Читать книгу A Perfect Scandal - Tina Gabrielle - Страница 10

Face ruddy and eyes wide behind round spectacles, Edward Cameron rushed to Isabel’s side and clasped her upper arms.

“Isabel, we have been fraught with worry. The entire household has been looking for you.”

Isabel looked at her father in surprise and said the first thing that came to mind. “How did you find me?”

Edward frowned. “Lord Walling arrived for you this afternoon, and when you were nowhere to be found, we started to worry. Mr. Dante Black”—her father jerked his head to the door—“came to the house and informed us that you were at the estate sale of the late Lord Westley, and that you needed my aid.”

Isabel looked behind her father to see that Dante had entered the room to stand beside Lord and Lady Yarmouth.

Marcus Hawksley was nowhere in sight.

“What would possess you to come here, Isabel?” Edward asked.

“I, ah—”

Dante Black stepped forward. “Perhaps if everyone will be seated, I will attempt to explain matters.”

Isabel’s heart hammered as the occupants in the parlor followed Dante’s directions. The Yarmouths took the only settee in the room, and everyone else chose chairs.

Isabel glanced at the Yarmouths. Lord Yarmouth was quite ordinary looking, a middle-aged man of average height with a receding hairline. Lady Yarmouth, the illegitimate daughter of the fourth Duke of Queensbury, was rotund with an ample bosom and shrewd brown eyes. After receiving a sizable inheritance from the deceased duke, she spent most of her time in Paris, but was currently visiting England. Isabel was well aware that Lady Yarmouth was a close acquaintance of Charlotte’s mother and a vicious gossipmonger. Anything that was said today would be speedily spread to all the female members of the ton by sunset.

Dante spoke first. “I’ve summoned you here today because we all have one thing in common. The missing Gainsborough painting.”

“Whatever are you speaking about?” Isabel’s father asked.

“The Thomas Gainsborough painting is missing?” Lord Yarmouth sat forward, an intense look replacing his previously drab expression.

Dante held up a hand. “The painting was scheduled to be auctioned off early this afternoon. When I sent my man to bring the painting to this parlor, he was attacked and the painting stolen.”

“Attacked?” Isabel cried out. Dante had previously failed to mention an attack. “Is your man dead?”

“No,” Dante said. “He sustained a nasty knock on the head, but he will survive. But as for the painting, it is worth a small fortune and is missing. The only man that had expressed interest in the painting, other than Lord Yarmouth on behalf of the Prince Regent, was Mr. Marcus Hawksley.”

“Marcus Hawksley?” Lord Walling spoke up, the nostrils in his bulbous nose flaring in his florid face.

“Yes.” Dante nodded. “As I was saying, Mr. Hawksley was the only other person that had viewed the work”—Dante stopped to look at Isabel—“or so I had believed. When I found Mr. Hawksley to question him, Lady Isabel came to his defense and said that he could not have taken the painting. Isn’t that correct, Lady Isabel?”

“Isabel?” her father asked, a look of confusion on his face.

All eyes turned to her, and she felt light-headed.

Here is the moment of my ruin, she thought. The price I have to pay for my freedom.

Her prior misgivings increased a hundredfold. Her breathing became ragged; her blood rushed through her ears like an avalanche.

Save yourself! Her inner voice cried out.

She looked at Dante Black, and was taken aback by the cold, calculating glint on his pinched face. She could almost hear his sinister thoughts: This is what I told you would happen if you defended Marcus Hawksley, but there’s still time to change your story.

Perhaps she should seize the opportunity Dante offered. Cry confusion. Female hysterics. Loss of memory. Claim she had attended the auction to view quality watercolors. Knowing her interest in the arts, that was a story her father would believe. After all, there was even more at stake than a stolen painting; a man had been assaulted.

She glanced again at Dante, and her blood chilled at the victorious gleam in his eye. A thought struck her, and she froze.

What about Marcus?

He needed her as an alibi. For whatever reason, Dante wanted to prove Marcus guilty for crimes that she knew for a fact he did not commit.

Could she abandon an innocent man? A good man?

And Marcus was a good man, she was certain, despite the “black cloud,” as he had called it, which hovered over his head. He had refused her blatant offer when she was certain most men would not have. Others would have taken her virtue without a second thought, knowing that society would smear the woman’s reputation all the while praising the man for his sexual prowess.

But not Marcus. He had thought of her father, had even said she deserved better than him. No, she had to stay. She couldn’t throw an innocent man to a bloodthirsty wolf like Dante Black.

She looked her father straight in the eye. “I’m sorry for disappointing you, Father. But Mr. Hawksley didn’t steal the painting or attack Dante’s man.”

Edward stiffened. “Isabel?”

“Mr. Hawksley was with me, you see. We were…together the entire time.”

Isabel heard Lady Yarmouth’s quick intake of breath followed by Lord Walling’s low curse.

“I see.” Edward stood, his expression tight with strain. “And just where might I find Mr. Hawksley?”

In the library of the Westley mansion, Marcus clenched his fists in futile frustration as the two guards eyed him warily. Both had pulled out pistols from their coat pockets and aimed them at his chest as soon as the library door was secured.

