Page 17 of The Art of Sinning

“He’s always full of remorse once he gets caught. He forgets it soon enough the next time a pretty woman walks by.” When they passed directly under a streetlamp, it briefly lit Edwin’s tight lips and creased brow. “I hate to see you fretting over this. I don’t trust a thing our brother says. You mustn’t, either.”

“So you truly won’t do anything to find Peggy Moreton and her child?”

“I’ve already done all I could. I asked about an actress by that name and was told that none ever existed.”

He’d actually pursued it to that extent? Perhaps he wasn’t as heedless of the ties of family as he sometimes seemed.

He went on coldly, “And that means Samuel lied about his mistress’s former profession.”

“Or that he used her real name, not her stage name.”

“Regardless, if I go asking after a woman and her son in the stews, I’ll either look as profligate as he—which won’t help your situation as a marriageable young lady—or I’ll attract any number of impostors claiming to be the ones I seek.”

“Then hire an investigator,” she said.

“Yes, because they’re all so discreet,” he bit out.

“Edwin—”

“Perhaps you think I should ask my former fiancée’s new husband to look into it. I’m sure he’d be eager for the task,” he said bitterly.

They were back to where they’d started. The only investigators Edwin might trust were the very people who’d nearly been brought down by Samuel’s latest scheme. She doubted that the Duke’s Men would take part in what would probably appear to be another such scheme.

Yet the image of her four-year-old nephew in a bawdy house, seeing things no child should ever see...

“We cannot continue to clean up after Samuel,” Edwin said curtly. “He’s made his bed and now must lie in it.”

Unfortunately, it would not be Samuel lying in that bed, but some little boy he’d sired in his usual cavalier fashion.

“Promise me you’ll let yourself be guided by me in this,” Edwin persisted.

Burying her hands in her skirts, she crossed her fingers and her ankles, too. “I promise.”

There were times when one had to do what was right, even at some cost. And if the cost was sitting for a painting by a known scoundrel and acting the part of a loose woman in order to get into a house of ill repute, then so be it.

Four

The sun sank toward earth as Jeremy tooled his curricle up the drive to Stoke Towers. To him the place was just one more lavish English country house.

But to his young apprentice, it was apparently far more. “God strike me blind!” Damber said. “You sure have a lot of rich friends and family in England, sir.”

After having been dragged through tumbledown hotels and inns for the past three months on the Continent, the lad had apparently forgotten that Jeremy wasn’t just any artist. Sometimes even Jeremy forgot it. When he traveled, he preferred to live like the rest of the populace.

“Ah, but these are neither friends nor family,” Jeremy said. “They’re clients. And they’d best be rich if they’re to afford me.”

“From the size of the bowman ken they’re living in, I’d say they’re fat culls indeed.”

“Language, Damber,” Jeremy said sharply.

“Talking like you gentry coves is hard,” the lad replied without a hint of repentance. “And what does it matter anyhow? You said I got the finest hand with a brush you ever saw. Ain’t that enough?”

“No, it ‘ain’t.’ If you sound like a coarse devil, it won’t matter that you paint like a saint. No one with the money to buy your art will notice you if you don’t seem at least moderately educated. And you do want to progress beyond apprentice, don’t you?”

“I suppose,” muttered the ungrateful devil.

“Then speak correctly. I know you’re capable of it when you concentrate. I’ve heard you.” He ran his gaze over the towering lad. For once, Damber’s cravat was straight, his waistcoat buttoned, and his shirt tucked properly in his trousers. “You’ve finally begun to look like a gentleman, thank God. Now you must talk like one.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.” Damber cast him a cheeky grin. “P’raps if you paid me more...”