Hunt ran his fingers through his hair for probably the hundredth time as he continued to pace in his library. A half empty brandy bottle sat on his desk, but he’d had enough to calm him down, but not to forget.
The damn portrait was hanging in The Rose Room!
Every time that thought entered his brain, he felt the need to punch the wall, or perhaps his brother. He again went over his conversation with Dante after discovering the painting.
He’d flown up the stairs, slammed into the office, and grabbed Dante by his cravat, lifting him off the chair. “Why the devil is that painting hanging on the wall downstairs?”
Driscoll was even surprised enough to look up from his work. “What the hell, Hunt. What’s going on?”
He shook Dante and let him go, dropping him back into his chair. “You took that painting from my house.”
His brother straightened his cravat. “I did you a favor.”
Hunt fisted his hands on his hips. “What favor?”
Obviously, the look on Hunt’s face disturbed his usually devil-may-care brother because he leaned back. “You’re married now. You don’t need that kind of painting in your house. If your wife found it, she would probably shoot you.” He snapped his fingers. “Ah, I’ll bet she did see it and that’s why you’re so out of sorts.”
“Keep my wife out of this.” God, just mentioning Diana brought sweat to his brow. “Anyway, take it down, I’m taking it home.”
“I don’t think that’s a good business move, brother,” Driscoll said, pushing his glasses farther up on his nose. “Ever since that portrait was hung, we’ve had more crowds than usual. Word has spread, and everyone assumes the young lady is of the demimonde, and they are trying to guess who she is. I believe there is even a betting page.”
Hunt felt as though he was punched in the stomach. His wife, the woman he loved more than anything in the world, was on display for the entire ton to ogle. The only thing keeping him from howling like a mad dog was the fact that Mallory got it wrong and that was not truly his wife’s beautiful body on display.
“Do you have some particular interest in the woman, Hunt?” Dante asked. “Is she your former mistress?” He looked over at Driscoll. “All the more reason to have it out of your house.”
Dear God, how to get out of this mess without letting them know it was his innocent wife who had been duped into that scandalous portrait? If he didn’t calm down, his very smart brothers might go in a direction he had no intention of letting them wander. “No. She is not one of my mistresses.”
“Who is she? If you give us a name, we can encourage even more bets,” Dante said.
Hunt leaned toward his brother. “I want it taken down. Now.”
Dante and Driscoll glanced at each other, and Hunt was not happy with the puzzled look they shared. He needed to back off and give himself time to deal with this. “Very well.” He brushed the sleeves of his jacket. “I will leave now, but this is not over.” He pointed his finger at Dante. “Don’t ever take anything from my house again without my permission. I should call the magistrate and have you locked up.”
With those words, he left the office, slamming the door hard enough that something fell from the wall and landed on the floor.
Now he lived in fear that somehow—he had no idea how—Diana would find out about this. He was certain that would be the end of their marriage. Would she even believe him if he told her he had no
thing to do with where the painting rested now?
He walked to the brandy bottle and was pouring another when Dante came striding into the library. “Hunt, you have to come to the club. Diana just passed out.”
Could this night get any worse? “What was Diana doing in the club?”
“Looking for you, but I told her you had gone home. She was headed out of the club when she collapsed.”
He rubbed his hand over his face. Diana had gone to the club. There was only one reason why she would faint.
Hunt returned the bottle to the table and headed past Dante. It would be faster on his horse, but he couldn’t sling Diana over his shoulder and ride her home through the streets of London like some pirate carrying his bounty. “Did you come in a carriage?” he asked Dante as he raced past a confused Peters.
“Yes. It’s out front.”
They climbed in after Hunt shouted at the driver to take whatever route would get them to the club fastest.
Once they settled in, Hunt glared at Dante. “Tell me what happened.”
Dante shrugged. “Once I told her you had gone home, I offered to escort her to her carriage, but she declined—”
“—That was your second mistake,” Hunt growled.