Page 13 of His Scandalous Lessons
What he recalled the most was how selfish she was. How she was more concerned with punishing the old Earl of Kent for his indiscretions than taking care of her own children. She let herself become ill in an attempt to bring their father back home — hoping for his pity — but their father was equally selfish. He didn’t come back until they were lowering her coffin into the ground.
“Even so,” she said, “it has made you hate sunny days.” She dropped her hand and reached for the small table beside her to collect the stack of papers there. “These are for you. Information on Mr. Charles Alston. His reputation in the shipping business is, to put it lightly, very criminal. He hides his dealings with false names.”
Richard stared down at her neat handwriting and glanced through the pages. “My god, this is thorough. You recall the amounts?”
“Of course.” Anne straightened. “If my father needed to know any information quickly, I was there to provide it. He burned a great deal of documentation so the things he knew could never fall into the wrong hands. He relies almost entirely on my memory.”
She had told him Stanton used her memory to record his dealings, but this was remarkable. She had this man’s entire history laid out. No wonder her father had such an iron grip on his allies, and no wonder he wanted to keep his daughter so close. She was a walking, talking book of his blackmail information.
At his silence, she asked. “What do you intend to do with it?”
“I need to send this to Thorne,” he muttered, skimming the carefully detailed dates, amounts, names.
“Thorne?” she inquired. “I don’t know that name.”
“You wouldn’t. Most of his dealings in Parliament go through me. Nicholas Thorne has a great deal of influence in the criminal underworld. He’s the one who helps me remind men of their loyalties when bills come up for a vote.”
“I see.” She pressed her lips together. “You must tell him to take care. If my father catches word—”
“I know,” he assured her. “Trust me.”
“I don’t know how to trust people, Mr. Grey,” Anne said.
“Richard,” he corrected. He reached out and grasped her hand. “And I’ll teach you.”
Chapter 7
The following afternoon, Richard took Anne to a cottage a short distance from the estate. It was white-washed with blue trim, and covered over in English ivy. The rose bushes that surrounded the cottage were in full bloom, lending the place a storybook feel, which was no doubt Caroline’s intention when she designed it.
Anne reached out to touch a red rose by the front door. “What a peaceful cottage,” she murmured, caressing the rose. “Does it belong to the gardener or the game keeper?”
“Neither,” Richard said, drawing closer. “This is Caro’s private studio. She’s cleared it out for our use.” Anne looked beautiful out here, the color in her cheeks high from their walk. Her smile was small, but content. Freedom agreed with her.
She pushed open the wooden door and Richard followed her. Caroline had had the entire place cleaned, swept, and aired out before their arrival. The scent of lemons permeated through the rooms, lovingly complimented by the fresh perfume from the roses outside. Anne grazed her hand along the back of a chair in the sitting room; the furniture was plush, comfortable, made for lounging rather than aesthetics. Caroline designed the place with relaxation in mind, even including a small bedroom to rest between painting sessions. Richard knew for a fact the duchess came here when she needed to work without disturbance. It was her sanctuary.
And, for now, it would be his and Anne’s.
“How incredible,” Anne murmured, pausing to look at one of Caroline’s paintings. It was from her Henry Morgan collection, depicting Eros and Psyche caught in a nude embrace. The canvas was so large, it consumed nearly half the wall. “I wish I could still paint. I used to attempt watercolors.”
“Used to?” Richard cocked his head. Would she look at him? “Isn’t that a frequent hobby for ladies?”
“Yes.” Anne straightened. “But Kendal did not like the mess I made of my clothes. And so my father threw out my work.” As Richard thought of something to say, she brushed her fingertips along the frame. “Henry Morgan. I remember his work in the National Gallery. I felt as if I spent hours admiring each one.”
“Her,” Richard said with a smile.
Anne glanced over at him. “Sorry?”
“Her work. Henry Morgan is Caroline’s pseudonym.”
“My word,” Anne said in surprise. “Why wouldn’t she claim credit for these? Everyone loves them.”
“Because the scandal would overshadow the quality of the paintings. People would call them perversions.” At her confused expression, Richard shifted closer. “He’s a demigod, and Psyche’s a mere human. Yet do you notice the way Eros gazes at her?” he murmured into her ear. “He’s worshipping her as if she were a goddess.”
“Is that bad?” Anne asked.
“No. But this is an intimate moment, isn’t it? He’s inside her.”
He heard the hitch in her breath as she looked at where Eros and Psyche were joined.
