The Nude (full-length historical romance) (43 page)

“The guests will be arriving soon,” she said, and dropped the locket’s chain on over her head. “And do not fret so, Lauretta, I will ask Nigel to speak with your father on Lord Ames’s behalf.”

“Oh, thank you!” Lauretta cried and hugged her. “I know Severin will be the perfect husband for me! He wants me to be his partner . . . in business!”

Partner?
Before meeting Nigel, she would have never thought such a thing could be possible. But in the past few days she’d learned quite a bit about how having a man around could be pleasant, welcome. A man and woman could share common goals, and yes, even become partners.

And right now she had a great desire to go greet her husband and thank him for the unusual, but thoughtful, gift.

As soon as she’d finished dressing, she hurried down the stairs in search of him. She found Nigel in the front entranceway, pacing. Or, more to the point, wringing his hands and pacing. The fashionable dove gray suit he wore fit like a stylish glove. That magical warm glow, she’d been holding onto all day bloomed into a deep, stinging blush as she remembered the pleasures he’d brought her long into the previous night.

He must have heard the rustle of skirts, for he stopped mid-step and turned to gaze up the staircase. His onyx eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped slightly open.

How she got the rest of the way down the stairs, she could not say. Perhaps she floated. Regardless, she stood mesmerized in front of
her husband
, staring deeply into his expressive gaze.

“Is everything ready?” she managed to ask.

“Yes.” He took her hand and kissed it. “You look lovely,” he said. There was a stern edge in his voice. If he indeed thought she looked lovely, his deepening frown certainly didn’t support the notion. “I don’t want you here tonight. I should have sent you away.”

“My absence would raise far too many questions. This is our wedding ball.”

Her cousins and Lord Purbeck were all standing around pretending not to be listening to what would no doubt be considered a most peculiar conversation.

“Damn fool boy,” Elsbeth very clearly heard Lord Purbeck mutter.

Nigel ignored his uncle, if he had heard him at all. “If anything starts to happen,” he said taking Elsbeth’s hands in his, “I want you to get yourself to safety. You understand me?”

“What’s going on, Elly?” Olivia asked.

“Someone is planning to kill Lord Edgeware tonight,” Lauretta said. “Lord Ames told me all about it.”

“And my life is in danger too, blasted bother,” Lord Purbeck added.

“Oh, that.” Olivia nodded.

“Does everyone in London know my business?” Nigel asked looking quite adorably harassed.

“Of course they do.” Aunt Violet thumped her cane on the floor as she emerged from the front parlor. “It is the
ton’s
profession to
know
.”

And that was where the discussion ended, since the guests had begun to arrive. Nigel kept a tight hold on Elsbeth’s hand as he politely greeted each and every guest while a six-piece orchestra played softly upstairs in the drawing room.

As much as she wished it, Elsbeth wasn’t able to stay by Nigel’s side for long. It was considered quite unfashionable for a husband and wife to linger in each other’s company at such an event despite their newlywed status. And it seemed that the guests at the party were determined to keep them apart.

“Promise me one waltz,” Nigel said, and quickly kissed her cheek before being led away into a circle of men.

She watched him from a distance. The last time their eyes met from across the ballroom, he graced her with a smile. Such a simple gesture warmed her like a comforting cup of hot tea . . . or like a Dionysus painting of wildflowers.

Her heart twisted. No matter how she tried to let her love for Dionysus fade, she always seemed to fail. She feared the rogue artist would plague her heart until the day it stopped beating.

Who was he? And why did she still harbor soft feelings for him?

She had a mind to march over to her husband and tell him that she was ready to hear the truth about Dionysus when Charlie caught her arm. A quadrille had begun to play, but instead of leading her to the dance floor, he steered her toward a quiet corner of the balcony. There, she stared at the demon lazily. No, she thought to herself, Charlie couldn’t be Dionysus. He simply couldn’t.

“I don’t know how you managed it, Elly,” he whispered bitterly, “but it seems you have quite completely won my cousin’s affection. No matter how much I try to show him your true character, he still pictures you with a honeyed gaze.”

She jerked her head away when Charlie tried to caress her cheek.

“Still cold, Elly?” Charlie chuckled lightly. “Do you even let Nige into your bed?”

“I don’t wish to cause a scene, so I will pretend instead I didn’t hear you.” In place of the fear she would have expected to feel, she experienced an empowering sense of calm as she realized
she
could trust her husband. No matter what mischief Charlie tried to cause, she knew Nigel was watching out for her and would protect her. He would trust her word above Charlie’s. “Please excuse me,” she said frostily, and turned to return to the ballroom.

“Wait, please. We do both care about Nige. If you don’t wish to see him harmed, you will listen to me. I beg you.”

The note of desperation in his voice stopped her where she stood. A shallow bob of her head was her only indication that she was willing to hear what he had to say.

“George Waver has Nige in his pocket. I know you don’t believe me, but I have proof that he is trying to kill Nige. If you care for my cousin, even just a little, you will use the power you have over Nige to convince him to stay away from George.”

“Mr. Waver has explained himself, his actions. He would have been killed that day on the beach along with Nigel. He is not a murderer . . . you are.”

