Page 13 of The Art of Sinning

Damn her. He had no desire to wed anyone again, especially some earl’s daughter harboring sordid secrets. And if he made advances toward her ladyship, that’s exactly what would happen. He would find himself leg-shackled faster than his apprentice could mix paints.

So he was surprised to hear himself say, “All right. We’ll visit the Covent Garden brothel as soon as I can figure out how to arrange it without ruining you.” Then he paused. “You do know there’s more than one, don’t you?”

Her eyes widened. “You’re joking.”

“Not a bit. I believe there are at least three.”

She began to pace. “Drat him, all he said was it was in Covent Garden!”

“He who? Blakeborough?”

“B-Blakeborough?” she repeated, clearly startled.

“Not your brother, then.” A chill skated down his spine. Could it be her other brother, the criminal one? No, she would have involved Blakeborough if it were. Jeremy had enough experience with the English aristocracy to know that they closed ranks around their own. Or cut them off completely.

So this was clearly her own private affair. What had he gotten himself into?

She swallowed hard. “I was referring to my... er... source of information about the person I seek.”

“And who is this source?” He fixed her with a hard look. “A friend? A secret lover? Before I agree to this insanity, I want to know who else is involved.”

“Youalreadyagreed!”

“That was before I knew—”

Someone hailed them from the steps, and Jeremy looked up to find a scowling Blakeborough rapidly approaching.

“So this is where you two got off to,” the earl said.

Pasting a bored expression to his face, Jeremy said, “We came out here to get some air. It was stifling in the ballroom.”

Warily, the man glanced from Jeremy to his sister. But he must have seen nothing to give alarm, for his face cleared. “So? Did the two of you come to an agreement? Are you painting Yvette’s portrait?”

Jeremy stared at Yvette, and the pleading look on her face punched him in the gut.

This was madness. She wanted him to help her with some secret scheme involving a brothel and an unknown gentleman. He barely knew her, wasn’t even sure he could trust her.

Worse yet, she tempted him more powerfully than any woman had in years. Acting on such an attraction invariably led to something deeper, which invariably led to pain and guilt and shattering loss. As long as he confined himself to easy flirtations, he didn’t end up with shards of a life to put back together.

And what would he gain if he agreed to her bargain, anyway, other than the hellish task of painting an insipid portrait of his bewitching Juno?

You’ll get to do the work you really want. You’ll have a chance to be a serious artist, not just a wealthy millowner’s son who succeeded at a few historical paintings. You’ll get to show the world the potential in painting real life with its edges and heartbreak. What’s a little trouble over some intrigue next to that?

He dragged in a deep breath. “Of course I’m painting it. As long as Lady Yvette agrees.”

“Oh yes,” she said quickly. “I can’t wait to start.”

Neither could he. But he was a glutton for punishment whenever a fetching female was involved.

“Well, then, Keane,” Blakeborough began, “if you’d like to come round to our town house in Mayfair tomorrow—”

“Actually, Edwin,” Lady Yvette cut in with a veiled glance at Jeremy, “Mr. Keane and I have discussed it, and we feel it would be best to paint the portrait at Stoke Towers.”

The earl’s gaze narrowed on her. “Why?”

“With Mr. Keane’s reputation as a rogue, it wouldn’t do to have people see him come and go regularly from our town house. It would almost certainly start tongues wagging. You don’t want that, do you?”

“I suppose not,” her brother muttered.