Page 32 of A Duke's Lustful Portrait
“No wonder he’s not here tonight, then,” his drinking partner retorted. “I wouldn’t be half surprised if he’s got his wife involved as well!”
Fesser turned to Sebastian, eyes sparkling with mischief. “What do you say, Ravenswood? Fancy taking on a young man?”
Sebastian’s eyes were drawn to the corner of the room, where Lady Arabella sat attending her painting. The house was full of her artwork—all of it stunning and a fair bit of it scandalous. Never before had Sebastian seen so many images of naked people in all sorts of positions, and certainly not on such proud display. They were normally handed furtively between men in taverns, postcard-sized sketches designed to stimulate.
The thought of Arabella in such situations stirred his loins as much as shocked him. She was the picture of innocence, and he was impressed at how she had not let such darkness overwhelm her. It was not merely her father’s insistence that she remain so. Her own strength of character prevented her descent into scandal, too.
“Must be,” the other man said, his glass over his lips as if to cover up the insult as Sebastian’s attention was dragged back to the conversation. “For we haven’t seen you take up with any of the women we have on offer here, nor at any of the other events.”
Sebastian shot them a false smile. “Think what you will, gentlemen. Not everything is as you see it. Perhaps I’m merely biding my time, or maybe you really ought to lock up your sons.”
With a flash of amusement at their expressions, Sebastian sauntered out of the drawing room. It felt good to shock the seemingly unshockable.
He stalked the house. The members had spread out across all the rooms—even the bedrooms and kitchen! Sinclair was busy being a good host, making sure to talk to everyone in attendance. Seeing his chance, Sebastian slipped down the hall and into the study Sinclair had so kindly shown him earlier that afternoon. To his surprise, the door was not locked.
“You old fool, Sinclair,” he muttered.
The man had so much power now that he forgot there were other duplicitous people in the world, men ready to bring you down at a moment’s notice.
Men set on revenge.
He closed the door behind him slowly to avoid the click of the latch, then looked around, wondering where to start. He dashed behind the desk and pulled out the drawers one by one.
Nothing.
Piles of blank parchment that must have cost a pretty penny, small glass jars of ink. A pair of scissors, a scattering of coins. Nothing of any use to Sebastian. He closed the last drawer and looked over to the bookcases. The files were labelled alphabetically. He pulled one out at random and ran his finger down the first page.
“Fesser, Archibald. Baron of Dandbury. Huh, ironic.”
He scanned the information there, though there wasn’t much interesting—how many portraits he’d had painted and when, how much money he had donated, what menial tasks he had been put to. He flicked to another page.
“Fredericks, Jeremy.”
Sebastian frowned. There was nothing scandalous in any of these papers, nothing to suggest that the society was anything but clean and correct and legal. With a sigh, he closed the file and slid it back into its place on the shelf.
He tried a ledger next, though even that seemed legitimate, even if it was not quite honest. It listed expenditure and income, and though some of the entries were vague, they were again perfectly within the realms of the law. If it were not for the lewd paintings that covered this house, any layperson entering it would think it a perfectly normal place.
Sebastian returned the ledger to the shelf, then took a seat in Sinclair’s oversized chair. He rested his elbow on the table, his chin in his hand, and he let his mind work through the problem. There had to besomething, Sebastian knew that. He just had to find it. Once he did, he would have everything he needed to ensure the Duke of Westment never again saw the light of day.
Where would I hide something of such importance?
His eyes travelled the room, brushing over each shelf. The window. The desk.Nothing. He growled in frustration, letting his hand drop down beside him. That’s when he spotted it. In the floor, barely visible, was a tiny catch. He looked around it, and yes, there was a slight crack around one floor tile.
A cache.
Sebastian almost laughed. Sinclair was nothing but a cliché. He leapt from his chair and was about to get down on his knees to pry the thing open when the door swung open, and he froze.
***
“Sebastian!”
He swung around at the sound of her voice, his eyes wide with panic. “Lady Arabella. I …”
She entered the room and closed the door behind her. “What are you doing in here?” she asked.
He licked his lips, and she watched closely, unable to tear her eyes away from him. He had been occupied all evening, but she had hoped she would get an opportunity to get him alone. She craved his touch again, desperate to feel his fingertips travelling across her body as they had almost done when she painted his portrait.
“What areyoudoing here?” he asked, deflecting the question.
