“Quite noble of you, my dear. Have you considered how to maintain the dwelling? You will need sponsors, I would think, unless you wish to use your inheritance for that purpose.”
“I am giving that some thought. As I said, it’s just some ideas I’ve had.”
The trip passed quickly and soon they were off the train and, after using a hackney, they rolled to a stop in front of the townhouse.
“I feel odd walking up the steps knowing this is my home now,” Diana said as she took his arm, and they made their way to the front door.
“You will feel more at home once you see your belongings here.”
“My things should have been moved while we were away, and Marguerite will have found room—I hope—for my wardrobe.” She grinned at her husband. “It is quite extensive, you know.”
He patted her hand. “That is no problem. We will find room for everything. And remember, once Parliament ends and we move to my estate, you may take as many rooms as you like to fill with your clothing.”
Diana huffed. “I don’t have that much.”
During one of the many discussions they’d had during their wedding trip, Hunt had made it known to his wife that, although she had her own chamber next to the sitting room joining their bedchambers at the townhouse and estate, he would prefer they slept together.
As he’d pointed out to her, most times, once they made love, they were both too exhausted to move anyway and, since his bed was bigger and more comfortable, his room it would be. Now that he’d gotten her into his bed, he planned to keep her there all night.
The red door with the quaint knocker opened, and they were greeted by Peters. Seeing the man’s rough-hewn face reminded Hunt that he needed to explain the man to Diana, as well as his valet, Marcus, since given their rough background, she would not understand occasional slips of the tongue.
Although she knew several of the staff from her occasional visits to his home, Hunt decided a formal introduction to the small number of servants as they lined up in the entrance hall to greet them was appropriate.
As expected, Diana was gracious and charming to the staff. She spoke with each one, asking their names and inquiring about their families. It was apparent to him from their beaming faces that they loved their new mistress already.
His housekeeper, Mrs. Grady, stepped forward once the introductions were complete. “My lady, I am at your service whenever you wish to tour the house and go over the household accounts. Cook is waiting to meet with you also to go over the menu.”
Diana dipped her head. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Grady, but I think for today I will just trust whatever Cook has planned for the day. May we meet first thing in the morning for the tour?”
“Yes. That is perfect. Now may we prepare tea for you and his lordship?”
Diana turned to him. “Tea?”
“No. I think not. I have work to catch up on, and I’m still full from our breakfast, but you go ahead if you wish.”
“I think not, Mrs. Grady. Like his lordship, I am still full from breakfast.”
She curtsied. “Very well, then. Luncheon will be at one o’clock.”
Hunt gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and took her hand again. “I will let you check on your maid and see you at luncheon.” He turned on his heel, feeling quite happy, and strode to the library.
* * *
Diana padded up the carpeted stairs to Hunt’s bedchamber. Although she would sleep there, she had decided to store most of her belongings from her London townhouse in the room connected to the sitting room between them. Then, when they moved to the country estate, most of it would go there since that was much larger than this house.
“My lady, how lovely to see you. Did you have a nice trip?” Marguerite greeted her as she entered the room, taking items out of a trunk. There were still barrels and boxes of clothing scattered around the room.
“It was lovely. Again, I’m sorry you didn’t go with us.”
Marguerite waved her off. “That’s fine, my lady. I’m not one for travel, anyway.” She blushed slightly. “Although I must say it was quite titillating to know your husband wanted to be your lady’s maid.”
Diana blushed along with her. She’d been surprised when Hunt told her that he was very adept at dressing and undressing women, so they didn’t need a third person on their honeymoon. He’d left his valet in London, also. The entire time they were gone, Diana had kept her hair in a simple style that she could do herself. She grinned, remembering some of the undressing sessions they’d had.
Diana turned in a circle, her hands on her hips. “Where are we going to put all of this?”
Marguerite nodded toward a wardrobe against the wall. “I was able to clear out some space in that one.” She continued to pull out gowns and shake them.
Diana walked over to the wardrobe. Sitting alongside it was a picture frame with a piece of linen draped over it. The closer she got, the more anxious she became, her heart pounding and her mouth dry. It looked familiar and, with a shaky hand, she pulled up the fabric and gasped.
“Is something wrong, my lady?” Marguerite asked.
Diana was staring at the portrait Hunt was supposed to burn. Her thoughts were so muddled she couldn’t speak. He’d kept it all this time! Had he spent his nights ogling her?
She growled and flipped the linen down, picked up the vile painting, and marched across the room. “I will be back, Marguerite.”
Or not.
She flew down the stairs, almost losing her footing as she rounded the corner and headed toward the library. She flung the door open to see Hunt sitting at his desk. He looked up and smiled. Within seconds, his smile dimmed. “Is something wrong, sweetheart?”
Diana stormed up to the desk and slammed the painting in front of him, then came within inches of his face. “Don’t you sweetheart me. You, you, you blackguard!” She quelled the urge to slap his face. How dare he keep that horrible portrait right here in his house where anyone who spotted it could lift the linen and look at it.
She was mortified.
He looked down, his face growing pale. “The portrait?”