“George is playing a very deep game, Elly. He is trying to make me look guilty, but I assure you I am not.”

“I won’t listen to another word. Good evening, Mr. Purbeck.”

Elsbeth returned to the crowded ballroom where she was drawn into a circle of gossipy women. Yet, even though she had extracted herself from Charlie, his warning repeated itself in her head and she had trouble paying attention to the ladies around her.

Charlie had sounded truly worried.

And if Dionysus wasn’t Charlie . . . and he wasn’t George Waver, who in the devil was he? She needed to find out before the night was over. Nigel’s life could very well depend on her uncovering Dionysus’s identity. She couldn’t wait a moment longer.

She glanced over and saw that Nigel was surrounded by an even tighter group of men than before. Even though she longed to hear the truth from his ears, she suspected that there was another in the house who would be just as able to help her.

Elsbeth excused herself from the bevy of women who were engaged in a heated discussion on whether ladies should indulge in reading novels. “Rots the brain,” a lady declared as Elsbeth went in search for the man from whom she was determined to wrench the truth. She spotted him lurking beside a potted palm just outside the drawing room.

“My lady?” Gainsford inquired as she approached. She directed him into a private alcove near the top of the stairs.

“Gainsford,” she said, jamming a finger against his chest. “You are the most inquisitive butler I have ever known. So tell me the truth. Who is Dionysus?”

“I-I cannot tell—”

“Gainsford! We are talking about the Marquess’s life! I must know the answer now. Who is Dionysus?”

The poor man dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief. “We are running low on wine. Perhaps you could select a few bottles to serve with dinner?”

“You are changing the subject, Gainsford. Besides, shouldn’t you handle—?”

“Oh no, my lady, his lordship
never
entertains. I wouldn’t know where to begin.” Gainsford pulled a large key from his pocket and pressed it into her hand before she could object. “At the back of the house. The door just past the kitchens leads down to the cellar, my lady.” He gave her a pressing look. “
I daresay you will find everything you are looking for in the cellar
.”

“The cellar?”

Gainsford shook his head vigorously. “Yes, my lady.
The cellar
.”

“Very well,” she said. Her fingers were quaking by the time she hurried through the doors to the busy kitchens. She didn’t spare the startled servants a passing glance as she marched toward her destination. The hallway past the kitchens was eerily silent.

She pulled a candle down from a sconce on the unadorned brick wall and held it above the rusty keyhole. The key turned easily in the lock, but the door held firm in the jam. She kicked it several times with her slippered foot before it opened.

Her answer was only steps away. She swung the door wide and rushed into the dark depths, stopping on the last step as she raised the candle higher.

A neat row of paintbrushes sat on a large wooden table just to the right of her. An easel with a medium sized canvas stood barely three feet away.

And suddenly she
knew
.

She stepped gingerly around the easel and gazed upon the unfinished painting. The broad brushwork was even more hectic and filled with more wild energy than any of his other works. That wildness that had once thrilled her now frightened her to her very soul. She was the subject of this latest work.

How could she not have known?

Everything Nigel did, his very scent made her think she’d just stepped into one of Dionysus’s paintings. Of course the two men were one and the same.

The figure in the painting, which looked startlingly like her, was collapsed beside a pond. A painting, ripped into shreds, floated in the water just out of reach of her fingertips. The leafy vegetation in the forefront drooped, wilting, dying from the burden of her pain.

He should have told her. He should have insisted she listen to the truth. He should have insisted she understood exactly what he’d done to her. Like the woman in the painting, she felt like weeping. He should have told her.

Nigel was Dionysus
. He was the one who’d trapped her in that horrid marriage with Lord Mercer. He was the one who’d painted that scandalously nude painting of her. And he was the one who had left her with an aching heart for all these years, a heart that suddenly felt like breaking.

Why? Why? Why did he do those things to her?

And why did he tell her that he loved her?

She reached up to the locket hanging like a burden around her neck and snapped the chain.

“Damn him,” she cursed, feeling her bones ache from the years of repressed anger. “Damn him to hell and back! Why would he do this to me?”

Nigel glanced around the room. He’d last seen Elsbeth talking with Charlie, but now she had slipped away. As hostess she had many demands on her time, he knew that. But still, he felt uneasy.

“George would have been killed by that boulder. He’s not trying to kill me, Charlie.” Nigel said, but he couldn’t keep his mind on the conversation. Where the devil was Elsbeth?

Every damned man at the party had come up with a list of names for Nigel to consider. Some, such as suggesting Beau Brummell was jealous of Nigel’s connections with the Regent, were laughable.

“How about Dionysus? Artists tend to have a nasty streak,” Charlie said.

Uncle Charles harrumphed. Severin chuckled.

“How can you think this is funny, Severin? Someone tried to kill Nige and my father.”

Nigel merely shrugged and kept his gaze focused on the crush in his drawing room. There was barely enough room to dance, though the guests made do. Many were dancing with quite a lively gait, in fact.

“I heard Lord Baneshire has rejected your bid for Lady Lauretta’s hand, Severin,” Nigel said absently. “It appears your rakish ways are catching up to you.”