The Art of Sinning (14 page)

Swearing, he began to pace. “I heard this was how the English handled their by-blows, but I never thought to see it done so badly or callously. Didn't you bother to keep track of the boy's nurse? Didn't you pay her enough to take care of him on her own?”

That flummoxed her. “Pay her enough! What are you talking about?”

“The child you obviously handed over to someone else to raise.” As he rounded on her, icy anger and betrayal glimmered in his gaze. “The son you obviously bore Lieutenant Ruston.”

Fourteen

When Yvette gaped at him, Jeremy stared her down, unable to suppress his anger. No doubt she was surprised that he'd ferreted out her secret. All this time, she'd been chiding
him
for his presumed debauchery while she'd been hiding her own.

What a hypocrite! He
hated
hypocrites.

And true to form for hypocrites, she went on the offensive at once. “You think . . . You have the
audacity
to suggest that I bore an illegitimate child!”

“Do you deny it?”

“Of course I deny it! It's not true!”

Her certainty and the outrage in her voice gave him pause. But what other response could he expect of a respectable English lady? She certainly wasn't going to admit it flat out. That was why the Foundling Hospital in London was so well-funded—­gently bred women who found themselves in the family way were happy to support the institution that secretly took their by-blows.

She marched up to him, eyes flashing fire. “And how did you hear of Lieutenant Ruston, anyway?”

You mean, the man who taught you to kiss? And more?

Damn it, he must uproot this jealousy spreading through him like a noxious weed. First Knightford, then Ruston. No woman had ever roused such possessiveness in him. “I heard of him from your servants, of course.”

Horror suffused her features with crimson. “My
servants
told you this . . . this nonsense?”

“Not exactly,” he said warily. “They told Damber.”

“That I was intimate with Lieutenant Ruston.”

“No! Not that. I mean . . .” Damn, this wasn't exactly how he'd intended to have this discussion—with her up in arms and him on the defensive. Determined not to let her brazen it out, he locked his gaze with hers. “They told Damber that there was talk of a possible marriage between you and the lieutenant.”

“I see,” she said frigidly. “And from that, you deduced that I let him get me with child.”

Her genuine outrage threw him off-kilter. “It
has
been four years and some months since you knew the man, and you did say the child was four.”

“So, based on that coincidence, you decided I was a lightskirt who secretly bore Lieutenant Ruston's love child. And then I what? Sent the babe off with an actress friend to raise, before completely losing track of the boy?”

“Something like that.” When she put it that way it sounded far-fetched. And painted her in a light that seemed too harsh. Perhaps he'd been somewhat
hasty. He would have expected her to have shown
some
embarrassment by now.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “And when was I supposed to have borne this child?” she demanded indignantly. “How did I hide that I was carrying it? Because I assure you, I haven't taken any months-long trips abroad in the last five years. You can have your spy Damber ask my servants about
that
, too, if you don't believe me.”

Her sound logic—and the icy tone with which she delivered it—perversely reignited his temper. “If the boy isn't yours, why are you so desperate to find him? Why risk your reputation to come here for him? And why in God's name would you hide your plans from Blakeborough?”

“Because the child is my nephew, you dunderhead!”

He gaped at her as a knot tightened his gut. The boy was her
nephew
?

No, he couldn't believe it. Blakeborough wasn't the sort to sire—

As the truth hit him, he groaned. Not Blakeborough.
Samuel Barlow.
Her other brother, the criminal, who'd already sired one by-blow, according to Bonnaud.

Her eyes narrowed on him. “Yes,” she said, as if she'd read his mind. “My brother's child.
Samuel's
child. I cannot believe you would think that
I
—”

“You can't blame me,” he said defensively. “I assumed that if your secret mission involved Samuel, you'd have gone straight to your eldest brother for help.” His reasons for his conclusions had been perfectly sound. He wasn't an idiot.

Though the look on her face said
she
certainly thought he was. “I did go to him. Edwin refused to help. He thinks our brother's claims about a son are part of some devious scheme to shame me or him or the family. Edwin ordered me to stay out of it.”

