Everything I Ever Wanted (40 page)

"Oh, God." South spoke the words under his breath, part prayer, part curse, as the painting was unfolded before him. The colors were so vibrant that his first reaction was to blink. There was the deep sapphire blue of a damask-covered chaise longue, and the brilliant metallic gold and platinum threads of India's hair lying resplendently across its curved back. Rich velvet drapes the color of rubies hung in the background, and their heavy folds swept the floor. India had one slender arm extended toward them, as if she might draw them back and let a narrow beam of sunshine enter. It reminded South that there was no source for the light in the room Margrave had painted. No lamp. No candles. No fire.

Instead, it was India herself that was the wellspring of radiance. She was stretched naked along the length of the chaise, one leg raised, an arm flung above her head. Her skin had the luster of mother-of-pearl. Her eyes, slumberously hooded, hinted at the dark glow of polished onyx. Her back was slightly arched, her moist lips parted. The tip of her pink tongue could be seen teasing the ridge of her teeth. India's pale breasts were raised, the nipples puckered. Between her thighs her pubis glistened with the evidence of her arousal and the spendings of the men who had already taken her.

India was not alone in the exotic, jewel-toned room. Margrave had placed three men with her. Two stood at the edge of the room with only their naked backs presented to someone studying the painting. The third man stood at the foot of the chaise, his cock rampant, his knees slightly bent as he leaned forward. In the next moment he would grasp India's ankles and pull her toward him, raising her hips just as he fell to his knees. Her long legs would wind around him and he would push himself into her. Hard. Grindingly hard.

Closing his eyes was no escape from the vision Margrave had made so brutally real. Swearing softly, South shoved the canvas off his lap, opening his eyes in time to see West pluck it out of the air and roll it up quickly.

"Do you wish to see the other?"

"Should I?" Glimpsing West's troubled expression, South knew he should not have asked the question. This was not a decision a friend could make for him. He held out his hand. "Give it to me."

West's hesitation would have been imperceptible to anyone but the colonel and a fellow member of the Compass Club. That he should act in any way that did not suggest confidence would always catch their attention. It did so now.

"It's all right," South said. "I want to see it." It was a lie, of course. They both knew it. South suspected his own complexion was ashen. West was good enough not to remark on it.

West placed the second rolled canvas in South's extended hand. This time he did not offer South a modicum of privacy by stepping back. He looked away instead.

Uncertain what he would find, except that it would twist his gut, South unrolled the painting. He gave it only a cursory glance. That was all that was required to know it was Margrave's work. The vibrant colors were there. The mysterious light that made India's nude body the focal point of the painting was also present. She was in a different room this time, a colder place than before. It might have been a temple. The graceful Doric columns, the polished floor, and something that was probably an altar were all cut from the same green-veined marble. India's wrists were cuffed in gold chains, and she was stretched tautly between two pillars. Behind her was

South rolled the canvas up himself and returned it to West. "Where did you get them?"

"I stole them."

Which was not precisely an answer."Can you say more?"

"I can tell you I got them from one of the ambassadors."

It was enough. South only needed to know that the paintings had moved from Margrave's collection to being privately owned. "They are not the sort of works of art likely to be reported missing."

"That's what I thought." West returned both paintings to where they had previously stood against the wall. As he considered what he must do next, he rubbed the back of his neck with his palm. Strands of dark-red hair were lifted from his collar to lie lightly at his nape. "You will not credit it, South, but what I am uncovering appears to have something to do with the Bishops."

South's head jerked upward. His first thought was that he could not possibly have heard correctly. "The Bishops? Are you speaking of the Society?"

"l am."

Shaking his head slowly, South glanced toward the rolled canvases again. "But not the Hambrick Hall boys."

"No. At least I hope it doesn't end there. Men are at work here, not children." West's voice dropped fractionally. "Not yet."

South nodded once. "What do you require of me?"

West returned to the settee. He sat in one corner, slightly slouched, his long legs stretched out before him. "I would like to ask Miss Parr about the paintings. Will you permit it?"

"If she does, but it may not be necessary. I know something about them."

"She told you?"

"Yes." South saw that if West was surprised, he was careful not to show it."She had some concerns the paintings would be shown publicly."

Now one of West's brows lifted. "She would be ruined."

"Yes."

"Forgive me if I overstep, but are you" West paused, searching for an inoffensive word that might describe South's relationship to India Parr. " involved with her?"

"I intend that she will be my wife." Once again South gave his friend full marks for his neutral expression. "It remains uncertain if she will have me."

A dimple appeared at the corner of West's mouth as his lips quirked. "Then she is a woman possessed of her own strong opinions."

"She says they're convictions."

West's dimple deepened momentarily, then he sobered. "Have you shared your intentions with anyone else?"

"No one aside from Miss Parr. You are the first. I would ask you not to say anything to East or Northam. The colonel, also."

West did not inquire as to South's reasons. He merely said, "They would not believe me. I am unsure if I believe it myself." When South offered no reply, West went on. "Did Miss Parr tell you who the artist was? The paintings were unsigned, but I believe they were done by the same person."

"They were. His name is Margrave."

"I do not know him."

"He is the Earl of Margrave now. It is another connection to the Bishops, West. You will want to know that. He was at Hambrick Hall for some of the same time we were, and a member of the Society. He was Viscount Newland then."