“Yes. The. . .the, portrait! I see by your reaction you know exactly what I’m talking about.” She stamped her foot, feeling quite foolish, but uncaring how juvenile it looked. “You promised you would burn it!”
“Now wait a minute, Diana. I did not promise I would burn it. You asked me to, but I have been yet unable to do so.”
She crossed her arms under her breasts and tapped her foot. Oh, the man was impossible. She lowered her voice, trying hard to be an adult about this. “In all this time, you haven’t been able to burn it?”
He stood and threw out his hands. “Do you have any idea what the smell of burning paint would be like?”
She shook her head.
“Well, neither do I. But I’m sure it’s not pleasant and would encourage questions.”
She dropped her arms to the side. “I can’t trust you.” She stared at him. “I Can’t. Trust. You. How can we have a marriage if there is no trust?”
Hunt ran his fingers through his hair. “You are taking this too far. Of course you can trust me. I’m your husband.”
Diana backed away. “No. I cannot trust you. You knew how important this was to me. You were to steal the portrait and then burn it. Marguerite moved it out of a wardrobe in my bedchamber to make room for my clothes. Anyone coming into the room, for any reason, could look at it.”
He just shook his head.
“I. . . I have to leave.” She turned. “I must go.”
“Diana, wait!”
She hurried away, tears stinging her eyes. She raced up the stairs, went into the bedchamber where Marguerite still worked, and said, “Get your coat. We are leaving.”
Her eyes wide, Marguerite must have seen something in her face because she never questioned her but merely dropped the gown she was shaking out, grabbed her coat, and followed Diana down the steps.
“May I have the carr
iage brought around, my lady?” Peters asked as they arrived at the door.
“No, but thank you. We will hire a hackney.” She grabbed Marguerite’s hand and dragged her out the door, down the steps, and practically ran them both down the pavement until they reached an empty hackney. She gave the address of her townhouse, climbed inside, and leaned her head against the squab.
“I believe I have made a huge mistake.” With those words, she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
21
Hunt collapsed into his chair and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger. What a mess. The blasted portrait would be the death of him. Truth be told, after the first couple of days after he stole it, still wondering how he was going to burn it without raising questions, he had forgotten about the damn thing. He shoved it into the wardrobe in Diana’s bedchamber and wiped it from his mind.
Now it was back to haunt him once more. She thought she couldn’t trust him. Well, she had good reason.
Peters slowly approached the desk. “This just came for you, my lord.” He held out a salver with a letter sitting on top. “Is everything all right, my lord? Her ladyship seemed to be in quite a hurry to leave.”
Hunt took the envelope, broke the seal, and read the summons from Sir Phillip. He dropped it on the desk. “No. Everything is not all right.” He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.
After a perfectly wonderful wedding trip where he’d been looking forward to a strong, happy marriage with Diana, his stupid decision to not get rid of the portrait immediately could very well wipe it all out.
“Can I do anything to help?” Peters asked.
“Yes. You can.” Hunt banged his fist on the painting. “Get rid of this. Take it somewhere you can burn it and not raise suspicion.”
Peter’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “Burn it, my lord?”
“Burn it. Wherever you take it, make sure you stay right there until nothing is left but ashes.” He stood and grabbed his jacket from the chair where he’d dropped it when he entered the room. “I’m leaving.”
He was so angry he felt as though he should walk to Sir Phillip’s well-disguised office just to get himself under control. However, it would take him a good two hours to do so, and he had no idea how important the summons was. Instead, he strode to the mews and waited impatiently as the groom readied his horse.
What had Diana meant when she left? Was she merely going out for the afternoon to calm herself down? Did she plan on leaving him permanently? All her belongings were still at his house.
He sighed as he swung his leg over Black Diamond and made his way to the street.
His thoughts were still muddled by the time he reached Sir Phillip’s office. Hunt took the steps two at a time and dropped the knocker on the door. Sir Phillip himself answered and waved Hunt in. “Come in, come in. I wasn’t sure if you had returned from your wedding trip.”
Most likely Sir Phillip knew precisely which train they’d arrived on, where they’d been, how long they’d stayed, and which restaurants, theaters, and museums they’d visited.
The man knew everything.
Once they were settled in the room the size of a large closet, Sir Phillip rested his folded hands on his desk and regarded him. “I wanted to advise you of the status on the Melrose matter.”
Hunt nodded.
“Melrose was picked up by Scotland Yard—at the Home Office’s behest--and was turned over to me. After a lengthy conversation, he cleared up a few matters.”
“What is that?”
“Melrose was not in as deep as we thought. However, he did provide us with names that we are pursuing. The main lead he offered was the name of the man who killed Mallory and then burned his gallery down. The idiot hoped Mallory’s body would be unrecognizable and Scotland Yard would not discover he’d been shot first.”
Hunt shook his head. “So the investigation is over? Or continues? And what happens to Melrose? He is still a peer involved with an anarchist group.”
“Lord Melrose left for America while you were romancing your new wife in Bath. The investigation continues but, at this point, there is nothing that requires your particular skills.”
