’s wont. Once they were settled and initial pleasantries had been exchanged about the offerings on the tea tray, she placed her teacup firmly in the saucer and stiffened her back. “You must be wondering why I asked you to call.”

  He nodded, a slight smirk on his lips. “What trouble are you in now, Diana?”

  She jumped up, causing him to quickly put his teacup down and stand, the serviette on his lap falling to the floor.

  “No, no, sit, please.”

  He offered her a bemused smile. “You know I am unable to sit while a lady stands.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. All right, I’ll sit.” She returned to her chair and then fidgeted so much she annoyed herself. She took a deep breath and smiled. “I learned about your rescue of Miss Manchester last month.”

  “Miss Manchester? Rescue? I’m afraid I do not understand.” He picked up the teacup and frowned, obviously feigning ignorance.

  “Perhaps you did not see it as a rescue, but I’m sure Miss Manchester felt it was.”

  He continued to look perplexed until she wondered if perhaps Marguerite had gotten the story wrong from Miss Manchester’s lady’s maid. Please, God, don’t make it so. She needed Hunt’s help. Desperately. “You seem confused, so perhaps I may refresh your memory?”

  He nodded. “Please, do.”

  “The information I received was Miss Manchester was present at a house party where you were also a guest.” When he continued to stare at her, she sighed. “Hunt, for heaven’s sake, you are nowhere near your dotage. Did you or did you not attend a house party at the Bedford estate last month?”

  “Yes, I did.” He dragged the words out, his eyes narrowing.

  “Was Miss Millie Manchester also a guest?” She tried to keep her voice calm, but the entire situation had been unnerving her for a week, and the sooner she could get his promise to help her, the happier she would be.

  “I believe she was, along with her brother, Mr. David Manchester.” The caution in his words was telling. A man protecting a woman’s reputation. Perfect. The sort of behavior she desperately wanted to encourage.

  “If you are trying to guard the young lady’s name, I admire you for that, but I assure you I know the story of how she left her scarf in a young man’s bedchamber and, at her behest, you retrieved the garment for her before her brother discovered her indiscretion.”

  If he’d been surprised at her knowledge of the event, he did not show it. Instead, he viewed her with curiosity. “If you are in possession of that story, it has not come from me. May I ask why you bring it up now, and how that connects to the reason you have requested my presence this afternoon when I would much rather be on the way to my club? Are you missing a scarf, also?”

  Once again, she hopped up and Hunt followed, spilling tea on his shiny shoe.

  Diana sighed. “We are getting nowhere. Will you escort me to the garden? I think what I have to say would be easier if I am on my feet.” Anything would be easier than the two of them jumping up and down like a couple of court jesters.

  He hesitated a moment and glanced at the door as if considering making a dash for it. Eventually, he sighed. “As you wish.”

  He extended his arm, and they strolled out the French door, into the garden, Marguerite keeping a respectful distance behind them. The scent of bay rum wafted from him, temporarily distracting her. The muscles under her fingertips flexed as he maneuvered her around the flower beds. Goodness, he was warm. Heat radiated from him in waves.

  You are stalling, Diana. Get on with it.

  The time had come. No more hesitation. This needed to be done. She stopped in the pathway and turned to him. She raised her chin. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

  His slight smile gave her courage. “Ah, so now we’ve come to the crux of the matter. Due to your nervousness, I assume you are once again in deep trouble. What do you want from me now, Diana?”

  She took a deep breath and said, “I need you to steal a portrait from Mr. J. D. Mallory’s art studio.”

  3

  Hunt stared at Diana for almost a full minute. “I’m about to ask you to repeat what you just said, except I’m afraid I heard you right.”

  “Um. Yes, you most likely did. So, what do you say?”

  His mouth opened and closed a few times. “No. Absolutely not.” He backed up and, after a moment, he bowed. “I will leave you now.” He stalked off before Diana even had a chance to say a word.

  Stunned, she shook her head in confusion and stared at his retreating back with her mouth open. After a moment, she gained her senses and raced after him, almost losing her footing as her slippers slid on the carpeted stairs. Attempting to catch her breath, she looked around the empty entrance hall. “Did Lord Huntington leave?”

  Briggs bowed. “Yes, my lady. And he seemed to be in quite a hurry.”