Jeremy winced. That did sound like Blakeborough.

Dragging a hand over his face, Jeremy began to pace. All this time, he'd assumed she'd been involved with some blackmailing fiend, when she'd just been doing as she always did, following the lead of her too-kind heart.

“I can't believe you actually thought I was searching for my own child, whom I apparently abandoned to the dangers of the stews,” she went on, hurt in her voice. “What kind of woman do you take me for?”

“The kind who has secrets involving brothels.” He still chafed over being made to look the fool. But damn it, it had been a logical assumption. Mostly. “What did you expect me to think? You wouldn't tell me why you were coming here, and then I find out you're looking for a child, and given what I'd already learned about this Ruston fellow—”

“Because you sent Damber to question my servants,” she accused. When he shot her a sharp look, she said, “That's what happened, isn't it? Our staff is normally very discreet.”

“They'd have to be with a fellow like Samuel in the family, wouldn't they?” When she flinched, he cursed his quick tongue. “Sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

She glanced away, the emotions on her face showing she wasn't yet placated. “But you did send Damber to spy on me, didn't you?”

“I asked him to keep his ears open, yes.” He stepped toward her. “It was strange that a lady would wish to visit a brothel for any reason, so I didn't want any surprises when we got here.”

She gave a rueful shake of her head. “It appears that the joke is on you.”

“And on you, too.” He sighed. “Sorry that I . . . accused you . . . of bearing a child in secret. I wasn't thinking straight. Though it
is
odd that you'd be so adamant about coming here yourself. Most women would leave such matters to the men of the family.”

“I know. And I did try.” She rubbed her temples. “I just couldn't bear the thought of my nephew languishing in a bawdy house alone somewhere—not when I could make sure he was provided for. That's why I didn't want you to tell Edwin. Because he would put a stop to my plans.”

“With good reason.” Jeremy searched her face. “How can you be sure Samuel
isn't
scheming to hurt you? Given his past behavior—”

“You don't know anything about my brother,” she said tersely. “He's not as awful as you think.”

Jeremy arched an eyebrow. “So you deny that he kidnapped Jane's cousin. And got her maid with child.”

She colored. “Well, yes, he did do
those
things. And I admit that he . . . has behaved very badly in the past. But though Edwin can't see it, there's still some good in him. The very fact that Samuel wanted to provide for his child proves it.”

Jeremy eyed her closely. “What makes you think he ever intended to acknowledge his son, much less support him? The child
is
four years old, after all,
and his mother has presumably been in a brothel for some time. He took no steps to get her out.”

“That's because he didn't know until recently that she'd left the stage. He'd been living and working in York for the past few years. She was his mistress when he lived in London, but they parted before she bore his son. He told me he only later found out that she'd had a child by him.”

“And you believed him,” he said, highly skeptical.

“I did, and I do.” Reaching into her cloak, she pulled out a letter. “Because of this: it contains something that will help Miss Moreton care for their son. That's why I'm here. To give her the letter and make sure my nephew is transferred to a better situation.”

“He asked you to deliver his missive. To a brothel. Knowing it would ruin you to be seen in one.”

“Well, no, not exactly.” She dropped her gaze to the envelope cradled in her hands. “He told me to mail it to the Covent Garden post office. He said he heard that Miss Moreton regularly calls for her mail there. When I pressed him for a better address, threatening not to send the letter at all unless he gave me her direction, he admitted that she now worked in a Covent Garden bawdy house. Which is why he said I should merely post it.”

“Well, at least the ass had
some
sense,” Jeremy grumbled. “But of course, you couldn't leave it at that.”

Her head shot up. “No, I could not. Nor could I worry about the possibility that Samuel might be scheming against us. If there was even the smallest chance that my nephew was out there suffering—”

She squared her shoulders. “And apparently, my
instincts were sound, too. Peggy Moreton has run off with Lord knows whom, and her child is now in another possibly perilous situation. So yes, I refused to abandon my nephew just because Edwin was being his usual cynical self.”

