Page 22 of The Art of Sinning

Best of all, in the center of the room stood a massive oak table that had obviously been deemed too marred by scratches and stains to warrant protecting. It could serve as an altar if he covered it with white fabric.

He ran his hand over the dusty surface. A pity he couldn’t use it as it was. The wood had stories to tell; he could practically hear it calling to him. But the altar’s surface must be pale enough to show the blood that he would paint coursing down from his sacrifice.

His beautiful, provocative sacrifice, who remained frozen in the doorway, clearly uncertain of his choice. “Surely you don’t think this will do.”

“Actually, it’s perfect.”

He wandered the room in a fog of thought. He’d originally envisioned a wilderness scene, with Commerce as a stodgy fellow he meant to paint in later, looming over the lovely Art lying prone beneath his knife as her blood dripped onto the granite altar. But why should Commerce be outside? Better to use that classical frieze that spanned the schoolroom’s ceiling. And the fretwork above the windows, like something out of a Grecian temple, or a bank.

Yes! The modern equivalent of the worship of money was the institution where all that money was kept! Banks often had Grecian architecture, some elements of which were in this very room.

Excitement coursing through him, he scanned the marble fireplace with its plaster medallion above, perfect for a bank. And the oak table could work as a counter, like those where clerks stood to serve the account holders.

He frowned. But the oak was still too dark to show the blood. Maybe if he—

“Mr. Keane!”

The voice startled him. Only after he turned to find Lady Yvette looking worried did he realize she’d spoken his name more than once. “Yes?”

“Where were you?”

He smiled ruefully. “Forgive me, my lady. When I’m working I get a bit lost in the project, and my surroundings disappear.”

She nodded. “Rather like Edwin when he’s working on his automatons.”

“Automatons?”

“Machines that you wind up and—”

“I know what an automaton is,” Jeremy remarked. “I just wouldn’t have expected your brother to have any.”

“He does them for the boys’ school we support. Says that they help the boys learn physics and mechanical skills and such. But I think he also does it because of Papa.”

“Oh?”

“Papa collected dozens through the years. At first, Edwin fiddled with them only when they broke, since Samuel and I were so amused by them.” Her face clouded over. “Then later he started making his own after Mama got sick, when he had to spend hours at her side because...”

Whirling on her heel, she walked into the hall. “We should go downstairs,” she said in a remote tone. “I hear Edwin calling. And it wouldn’t do for him to find us up here.”

“No.” Jeremy hadn’t heard anyone calling, and he doubted she had, either. Something had spooked her, and he wanted to know what.

But now wasn’t the time to raise the question. He’d wait until she was posing for him and couldn’t easily run off. Then he’d find out exactly why his Juno was so skittish.

Five

Yvette sat across from Edwin in the drawing room, trying not to look at Mr. Keane. It was impossible. Tonight he wore a brilliant blue tailcoat that made his eyes shine so luminously, she could stare at him for hours.

Not that he gave her the chance. As she and Edwin played chess, he sat beside the fireplace and sketched.

She couldn’t believe she’d agreed to meet with him alone at night. Was she out of her wits?

No. She was a grown woman in full control of her senses. She was older now, and far wiser. Surely she could handle the likes of Mr. Keane.

If you’re naïve enough to think that threatening to calla servant would save you from seduction, then you don’t know any man’s tricks.

Oh, dear.

Still, he did want his painting. He would behave.