Читать книгу A Perfect Scandal - Tina Gabrielle - Страница 13

The artist’s studio was like all the others Dante Black had frequented over the years. Dilapidated and drafty, it stank of paint, turpentine, and the desperation that oozed out of the pores of every struggling artist in London. Bottles of paint in every color of the rainbow crowded wooden shelves on the walls. Canvases and wood frames were scattered around the perimeter of the room. Brushes and dirty rags soaked in jars of cloudy water, waiting to be cleaned.

The only difference today was a package wrapped in plain brown paper—slightly larger than three feet by four feet—which rested in the corner of the room. None would suspect the nondescript wrapping held the valuable 1791 painting by Thomas Gainsborough, Seashore with Fishermen.

Dante turned away from the hidden painting and paced the small space. He had arrived before his contact, and his stomach churned with anxiety. Sweat trickled down his bald head and ran into his eyes. Every five paces, he swiped at his forehead with an impatient hand.

“Damn,” Dante spat out loud. “The bitch ruined everything.”

He viciously kicked at a can of turpentine on the floor, splattering the contents across the paint-stained hardwood and onto his polished Hessians. He cursed again, and the strong stench of the spilled turpentine burned his nostrils.

“We expected better from ye, Dante.”

Dante whirled around at the sound of the raspy male voice.

Robby Bones, the criminal who had recruited Dante, slithered into the center of the studio. Although he was near the same impressive height as Dante, the physical similarities between the two men stopped there. Whereas Dante was thin, Robby Bones was a testament to his name—gaunt, cadaverous, near-emaciated in appearance. Black hair hung in greasy strands to his shoulders, hiding sunken cheekbones and deep eye sockets. His fingertips, as well as his teeth, were tobacco stained to an uncomely brown. His trademark, which he boasted about, was a chipped front tooth that had sheared in half during a bar brawl, and that he now used to hold a cheap cigar in place without having to clamp his lips together. It was rumored that Bones worked as a grave digger when his illicit activities were not sufficiently profitable.

Disgust, comingled with disquiet, infused Dante. He considered himself a gentleman and the riffraff before him was insulting. “The girl’s presence was unforeseeable. Her testimony was beyond my control.”

“’Is lordship paid ye good blunt fer yer services. If ye ’ad used yer men like ye should ’ave, ye would ’ave known that Hawksley wasna alone in that room, an’ ye could ’ave seen to the chit.”

At the mention of “his lordship,” the anonymous employer who’d hired both Dante and Robby Bones to do his bidding, Dante’s curiosity rose again. Dante had no idea as to the true identity of “his lordship,” but he suspected three things: First, the man was part of high society, whether he held a title or not; second, he was sufficiently wealthy to pay the exorbitant price Dante had required; and third, he hated Marcus Hawksley with a vengeance.

Dante’s temper rose to his defense. “The chit turned out to be Isabel Cameron, the daughter of the very influential and wealthy Earl of Malvern. She wasn’t a common whore whom no one would notice had gone missing. The disappearance of a titled lady would have invited unwanted attention, to say the least.”

Robby Bones stepped forward, his dishwater brown eyes hard and filled with dislike. “Ye failed at a simple task. Hawksley is a free man, an’ ’e’s not the type to sit back an’ do nothin’. ’E’ll search fer ye to get the truth.”

Dante’s nerves tensed immediately at the mere notion that Marcus Hawksley would hunt him down. He felt as if the temperature of the room rose twenty degrees, and he wiped at the increased perspiration on his brow. “What shall I tell him?”

“That’s yer problem, Dante. But keep yer mouth shut about me. One word from ’is lordship, an’ ye’ll be ruined. Yer days of sellin’ fancy art to the stinkin’ rich will be over. Lucky fer ye, ’is lordship ’as more plans fer Hawksley that require yer services.”

Robby Bones turned his back on Dante and walked to the corner of the room. He picked up the wrapped Gainsborough painting and made to leave.

“Where are you taking that?” Dante asked. Despite everything, Dante was a true art lover, and the mere thought of what a rancid criminal like Robby Bones would do with such a masterpiece disturbed him.

Bones stopped and shrugged dismissively. “’Is lordship knows Hawksley wanted it and that’s why ’e’ll keep it. Ye can hide from Hawksley, but don’t leave London, Dante. Next time, if the chit gets in the way, I’ll take care of ’er.”