Sir Phillip stood and offered his hand. “Congratulations on your marriage, my lord. I wish you many years of happiness.”
Hunt rose and took the man’s hand. They remained silent as Sir Phillip walked him to the door. He stepped out into the gloomy day and made his way to the mews to retrieve Black Diamond.
I wish you many years of happiness.
Two days passed with no word from Diana. He noticed when he entered the library the morning after his meeting with Sir Phillip that the painting was gone from his desk.
Good riddance.
No one from his staff mentioned Diana’s absence, which told him they knew something was wrong. Marcus, of course, voiced his unrequested opinion of young wives fleeing their husbands, but Hunt knew in his heart it was all his fault.
He also came to the realization that he was madly in love with Diana, had probably been most of his life, and would do whatever it took to get her back. Perhaps a visit to The Rose Room might distract him. He could have a few drinks, antagonize his brothers, and forget everything for a while.
He’d gone to Diana’s house twice but was told both times she was not at home. Whether that was true, or she was refusing to see him, he had no idea, but he must come up with a plan. Diana was his, and he would get her back.
As usual, instead of going to the front door of The Rose Room, Hunt entered through the back door and took the stairs to the office floor. From the sound of voices coming from the game floor, business was doing well.
“Well, the happily married man has returned from his honeymoon. I would think you had more interesting things to do than bother us.” Dante leaned back on his chair, with his feet on the desk. Hunt swiped at his boots and asked his usual question. “Why aren’t you working?”
“I’m on a break,” Dante and Hunt said at the same time, then grinned at each other.
Driscoll had his head bent over his books and ignored the brothers.
Still feeling restless, Hunt said, “I’m going downstairs. At least someone should oversee the business.”
He left to the sound of Dante’s laughter. As he entered the gaming room, it was just as he’d expected. Busy, noisy and crowded. Hunt went to the bar and ordered a brandy. He took a sip and turned to survey the area. As he observed the activity, his eyes wandered the room, noting the solid crowd and raucous conversation and excitement that was generally found in the club. Taking another sip, his eyes settled on a new addition on the east wall.
He squinted at the spot and, with a sense of horror, he carefully placed his partially empty glass on the bar and walked slowly past the gamers, barely acknowledging calls and comments from friends. The closer he drew to the wall, the harder his blood pumped through his body, until he thought his head would explode.
There in plain sight, hanging on the wall in the gaming room of the well-populated, well-known Rose Room, was Diana’s portrait.
* * *
Diana sat, staring out the window at the dark, misty night, her chin resting on her propped-up hand. She sighed. What a mess this had become. As much as she hated to admit it, she missed the cad.
She’d realized with the portrait sitting in that wardrobe, there was little chance of anyone seeing it. But she still had relied on him destroying the thing. Did that mean she could never trust him?
Lud, hadn’t she been hurt and embarrassed herself when she’d been judged on all the things she’d botched up? Especially since Hunt was the one who usually pulled her feet from the fire. Should she judge him the same way?
She finally admitted she was in love with her dastardly husband and really didn’t want the marriage to end with them separated. Once they put this behind them, they could have a good marriage. And children. She would love children.
With a sense of relief, and excited for the
first time in days, she scooted from the chair, her mind made up. She would go to Hunt’s townhouse—their townhouse—and settle the matter. She grinned. Of course, she would have him grovel first.
She raced upstairs and changed into one of the few gowns that had been left behind when Marguerite had arranged for her clothes to be moved. It was outdated but still fashionable. “Marguerite!”
The maid entered the room, a smirk on her face. “Going somewhere, my lady?”
“Yes!” She turned her back. “Will you please fasten me up and see what you can do with my hair?”
“Will you need me to accompany you?” Marguerite quickly fastened the gown and pointed to the chair in front of the dressing table. “Let’s see how we can make something lovely out of this mess.”
Diana laughed. “That’s exactly what I propose to do. Make something lovely out of a mess.” At the time the portrait had been stolen, she’d told Marguerite all about it and how Hunt was to burn the thing. Instead of being outraged on her mistress’s account when they’d discovered the painting in the wardrobe, Marguerite viewed him not burning the portrait as amusing. Her words: “This could very well be what led Lord Huntington to propose.”
At which time Diana reminded her maid that there was no ‘proposal’, just an avoidance of scandal.
“There. You look lovely. Shall I send for the carriage?”
Diana stood and pulled on her gloves. “Yes, please. I will be down in a few minutes.”
Marguerite left the room, and Diana placed her hands on her stomach and took a deep breath. Yes, this was the right thing to do. Briggs had told her that Hunt had called twice when she was out. She wondered if her husband believed she was truly out or if she was hiding from him.
She picked up her reticule and left the room. Briggs awaited her at the door, holding her short pelisse which she shrugged into. She fastened up the buttons, her hands shaky and her mouth dry. This was silly, and she must pull herself together. But she could not deny the excitement she felt at seeing Hunt again.
A Scandalous Portrait: Rose Room Rogues ~ Book One Page 14