  Quite a hurry, indeed. She gritted her teeth and quelled the urge to kick the door since his shin was nowhere near her foot. Except that would only hurt. Well, this had only just started. She had every intention of getting that portrait back
, and Hunt would help her.

  Two nights later, Diana searched the St. John ballroom for Hunt. She’d gone to three balls the night before and, tonight, this was her second. She would run the man down if she had to find him at one of his men’s clubs.

  Or she might even be daring enough to demand entrance to The Rose Room, the exclusive and extremely popular gambling hell Hunt owned with his two brothers, Driscoll and Dante Rose. It was not well known that Hunt was involved in the business, since he was mostly a silent investment partner.

  Hunt hated any sort of scandal attached to his name and an earl owning a gambling hell did not portray how Hunt wanted to be presented to Society.

  But Diana knew, and she also knew he visited the place and consulted with his brothers, a few times a week, at the very least.

  Only women of the demimonde and disreputable mistresses dared visit the establishment, but surely Diana could weather that scandal much better than the one currently hanging over her head. She might even throw all caution to the wind and visit him at his home.

  Oh, she would find him. There was simply too much at stake this time.

  Giving up on this event, she decided to return to the entrance and request her carriage brought around, most likely to the displeasure of her chaperone who hated being dragged from place to place, but that concern was nowhere near as daunting as Diana’s looming disaster.

  There were two more events on her notecard. One soiree and one—she winced—musicale. Goodness, but she hated those things. But if Hunt was there suffering through it, she would too.

  Diana was headed toward the corner where Mrs. Strickland sat with the other matrons and chaperones when Hunt’s name was announced. She looked up to the top of the stairs.

  There he stood in all his aristocratic arrogance, his eyes scanning the crowd and settling on her. He was dressed completely in black except for a white cravat tied in the most fashionable manner and a silver waistcoat. But more than the clothes he wore and how they fit was the manner in which he strolled down the stairs, aware, she was sure, of all the fluttering eyelashes, waving fans, and sighs coming from the young ladies watching him.

  Handsome, titled, and wealthy, he was in the eyesight of many a desperate mama, as well as matrons and widows looking for one of the most sought-after lovers to warm their beds. A few began to move in his direction, but he merely nodded at the swell of ladies and made his way directly to Diana.

  Damn her heart that sped up and her breathing that increased. It wasn’t merely from fear of him rejecting her again as much as how he affected her. They’d been friends for years, for goodness sake. Why now did he turn her into a blubbering idiot when it was imperative she remain calm and simply use her well-honed skills to convince him to help her?

  “My lady.” He bowed to her curtsey. His serious mien was a contrast to the twinkle in his eyes. Good, maybe he would at least listen to her now.

  “Good evening, my lord.”

  He extended his hand. “Walk with me.”

  He tucked her arm into his and moved them to the edge of the ballroom. Since it was still early in the evening, there was room for walking. Within a couple of hours, it would be almost impossible to move, let alone actually dance in the area set aside for such activity.

  The bay rum scent from him as well as his fine-tailored, expensive clothing immediately put her body on alert. Aching nipples, rapid breathing and the butterflies setting up housekeeping in her stomach needed to be ignored. She must stay centered on what she needed from him.

  “First of all, I must apologize.” Hunt murmured the words but continued to face forward.

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes.” He turned to her. “It was quite rude to leave your home the other day. ‘Twas not well done of me.” He grinned. “You do frighten me sometimes, Diana.”

  “Me?” She placed her hand on her chest, immediately drawing his eyes to her neckline. She dropped her hand and fought the heat rising from her middle. “Why would you be afraid of me?”

  He pushed open the French door leading to the terrace beyond. The music started up, and several couples who were strolling in the garden and chatting on the terrace moved back into the ballroom.

  Still awaiting his response, she let him move them down the few steps to the garden area, which was lit well enough to avoid scandal, yet sufficiently shadowed so that they would have privacy.

  “You frighten me, Diana, because you’ve given me more than my share of sleepless nights.” He raised his hand. “Before you begin huffing, please remember all the times I bailed you out of your messes.” He smirked and looked down at her.

  She must not be distracted by his rakish smile. Or his very male scent. Or his hooded eyes. Or the taut muscles under her hand. Let the other ladies swoon at his feet, she must keep her senses where he was concerned. “What messes?”

