She chewed her lip again, knowing full well what he said was correct. But the thought of him looking at her. . .
“Very well. Then this is what I propose.” She patted the seat alongside her. She was tired of staring up at him. He was so very tall, and very broad, and very masculine, virile, and she was having a hard time breathing. It must have been that his sizable presence was using up all the air.
Hunt sat and turned to her. “What plan do you have now, sweeting?”
“When you search the portraits, only look at the heads.”
Hunt dragged his hand down his face. “All right. I will try—but I can’t promise I can do it—to look only at heads and faces.”
“Thank you.” She smiled and then frowned. “One more thing.”
He sighed. “Now what?”
“Once you get it home, you must burn it.”
“Burn it?”
“Yes. Burn it.”
“Without looking at it, I presume?”
“Of course. You can place it backwards in the fireplace and then burn it.” She stared at him for a moment. “What is wrong with your eye?”
“My eye?”
“Yes.” She pointed to his face. “You seem to have this tic underneath your right eye.”
* * *
About three o’clock the next morning, not wanting to have his very first genuine thievery—he did not count Miss Manchester’s retrieval of her own property as theft—hanging over his head, Hunt dressed all in black and had his butler arrange to have a hackney secured and waiting on the next street. On the off chance someone recognized the crest on his coach, he thought it best to remain as anonymous as possible.
There were still a few carriages returning from events, but the streets were mostly empty. A light mist had begun to fall and that, along with the usual fog, helped to hide anyone traipsing about the area. He had the driver stop a full street from the gallery with instructions to wait for him. From there, he walked, keeping close to the buildings and well into the shadows.
The building housing the gallery stood in the moonless night, a dark shadow amongst others on the street. It was a three-story building and, considering the need for light, he assumed the gallery occupied the top floor.
After a quick glance at the street, Hunt turned and moved deftly alongside the building into the narrow alleyway. His heavy breathing misted in the night air. He squatted in front of the back door and, despite the lack of light, used his sense of touch and considerable skill to open the skimpy lock with a pick; a skill he’d learned as a youth while at Eton. Many a night he and the other lads assuaged their always-present hunger by breaking into the kitchen cupboards.
A slight squeak as he opened the door paused him for a minute. When no sound came from within, he entered and started up the stairs.
That led him to an open room, with no door enclosing it. In the deep shadows, he spotted about twenty paintings displayed on the walls, obviously for sale. He didn’t even bother glancing at them since he was certain Mallory would not have the audacity to exhibit Diana’s painting. Not if he expected to swindle money from her.
Or live to see the next day.
A quick scan of the room revealed a door that led to a small room. He entered to find six or seven stacks of canvases lining the walls. Much like a large closet, the room had no windows.
He went down on his knees and lit the small lantern he carried with him. He closed the door in case someone was out and about and saw the glow from within and called the Watch. The lantern didn’t provide a lot of light, but enough for him to at least see if the paintings were of people, and whether the subject was a man or a woman.
On the third grouping he sorted through, he sucked in a deep breath as the portrait he was looking for sat before him. He pulled it out and rested it at the front of the stack. He let out a low whistle and, leaning back on his heels, he tried—not very hard, admittedly—to look only at Diana’s face.
Just to be sure, of course.
He retrieved the lamp from the center of the small room and brought it closer to the painting, only because he needed to make doubly sure it was her, he assured himself.
Despite his best intentions and how much he chastised himself, it wasn’t possible to only look at her face. His eyes drifted down. He broke into a sweat, and his mouth dried up. If this painting ever got out, she would be ruined beyond redemption. The only saving grace was that her head was turned in such a way that her hair partially covered her face. It occurred to him that if a person knew Diana quite well, and stared at the picture for a long time, or if she stood right next to it perhaps, only then could she be identified.
But it was not a chance he could take.
Hunt closed his eyes and rubbed them with his thumb and index finger. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get the vision out of his head. He threw the piece of linen he brought with him over the painting and extinguished the lantern.