Marcus’s jaw hardened. Dante Black knew his business. If the crooked auctioneer had left Marcus alone with one armed guard, it would have been a hell of a fight. But with two? And more critically, with Isabel Cameron somewhere in this house alone, Marcus couldn’t risk starting a battle.

An image of Isabel flashed through his mind as he had last seen her. Long, sable hair, the clearest blue eyes he had ever looked into, and the body of a temptress robed in virginal white. With the feel of all that soft, womanly flesh pressed against him, he had come dangerously close to taking what she had eagerly offered.

If it wasn’t for Dante’s untimely interruption…

Marcus strode to a window behind a dusty oak desk, all the while aware of the guard’s eyes on his every move. Leaning on the window sill, Marcus surveyed the gardens below.

None of this made any sense. Dante Black wanted to blame the theft of the Gainsborough work as well as the assault of one of his men on him. But why?

Marcus knew little of the auctioneer. Dante had worked for the prestigious Bonham’s Auction House. Bonham’s opened its doors in 1793, twenty-one years ago. Thomas Dodd, a well-known print dealer, and Walter Bonham, a book specialist, founded the firm, and its reputation was unsullied. Dante Black had been the head auctioneer at Bonham’s until it was rumored that he had a falling out with Thomas Dodd himself. Since then, Dante had resorted to estate sales of deceased wealthy art patrons. Marcus had attended numerous auctions conducted by Dante over the past year in his quest for quality artwork.

So why would Dante Black want so desperately to accuse Marcus?

They had never exchanged a cross word. To the contrary, Dante had made a lucrative profit from the art Marcus had acquired from him.

Dante’s current hostile behavior was illogical. Unless he was working for someone else, someone who despised Marcus, a rival who wanted him destroyed…

A low knock sounded on the door. One of the guards pocketed his pistol and cracked open the door. He spoke in a low voice as he motioned behind his back for the other guard to put away his pistol.

The door was opened wide, and Edward Cameron, the Earl of Malvern, entered the library.

To Marcus’s surprise, the guards slipped out and closed the door behind them.

“Lord Malvern,” Marcus greeted Isabel’s father, wary of the older man’s stiff posture.

Edward strode forward, his corpulent features twisted in anger. “Well, Mr. Hawksley. You look as if you were expecting me.”

“To be truthful, I was, just not this soon.”

“Your arrogance knows no bounds. My daughter is downstairs as we speak having her reputation torn to shreds and her future destroyed—all in your defense. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Lord Malvern, nothing happened between Lady Isabel and myself. On my honor—”

“Your honor!” Edward roared. “From what I understand, Mr. Hawksley, you haven’t had honor in over ten years. I showed you nothing but kindness and respect those many years ago. I was aware of your roguish behavior, but I had foolishly believed you would outgrow it. Instead, you lost whatever morals you had possessed when you entered trade and have reduced yourself to ruining the lives of innocent young women.”

“I haven’t ruined anything. We were never together.”

“Do you confess to stealing the painting then?” Edward asked.

“Absolutely not.”

“Then you admit to being alone with Isabel at the time of the theft?”

“Yes, but nothing transpired between us.”

Edward hesitated, and a brief look of uncertainty flashed across his face, but as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished. “Whether I believe you or not, Mr. Hawksley, it’s too late. Isabel stood in the parlor just moments ago and confessed to being caught in a highly compromising position with you in the presence of both Lord and Lady Yarmouth and Lord Walling. Needless to say, Lord Walling will not have Isabel now at any price.”

“Then Walling is a fool.”

Edward looked startled, and then said through gritted teeth, “It doesn’t matter. There is no longer an option. You must marry at once.”

Marcus felt an imaginary noose cinch around his neck. “I was wondering when the subject would arise.” He reached up and loosened his tightly knotted cravat with a forefinger. It felt as if the fabric was closing off his air supply.

“Now that you have your alibi, will you do right by her?”

Ah, and there is the rub, Marcus thought.

Isabel had saved him with her galloping tongue and her crazy scheming. No matter how much he did not want to be forced into marriage, he needed an alibi. He was all too aware that he would have been the primary suspect for the theft of the Gainsborough painting if it were not for Isabel’s testimony. Dante had gone to great pains to ensure it. Marcus was grudgingly grateful that Isabel had followed through with her mad plan and told all that they were together during the critical time in question.

But at the same time, he was irked that she had lied about them having a salacious affair.

The hard truth was it would have mattered naught in the eyes of society. She was an unmarried woman caught alone with a bachelor of dreadful character in a room with enough erotic art to tempt a bishop. She was ruined either way. The least he could do in return was salvage her tattered reputation, even though marriage to him was not nearly as desirable, in her father’s eyes, as a union with the titled Lord Walling.

“I’ll agree to whatever terms you set forth,” Marcus said dryly.

“Before I tell Isabel,” Edward said, “I wanted to confront you first—man to man. It’s no secret that I had hoped for Lord Walling as a match for my daughter. He is a titled widower from an established family line. But since that is no longer possible, I hope to save her from the cruelties of society.”

Marcus thought of Isabel’s reaction to the news. Life was ironic indeed. By conniving to get herself out of one unwanted marriage, she had unwittingly trapped herself into another.