  After a few moments, he said, “Must I number them?” He began to count on his fingers. “First there was the time you climbed a tree just as your parents’ guests were arriving for a house party. If I remember correctly, you were stuck up there for hours before I found you.”

  “For goodness sake, Hunt, I was ten years at the time!”

  “Ah. That is true. In that case, I will not number all the other rescues from then until you made your come-out.” He turned them so they moved on the path around the side of the house where another set of French doors revealed couples waltzing by in the ballroom.

  “Do you remember Lady Abercrombie’s garden party?”

  She offered a stiff nod.

  “Do you also recall falling into the creek behind her house, drenching yourself, forcing me to sneak you out the back gate to my waiting carriage to get you home?”

  “It was not my fault that the rocks alongside the creek were so slippery.”

  “Yet no other young lady took a swim that day.” Hunt moved them to a stone bench under a tree, under a brightly lit torch. He apparently was not going to put them into a situation that would cause a scandal. At least nothing near what she was facing.

  Once they settled, he took her hand in his. Improper as it was, since he was an old friend, she wasn’t concerned.

  “Then there was the time you took a ride on Rotten Row with the horse your papa forbade you to ride because the spirited mare was beyond your abilities.” He gazed out into the garden, as if picturing the disaster that day. “If memory serves—”

  Diana raised her hand. “Stop!” Whatever did the man do? Keep a list of all her indiscretions? She swore he was laughing at her.

  He didn’t seem annoyed at the recitation of her blunders but viewed her with amusement. “Therefore, Lady Diana, since you appear to not want to hear the rest of my stories, I rest my case about the fright you trigger within me and the sleepless nights you have caused.”

  Diana took both of his hands in hers. “This is serious, Hunt. Not some mishap on a horse or falling into a creek. I am in serious trouble.”

  His amusement turned to something else. Something protective and, if she was wont to admit, possessive as well. “What happened, Diana? Did someone harm you? Do I need to call someone out?”

  She shook her head and pulled her hands from his to hug her middle. “A little over a year ago—before I left for Italy, I arranged to have a portrait of myself painted.” She glanced over at him. “As vain as that sounds, I did it merely to appease my late grandmother who had asked me for years to have a portrait done and hang it next to hers in the library at Waverly Manor, the estate I inherited from her, along with the London Townhouse.

  “I was feeling quite blue and missing her dearly one day and decided to have it done.”

  Hunt felt a tightening of his stomach muscles, scared to death at what she was about to say. “Go on.”

  “I commissioned Mr. J. D. Mallory to do the portrait. I sat for him for hours, but I knew it would be worth it when it was finished.” She took a deep breath. “At his insistence, he had me resting on a lounge, facing him, but with my head ti
lted in such a way that hair fell over part of my face, which was not clearly seen. I thought it odd at the time, but since I’d never had an official portrait done before, and didn’t want to appear a novice, I merely acquiesced to his instructions.”

  * * *

  Hunt studied her as she spoke, staring out at the garden, looking as though she wished to be swallowed up by the roses. He’d begun to realize she’d gotten herself into something deep this time but had no clue as to where her tale was leading. “Go on.”

  “He gave me the portrait before I left for Italy, and it is now hanging in the library at Waverly Manor.” She stood to pace. “It is quite lovely, actually.”

  “Then what is the problem? If it’s hanging in the library at Waverly Manor, why do you want me to steal a portrait from Mr. Mallory’s studio? I don’t understand.”

  Diana stopped and took a huge breath. “I’ve never spoken out loud about this, to anyone, but if you are to help me, I must trust you.”

  He reached out and took her hand again. “You know you can trust me, Diana.”

  She nodded. “Shortly after I returned from Italy, Mr. Mallory sent a note that he wished to visit with me at my townhouse in London.” She turned to face him.

  “Go on, sweetheart.” Hunt stood and took her other hand in his. Even through both their gloves, he could feel her ice-cold hands.

  Another deep breath. “When he called, he told me he’d made some changes to the portrait and would I care to see the difference. I was quite taken aback and confused to be honest, because I didn’t understand why he would do such a thing. Or how he had even gotten it from my estate.”

  Hunt waited as Diana seemed to wrestle with something. He watched her, knowing she’d come this far, so whatever she had to tell him would eventually come out.