West's brows creased as he tried to call up a countenance to accompany the name. "Younger? Older?"

"Five years younger."

"One of the altar boys, then." West's face cleared and green eyes glinted with satisfaction. "Allen Parrish," he said. "The one they called Lingam. Do you not recall? The Bishops would have had everyone believe he wore an ebony phallus on a chain around his neck and that it lent him mystical powers."

Since a lingam was a stylized phallic symbol of Indian origin, the name was entirely appropriate. South had a fleeting picture of a rather frail-looking boy with pointed features and dark eyes. "Parrish," he said, more to himself than to West. "Yes, it fits."

"What's that again?"

South came out of his reverie. "Parrish. Parr. I had not made that connection before. India did not stray far from her origins."

West's confusion did not lessen. "I'm not sure I understand. What are you saying about their names?"

South made an airy, dismissive gesture. "Merely exercising my gray matter," he said. "It really has no bearing on the paintings."

It occurred to West that he might challenge South's last assertion, but he could not believe anything would be accomplished by it. "What else can you tell me about the paintings?"

"India tells me they have little enough reality about them."

"She did not pose for Margrave?"

"She posed. Not always willingly." South ran his fingers through his hair and considered his words carefully. Providing little in the way of elaboration, he retold the aspects of India's story that pertained to West's inquiry. For his part, West confined his questions to those things he absolutely needed to know to continue his own assignment.

At some point during South's dispassionate, factual recitation, West had leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. He stopped regarding his friend's coldly cast features and stared at the floor instead, forcing himself to listen with his head and not his heart. When South finished, West went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a whiskey. "You?"

South nodded.

West poured a second glass, then carried it and the decanter to South. "Does Miss Parr know how many paintings Margrave has done?" he asked when he had returned to his seat.

"She never mentioned a particular number, only that the collection was not large." He pointed to the paintings. "However, it is most assuredly more than two. There were no others where you found those?"

"No. None with Miss Parr. I would have taken them as well."

"What do you intend to do with them?"

West had been anticipating the question but was not looking forward to the answer he must give. "I have to keep them, South. It is not possible to do anything else until my assignment is finished."

"I understand." He did. India, he knew, would not."And then?" he asked. "What will you do with them?"

"Destroy them, if that's your wish."

It wasn't. "Return them to India."

"Of course."

"She should decide what happens to them."

West nodded."You will assure Miss Parr that I will keep them safe? No one will see them."

South knew he could take West at his word. "I will tell her."

Leaning back, West took a swallow of whiskey. "I've seen the marble room, South. The pillars. The altar. They exist."

A muscle jumped in South's lean cheek.

"There is perhaps more reality than Miss Parr has allowed."

"No," South said. "I don't believe"

A noise at the top of the stairs interrupted him. He turned. West's eyes lifted in the same direction. Neither of them spoke. Their first glimpse of India was when her slippered foot touched the edge of uppermost step. A slim ankle encased in white silk stockings appeared next, then the scalloped edge of her mint green day dress. She rested one hand on the banister to steady herself and completed her descent with the splendidly regal air of someone to the manor born. South and West both came to their feet, and India acknowledged each of them in turn with a coolly tempered smile.

South extended a hand toward her, his fingers slightly curled to beckon her closer. "Miss Parr," he said by way of greeting her. "Come. I would have you meet my good friend."

India crossed the room to South's side, her chin lifted the merest fraction, her dark eyes reflective and remote. She did not take his hand, but neither did she step away when he placed it casually at the small of her back.

South wondered how much of his conversation with West India had missed while she was changing clothes. He understood her desire to present herself without the vulnerability of bare feet, nightdress, and robe. At what point had she left her place at the top of the stairs to return to her room? When she realized West was in possession of Margrave's paintings? Or during his own recitation of her treatment at Margrave's hands?

She looked lovely, he thought. It was hard to reconcile this vision of her beside him, perfectly composed in her rather sweet and virginal calico dress, with the woman in the paintings, whose naked passion had been detailed as something hovering between pleasure and pain.

"His Grace, the Duke of Westphal," South said, ignoring West's flash of annoyance at this reference to his title."Your Grace, may I present Miss Parr, an actress of extraordinary talent?"

West recovered himself enough to put aside his drink and take India's hand. He raised it to his lips. "Miss Parr." His gallantry was meant to jab a little at South, but there was nothing unpleasant about India's soft and fragrant skin against his mouth.

"Your Grace." India made a demure inclination of her head.

With some reluctance, West released India's hand. "It will be intolerable if you insist upon that formality. I am West."

India gave him the butter-wouldn't-melt smile that South knew so well, and said, "As you wish, Your Grace."

South chuckled, appreciating West's frustration. "It's no good, West. She will have her way."

West sighed. To no one in particular, he said, "The old duke should rot for this trick he's played me. Damn me if this inheritance doesn't sit on my shoulders like a lodestone, attracting trouble like iron filings."

A measure of India's composure slipped. Her wide, owlish blink in West's direction deepened South's smile.

"You will have to be patient," South told India. "He has no appreciation for his acquired station. It will take considerable work on your part to put him in his place and keep him there."

India's mouth flattened at South's thinly veiled barb. She was aware that West's interest had been engaged and that his intelligent green eyes were shifting from South to her and back to South again. In other circumstances she would have sparred with South, but with West looking on, she refrained.