A Scandalous Portrait (The Rose Room Rogues 1)

The place always looked so different when cast in dark shadows. The gaming tables resembled monsters waiting to pounce on a poor soul to grab and haul one to some evil place. The smell of whiskey and cheroots surrounded them as they wove their way around the tables.

“It looks quite different when empty,” Diana said in a whisper.

Hunt nodded and took her hand to lead her to the wall where the portrait hung. He picked up one of the oil lamps from a table to carry with him.

“I think when we get to the portrait, the best way to do this is for you to climb onto my shoulders. That should make you tall enough to pluck the painting off the wall. Just be careful that it doesn’t throw you off balance.”

Diana nodded.

They arrived at the wall, and Hunt held up the oil lamp.

They both stared at the empty space where the portrait hung only hours before.

He turned to Diana, who looked back at him, both of their jaws slack.

“Where is the portrait?” they said at the same time.

“Oh, the devil take it,” Diana said, apparently not too concerned about her language at this point. “Do you think your brother sold it? Do you think one of the patrons won it? Didn’t I hear there was some sort of betting going on?” Her shaky voice rose higher and higher with each question until Hunt was certain she was working herself into a full-blown panic.

“Calm down, sweetheart. I don’t know why they took it off the wall, but I’m sure it’s in the office upstairs.” He took her ice-cold hand. “Come.”

It had better be in the office upstairs. He couldn’t imagine why it would not be. He didn’t even want to consider Diana’s concerns about someone from the club winning it. He told himself the sweat that broke out on his body was from the exertion of climbing the steps to the office and not abject terror at that possibility.

He flung the door open, and they entered, lighting all the lamps as they wandered the space.

“I don’t see it.” Diana’s voice was a dejected whisper.

They searched the office, as well as the supply room next to it. No portrait.

Hunt ran his hand down his face and then held his hand out to Diana. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

“To my brother’s house so I can kill him.”

“You can’t go to Dante’s house to kill him this late. He’s probably sleeping.”

“Good, then he won’t know what hit him.” He dragged her along the corridor, down the steps, and out the door. He just about tossed her into the carriage, slammed the door, and slumped in the corner of the vehicle.

* * *

Diana’s stomach was in knots, but she still didn’t think they should barge into Dante’s house. He would certainly question their anxiety to get the painting back and might come up with an answer she definitely did not want.

She reached across the space between them and placed her hand over Hunt’s. “Let’s just go home. I’m tired, annoyed, and ready for a large brandy.”

His brows rose. “Brandy? You? I’ve never seen you drink brandy before.”

She sighed. “If there ever was a time for me to start, I believe this is it.”

They remained silent for the ride home. Diana was indeed tired, actually bordering on exhaustion. She hadn’t slept in almost twenty-four hours, and she didn’t have the strength to worry about where the portrait was now.

If Mallory wasn’t already dead, she would shoot him herself.

It was a sorry, dejected pair who entered the townhouse in Mayfair. The servants were already up and taking care of their chores when Diana and Hunt arrived home. The aroma of fresh baked bread filled the air, making her stomach rumble.

Hunt regarded her carefully. “Are you sure you want a brandy? Maybe tea and some food instead?”

Truthfully, the idea of brandy did turn her stomach, and the thought of tea and food appealed much more. “Yes. Thank you. That sounds much better, but you go ahead and have a brandy if you want one.”