Page 88 of The Duke
If Imogen’s father had been a longtime client of the Bare Kitten, if he’d owed the establishment a great deal of money, it followed that the remaining family might have some dealings with the former—or current—proprietor, and that she would be ashamed to admit said dealings to society.
Especially to an admittedly antagonistic duke.
If it was found out that the countess Anstruther was associated with a Piccadilly pimp, it would be more than a scandal. It would be her undoing.
The balcony door opened to the master suite, a room he’d expected to be hers. But as Cole crept across the plush carpets to the bedside, he was astonished to find a plump, gray-haired woman prone in slack-jawed slumber.
Her mother, he realized, as an ache bloomed in his chest. Imogen had relinquished the largest and most comfortable rooms to the woman, most likely taking residence in the countess’s suites, as she would have when Earl Anstruther was still alive.
It seemed like something she would do, he thought with a reluctant half-smile, sacrifice luxury for those she loved.
Making his way into the hall, he hesitated, glancing toward what he knew to be the countess’s suites merely steps away.
He would find Imogen there; her sleep aided by many glasses of champagne. Soft, pliant, and warm. Lord, how his fingers itched to open the door to her room and let the darkness decide what happened next.
But what he wouldn’t find in her bed was her secrets.
They resided in a different room, of that he was certain.
The day he’d fought the gangsters on her porch, she’d led him down a long hall toward the back stairs. Upon finding a door slightly ajar, she’d quickly pulled it shut, casting him a guilty look.
He’d known in that moment that the room contained something she hadn’t wanted him to see. At the time, he’d politely pretended not to notice.
At the time,he’d not known her past was so connected to his own.
He turned to the stairs, making his way from the second floor to the ground level. Then on flat, noiseless feet he crossed the grand entry and hall to the familiar door. It didn’t surprise him when he found it locked, and he effortlessly picked it, easing the door open on quiet, well-oiled hinges.
Being in the middle of the house, the room boasted no windows, and the hall outside was lit by little more than moonbeams and the wan glow of a lamp left burning for those who would make a nocturnal meander to the kitchens.
Cole got an impression of strange, mismatched angles inside the room, much like the skyline of a city from above. He fetched the lantern from the end of the hall and returned, holding the light aloft.
Paintings?
He drifted into the large, dark-paneled room, drawn forward by equal parts awe and apprehension. Here was her sanctum, the place where she kept the renderings of her mind and memory.
Her easel and tools were supported by the far wall with a chaotic sort of organization. The sketch of Achilles was propped next to them, beginning to take real form with the application of a few rough coats of heavy color.
Dusty coverlets adorned a few of the taller canvases, though just as many were left exposed. Various landscapes transported him to the countryside, and then to a back street of the East End. Others were obvious renderings of places she’d only ever seen in other paintings. Morocco or Marrakesh, the Indies, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, the Alps. All painted with a wistful, yearning hand. It was as though she accepted her ignorance, and created with her brushes her own idea of a destination. Each of those landscapes had a sense of incompletion, of expectancy, as if they waited for her to travel there, to fill in the reality over the fantastical so they could be considered finished.
She was more talented than he’d realized, Cole thought. What if he took her to these places? Destinations he’d likely already traversed, but instead of his aim being entrapment and espionage, it would be nothing more than enjoyment.
Perhaps, while he watched her transpose what beauty her gentle eyes found, he’d locate that thing for which he’d been eternally searching.
Peace. Purpose. Meaning.
Love?
Though he knew that no one resided on this floor, Cole moved with the utmost care, with the sense he was on hallowed ground. An expectant stillness permeated the room, a sacred silence that both beckoned and repelled him.
Setting the lantern down on one of the many trunks scattered about the room, Cole reached for one of the covered canvases with an unsteady hand.
Secrets were always covered up and, once revealed, could never again find the darkness.
He hesitated, his fingers tuned to the coarse ridges of oil paint beneath the thin cotton.
Tell me what you fear. Tell me your secrets and I’ll hold everything together.He’d promised her that a mere few hours ago.
Must I?she’d replied.Must the past matter so much now that you are back and I am who I am instead of who I was?