Then it hit him why this was so important to her. Why the
child
meant so much. She'd essentially been abandoned by her own father, and that wound ran deep. It made her all the more determined not to see it happen to some poor lad.

He softened his tone. “Still, to come here looking for the boy yourself is extreme. Why not hire someone to find him?”

“I suggested that to Edwin. He said he didn't trust anyone to be discreet about it.” She made a face. “He's worried that if more scandal erupts, it will keep me from gaining a decent husband.”

Jeremy saw the earl's point
.
“Then
you
could have hired someone. You know the Duke's Men already, so you could—”

“Are you daft?” She seized his arm. “Promise me you won't say a word to your relations. They're sure to tell Edwin about it, and he will
kill
me.”

“He's not as bad as all that,” Jeremy said.

“Oh, right, I forgot.” With a sniff, she released his arm. “You two have become quite chummy now that you're starting a club
.
I should have known you'd side with him.”

“I'm not siding with anyone. I'm concerned about you, that's all. This search is unwise and bound to ruin you before it helps your nephew. For one thing, don't you think Mrs. Beard made note of your questions about the boy?”

She shot him a mutinous glance. “She'll just assume I'm interested because I was Peggy's friend.”

“Yes, the friend who seems more concerned about the whereabouts of Peggy's son than about Peggy herself.” When Yvette blanched, he added, “Mrs. Beard is sure to find that suspicious. She's probably also aware that the lad is your brother's by-blow. She's adept at ferreting out secrets to hold over her girls' heads.”

“You should know,” she said irritably, “given your friendly association with her.”

He avoided her gaze. “I've never pretended to be anything I'm not.”

“Right. All this time you let me believe you were the worst kind of whoremonger, when you were actually just using these women as your models. You and Mrs. Beard clearly have a very different sort of business arrangement than you led me to think.”

Thunderation. He'd hoped Yvette might ignore the girls' chatter about his work. He should have known better. Every day she veered closer to knowing the real him. Every day she dug a little deeper, understood a little more.

It drew him in. It terrified him.

“Don't let Sally fool you,” he said in a hard voice. “I'm no saint.”

“So you also bed those women, do you?” She pierced him with her too-knowing gaze. “In between painting sessions?”

“Not necessarily,” he prevaricated.

“But sometimes.”

He swore under his breath. He considered lying, but he couldn't. Not to her. “Mrs. Beard's girls? No. Never.”

That seemed to take her aback. “Yet you allow the entire world, even your own relations, to believe that you're this debauchee who wallows in the stews every night. Why?”

“It's none of their concern what I do.”

She just lifted an eyebrow.

“Fine,” he said. “I don't want people making assumptions about my works based on who poses for them. I don't want that to color the observers' perceptions of my paintings.”

She let out an exasperated huff. “Then why choose soiled doves as models?”

“Because they have the right seedy appearance for the kind of images I paint. Because they're comfortable with their bodies. Because they're used to being looked at for hours.” He scowled at her. “Because they don't ask annoying questions.”

Apparently that hint was too subtle for Yvette. “So you
never
bed any of your models? Is that a general rule of yours?”

The question startled him. “Not a rule, no. I did it occasionally in my salad days, when I was randy.” Until even that didn't drive the image of those two coffins from his mind. “I painted nudes then, so if the woman was willing . . .” He shrugged. “But as my abilities improved, I became more interested in the women as subjects. In how to transfer their sensuality, their characters . . . their humanity to the canvas.”

Her expression saddened suddenly.

That set him on edge. “Why does it matter? Why are we even talking about this?”

“Because I've finally realized something impor
tant.” Looking vulnerable, she swallowed hard. “To you, I'm just like them.”

“Hardly,” he clipped out, an instant and visceral reaction.

“I don't mean that you see me as a . . . a lady of the evening. But I'm still merely a model to you. A means to an end.”