A Scandalous Portrait (The Rose Room Rogues 1)

Hunt reached for his drink from the footman’s tray. It would be Blackmoor who made that statement since the man loved gossip more than the old, disapproving matrons of the ton.

“Yes. She has.” He sipped his brandy, hoping he was not going to have to speak all night about the woman of whom he was trying to rid his mind.

“I can’t help but wonder what sort of trouble she’s going to get into now?” Lord Belton grinned, and the others all nodded. Belton raised his glass. “Here’s to another fine scandal in the making.”

The others saluted him, but Hunt glared in Belton’s direction. “It is not proper to speak of a well-bred young lady that way, Belton.”

Belton gave him a dismissive wave. “Come now, Hunt. You can’t think she will stay out of difficulty, can you?” He downed the rest of his drink and signaled the footman. “Of all people, you should know that. How many times have you played the knight in shining armor to her damsel in distress?”

“Maybe we should place a wager in the book,” Talbot said, leaning forward. “How long it will take before she is in trouble again.”

“If you,” Hunt looked around the group, “if any of you, write Lady Diana’s name in that book, or a book at any club in London, you will face the consequences at the end of my fists.”

Shocked looks and silence greeted him. “Sorry, Hunt. Didn’t know that was the way of things,” Blackmoor said, his brows raised.

Hunt tossed the rest of his drink down, the burning liquid settling in his sour stomach. “There is no the way of things. I just won’t allow a young lady of good breeding to be maligned in my presence.”

When silence remained, Hunt placed his glass on the table in front of him. “Gentlemen.” He rose and strode from the room. He was obviously not in the proper frame of mind for companionship.

Still unsettled as he rode home in his carriage, he pushed aside the picture in his mind of Diana naked and reclining on a lounge, and instead focused on what he could do to help her.

Steal the portrait.

Once the carriage rolled to a stop in front of his townhouse, he jumped from the vehicle and addressed the driver. “John, when you return the carriage, please wake the groom and ask him to saddle my horse.”

As a well-trained servant, the driver offered no reaction to his master requesting his horse saddled for a ride in the middle of the night.

Hunt bounded up the front steps and proceeded to his bedchamber. His valet, Marcus, awaited him.

Hunt began pulling off his cravat. “I need to change into riding clothes.”

Also used to his master’s comings and goings over the years, Marcus merely nodded and walked to the wardrobe where he extracted appropriate clothing.

If he were to attempt to sneak into Mallory’s studio and swipe the scandalous portrait, he needed to first assess the place. Not that he was committed to stealing it. He just wanted to see what the possibilities were before he spoke with Diana.

Damn, the woman could get herself into the most trying situations. Finding herself in the dark part of Vauxhall Gardens with one of London’s worst rakes had forced her flight to Italy. Of course, had she agreed to marry the Viscount Stratford as was expected in those circumstances, she would not have been forced to escape London under a shroud of scandal.

However, Diana being who she was, refused to marry the man, said he tricked her into being caught, was only after her money, and furthermore, she declared loudly to all and sundry that Stratford was an arse.

In those very words.

Now there was a naked portrait of her floating around and, if it wasn’t retrieved before Mallory sold it, her reputation would be unrecoverable.

Truth be known, this was one time Diana was truly not at fault. Her only crime was trusting Mallory, although she had no reason not to. His reputation as a respectable art dealer was unchallenged. He had chosen his victim wisely, knowing that Diana was without male protection, wealthy, and could not afford another black mark against her reputation. Being the greedy bastard he was, Mallory had asked for just about every pound the woman owned.

Dressed in appropriate clothing, Hunt swung his leg over his horse, a dark Irish Hunter, named—appropriately—Black Diamond, and headed to Albemarle Street where the Mallory studio was located. It was not a long ride and, with most events of the evening over, the streets were quiet.

He viewed the building from the front, then climbed down from Black Diamond and surveyed the outside of the place from all sides. He took note of the structures on either side. He strode up the steps and tried the front door, which was, expectedly, locked.

Back down the worn steps, he took a final look at the building and surveyed the area. His mind made up, he mounted the horse and headed home.

* * *

The next morning, Diana looked up from the book she was reading at Briggs entrance into the drawing room. “My lady, Lord Huntington has called.”

“Oh, thank you. Please send him in.” She quickly slid her feet to the floor where they had been tucked under her bottom. She bent to retrieve her house slippers and pulled them on. She closed her book and placed it on the table. Assured she was ready for this visit, she looked up with a smile as Hunt entered the room.

“Good morning, my lady.” He bowed before her, and she extended her hand.