Since Rebecca was among friends, Kenneth went off for a private word with his host, Lord Strathmore. After an exchange of pleasantries, he mentioned his stepmother's miraculous change of heart about the Wilding heirlooms, and his own fervent gratitude for the result. Strathmore grinned, the mischievous light in his eyes confirming his part in what had happened.
Hoping he would someday have the opportunity to do a good turn for Strathmore, Kenneth strolled around the room, talking to friends and occasionally dancing. He calculated that he would reach Rebecca just in time for the supper dance, which he had reserved for himself. Several times he saw her dancing, looking slim and winsome. He didn't begrudge other men the chance to dance with her. After all, he was the lucky devil who had spent half the afternoon in her arms.
Michael Kenyon hailed him, and Kenneth went to say hello. After an exchange of greetings, Michael said, "Catherine and I went to Somerset House today. You've come a long way from charcoal sketches of Louis the Lazy."
Kenneth grinned. "A dog who never moves is an easy subject."
"I hope your paintings aren't spoken for yet," Michael continued. "Would you accept a thousand guineas for the pair?"
Kenneth's jaw dropped. "That's absurd! Or is it charity?"
"I knew you'd say that," his friend said imperturbably. "On the contrary, my great-grandchildren will give thanks for my foresight in buying two magnificent early Wildings. The price I paid will look like theft on my part."
Kenneth smiled, but still felt doubtful. "Are you sure you want them that much?"
"Catherine and I were in Spain, too," Michael said quietly. "Those pictures speak to both of us in a special way."
"In that case, they are yours." Kenneth offered his hand. "And I'll even be able to visit them now and then."
"I certainly hope so. I must tell Catherine. She was worried that the pictures might have been sold elsewhere." With a parting nod, Michael went in search of his wife.
A little dazed by his good fortune, Kenneth turned to look for Rebecca. Instead, he almost collided with Lord Bowden. .
Though Bowden was not a large man, his thunderous expression made him formidable. "I hoped to find you. here, Kimball," he snapped. "You have refused to meet with me or to answer my letters, but you will certainly talk to me now."
Kenneth winced inwardly. He had forgotten the date, that Bowden was due back in London. In fact, in the last fortnight he had thought of little except painting and Rebecca. "Sorry. I really haven't been trying to avoid you. For the last several days I've been too busy to collect my letters. I agree that it's time we met. When would be a good time for you?"
"You will talk to me
now
," Bowden said through gritted teeth. "In the middle of this ballroom, if necessary."
The man was on the verge of explosion, and Kenneth couldn't blame him. Luckily Rebecca was dancing and wouldn't notice if Kenneth left the ballroom. "I think both of us would prefer privacy. Let's find an empty room."
Bowden gave a grim nod and together they moved through the laughing crowd. Kenneth's mind was working at top speed, but to no effect. He had nothing to say that would satisfy a man who wanted Sir Anthony destroyed.
The quadrille ended, and Rebecca breathlessly thanked her partner. Then she looked around for Kenneth, who was to lead her out in the next set. To her surprise, he was leaving the ballroom with another man who seemed vaguely familiar. She strolled after them, cooling herself with the ginger kitten fan. It was dearer to her than the Wilding diamond ring, because the ring would have to be returned eventually. But the fan was
hers
.
She emerged from the ballroom in time to see the men disappear through a door down the corridor. Curious, she followed. The door swung open silently, admitting her to a long, narrow library. The room was divided by an arch. Her end was shadowed, but lamplight and the flicker of a fire came from the far end, along with the murmur of
male voices.
She hesitated. Kenneth was probably engaged in some sort of business, perhaps selling his paintings. She really shouldn't interrupt. Since she was not visible to the men, it would be easy to withdraw quietly and wait for him in the ballroom.
She turned and put her hand on the doorknob. Then an unfamiliar voice rose sharply, saying, "Damn you, Kimball! I hired you to find evidence of Anthony's crimes, not marry his daughter! Did he buy you off with the girl and her fortune?"
Rebecca froze. Surely she had misunderstood. She turned away from the door, her ears straining.
Kenneth's deep voice replied, "The betrothal was something of an accident. It has nothing to do with Sir Anthony."
She knew their betrothal was false. Still, they were lovers, and his casual dismissal of their relationship hurt. She crept toward the arch and took a position just out of sight, so that she would miss none of the conversation.
The other man snorted with disgust. "Then you're playing a double game of your own. When I returned to London and learned from my wife that my unknown niece had become betrothed, I made inquiries. A suspicious mind might think you schemed with that slut Lavinia Claxton to get caught in a compromising situation with the chit. After all, she inherited Helen's fortune. I should have guessed that an aging heiress would be irresistible to a man with your financial problems."
"Lord Bowden, you insult both Lady Claxton and Miss Seaton," Kenneth said sharply. "Do not do so again. You also have a penchant for seeing conspiracies where none exist. I repeat: My relationship with Miss Seaton has nothing to do with my investigation."
Bowden? Dear God, Kenneth's companion was her father's brother. He had the same build, a similar way of moving. But why, after decades of estrangement, would he want his younger brother investigated? The man must be mad. …
But if he was mad, Kenneth was his tool. Shaken to the core, she rested her forehead against the cool brocaded wall.
"Have you had as much success with your investigation as with your courtship?" her uncle asked coldly.
"Not the kind of success you hoped for. I'll send you a report, but I've talked to everyone who might have knowledge of what happened and there is simply no evidence of foul play. Perhaps in the Lake District I will learn something, but I can make no promises."
"There must be proof, Kimball," Bowden growled. "
Find it
."
