These Violent Delights (These Violent Delights 1)

She said nothing. Paul took the opportunity to touch her elbow and lead her into the rest of the house, speaking excitedly about his surprise. They wound through the long halls, passing surrealistic paintings that hung from the pearl-white walls. Juliette craned her neck every which way, trying to inspect the rooms she could glimpse into, but they were walking too speedily for her to get a good look.

It turned out that Juliette needn’t have worried about searching for Walter Dexter’s locus of business. Paul led her right into it. They came into a large office space—likely the biggest room in the entire house—with smooth wooden flooring and high bookshelves lining the walls. Here the air felt different: murkier, more humid, a result of the sealed windows and thick curtains. Juliette’s eyes went to the giant desk first, taking in the menagerie of files and stacks upon stacks of papers.

“Hobson,” Paul called. “Hobson!”

A butler appeared behind them: Chinese, dressed in a Western getup. There was no way his name was truly Hobson. Juliette would not have been surprised if Paul had merely assigned him this name because he did not wish to pronounce his Chinese one.

“Sir?”

Paul gestured into the room, to the spacious area in front of the desk where there was an oval gray rug and, atop it, four easels with four large canvases, covered by a coarse cloth.

“Would you do the honors?”

Hobson bowed. He strode into the room, his spine straight and his white-gloved hands held in front of him. When he pulled off the cloth, the fabric blended with his gloves.

Juliette looked at the four canvases.

“Oh… my…”

“Do you like them?”

Each canvas was a painting of her: two as a study of her facial features and the other two involving scenery, placing her in a garden or what might have been the world’s loneliest tea party. Juliette didn’t know what was more horrifying, that Paul thought this was a gift she would be pleased to receive, or that he actually spent his hard-earned dirty money from the Larkspur on this. She didn’t even know what to say, perhaps except: “My nose isn’t that high.”

Paul jerked back, ever so slightly. “What?”

“My nose”—Juliette pulled her elbow from his grasp and turned to face the paneled windows, so he could see her side profile—“is rather flat. I am beautiful from the front, I know, but my side profile is rather lackluster. You’ve given me too much credit.”

Hobson started to fold up the cloth sheet. The sound was too loud in the abrupt quiet that had settled into the room. Paul’s lips were slowly turning down, faltering—finally, finally, for the first time all day, picking up on Juliette’s attitude. This was not ideal. She was supposed to be winning his trust, not trashing it, no matter how creepy he was. She quickly turned to face Paul again, beaming.

“But I’m so incredibly flattered. How very kind of you. How could I thank you for such a gift?”

Paul grasped her offer of recovery. He inclined his head, pleased once more, and said, “Oh, it is my pleasure. Hobson, pack up the paintings and send someone to take them to Miss Cai’s house, would you?”

Juliette was looking forward to tossing the canvases in the attic and never looking at them again. Or maybe she should burn the horrific things instead. If Rosalind saw them, she would never let Juliette live it down.

“Shall we continue our walk, then?”

Juliette startled. If they left Walter’s office now, could she find the time to come back without being spotted? The house was full of servants, and she doubted anyone would hesitate to tell on her if they caught her lurking about.

Hobson cleared his throat, meaning to inch past Juliette with one of the canvases in his arms. Absently, still contemplating her options, Juliette took a step away and cleared a path, her back pressing to the cool wooden column behind her. It was mightily warm in this part of the Dexters’ house. Unnaturally warm.

As Hobson exited, inspiration struck.

“All this excitement,” Juliette said suddenly, placing a hand to her forehead. “I—” She feigned a swoon. Paul rushed forward to catch her. He was quick enough to stop her from hitting the ground, but by then she had settled herself solidly into a crumpled position, her knees curled up beneath her.

“Miss Cai, are you—”

“It is merely the heat. It rushes right to my head,” Juliette assured him breathlessly, waving off his concern. “Do you have tiger balm? Of course not—you British have no clue about our medicines. I’m sure one of your house servants must know what I’m talking about. Can you fetch me some?”

“Of course, of course,” Paul stammered quickly. Harried, he let go of her gently and hurried off.

Juliette immediately scrabbled up.

“I’m really making a habit out of snooping around other people’s desks,” she muttered to herself. With the countdown ticking, she shuffled through the files

, her eyes scanning for any mention of the Larkspur. She found dozens of calling cards, dozens of letters containing contact information, but there was no invoice with the Larkspur—not even anything to do with lernicrom. He was certainly still trying to sell the drug, so where was the evidence?

There was no time to mull further. Footsteps were coming back down the hallway.