Light footsteps, not Kenneth's, moved across the room. Then a door opened and closed with a bang. Rebecca closed her eyes for a moment, wondering what on earth Kenneth was investigating. It was absurd to think of her father as a criminal. He was a famous painter with all the wealth he needed, not a thief or a corrupt government official. No wonder Kenneth could find no evidence of wrongdoing.
But that did not mitigate Kenneth's deceit. He had entered the house under false pretenses. His vague explanation of having been sent by an anonymous friend had seemed amusing at the time, but no longer. He had ruthlessly taken advantage of her father's trust to gain free access to the household and all of Sir Anthony's private papers.
She had a sudden, vivid memory of her first glimpse of Kenneth. Feral intelligence. Almost brutal. A pirate in Mayfair. No wonder he hadn't looked like a secretary; he was really a spy. How many times had he asked her seemingly casual questions? And she had always answered. Her stomach churned with nausea at the realization that he had been using her in his attempts to gather evidence against her father.
For the length of a dozen heartbeats, she leaned shaking against the wall. Then rage gave her strength.
She stepped into the open archway. Kenneth stood by the fireplace looking down into the coals. Her corsair. Powerful, compelling. She had thought him heroic.
She was a thrice-damned fool.
Her voice a hiss, she said, "You are
despicable
."
His head jerked up and he stared at her, his face going white. "You heard that conversation?"
"Yes, I heard it." Her mouth twisted bitterly. "If I were a man, I would kill you, but I suppose I'll have to settle for burning your portrait and telling my father that his favorite secretary has betrayed him, and me as well."
"Rebecca…" He raised his hand and took a step toward her.
She had the sudden, horrible thought that if he touched her she would melt into a mindless adoring female and accept whatever deceitful explanation he offered. "Don't come near me!" she said furiously. "I don't ever want to see you again."
She turned and bolted from the room before he could come closer. He called her name again, but she ignored him and fled down the corridor. She had to get out of this house.
Not wanting to call attention to herself, she slowed to a walk and schooled her face to impassivity before entering the ballroom. Her progress was complicated by the fact that most of the guests were moving in the opposite direction, toward the supper room. Luckily, she was small enough to slip through a crowd easily. Several people called her name, but she ignored them. She was only here because Kenneth had wanted her to become respectable. To improve her value as a wife? To hell with the lot of them. She had lost all interest in joining his world.
As she neared the foyer, she remembered that their carriage would not return for them until midnight. Nor did she have money to hire a sedan chair or hackney coach. She would have to walk. Seaton House couldn't be more than a mile or so away, and Mayfair should be safe enough.
She considered going for her shawl, but changed her mind when she glanced over her shoulder and saw Kenneth grimly working his way through the crowd. Her pulse jumped with alarm. She swiftly went to the front door. As the footman swung it open for her, she indicated Kenneth's advancing form. "That so-called gentleman has been bothering me," she said imperiously. "Don't let him follow me to my carriage."
The footman bowed. "Yes, miss."
Though the servant was a hefty fellow, she doubted he would be able to stop Kenneth for long. However, that should be enough.
She caught up her skirts and darted down the steps. To the right, a line of carriages waited for the Strathmore guests, the drivers talking or dicing together. She turned left and went toward the corner at a near run, not caring what onlookers might think.
A turn, a short block, another turn, a long block. She ran until a cramp in her side forced her to stop. She halted and clung to a set of rusting iron railings, her hand pressed to her side as she gasped for breath. The damp night air was bitingly cold on her bare arms and neck.
She should have known better than to confront Kenneth. Of course he would try to use that treacherous tongue to convince her that black was white. She should have quietly returned to the ballroom and asked one of her new acquaintances for the use of a carriage to go home. But whom could she have asked? They were all Kenneth's friends, not hers.
For a moment she thought of Catherine and Michael and the others she had met through Kenneth. Her heart quivered at the knowledge that she would lose them as well as him.
Furiously she quashed the reaction. She didn't need Kenneth's friends, and her experience of balls had been flat-out catastrophic. She was better off alone.
But how would she ever be able to use her studio and not think of him? Kenneth sprawled on the sofa in the corsair's languid, sensual pose. Kenneth making tea and the easy conversation that followed. Only a few hours earlier, he had made passionate love to her in front of the fireplace, acting as if she were the most desirable woman in the world.
Acting was the key word. She had been available— dear God, how available she had been!—so he had bedded her. Obviously he was the fortune hunter Bowden had claimed. What better way to convince her of his integrity than to vehemently protest that he found the very idea of fortune hunting loathsome?
Desperate to escape her thoughts, she began walking again. Where the devil was she? Everything looked different at night, and she had not paid much attention during the drive to Strathmore House. The neighborhood was rougher than she would have expected. Vaguely she recalled that Hanover Square was on the edge of the fashionable district. She must have turned in the wrong direction when she left Strathmore House.
At the next intersection she looked at the corner tablet, but didn't recognize the street name. Beginning to feel nervous, she halted and tried to decide which direction to go. She didn't like the look of the street ahead; the neighborhood was definitely getting worse.
Her decision was made when she saw several men sauntering toward her. From their loud voices, they had been drinking. She pivoted and walked back the way she had come, acutely aware of her skimpy evening gown and expensive jewelry. Her mother's jewelry. She put her hand over her opal pendant protectively.
One of the men behind her called in a slurred voice,
"Hey, dollymop! There's three of us here. No need to go all the way back to Covent Garden to find customers."
Heart pounding, she quickened her pace. Wasn't there anyone respectable on the streets tonight? She moved closer to the wall of the building on her left, hoping the men would pass her by.
The footsteps behind her grew louder. Suddenly a heavy hand caught her arm and swung her around. The man was tall and disheveled and he stank of gin. "You're a pretty little thing," he said with a drunken leer down her decolletage. "We'll give you a guinea each, eh? That's more than fair."