“Why?” He parted her robe, clearly disinterested in her answer, and slid his hands in to caress her breasts. She couldn’t find the will to cover herself again, not when he tormented her with his thumb circling a pink areola. Then he dipped his head to claim a nipple with his mouth.
“Oh!” A jolt of desire streaked from her breast to her womb. She had to explain something to him, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what. His tongue twirled circles around her sensitive nipple, robbing her of rational thought. When he switched to her other breast, she grabbed a slice of sanity and held on.
“We must wait. Once the painting is finished, then I can set you up in a nice little townhouse, someplace in Mayfair, I think,” she said breathlessly. She buried her fingers in his dark hair. Her legs were trembling so, it was a wonder she was still upright. “Close enough to be convenient and far enough to be discreet.”
“Set me up?” He straightened to his full height.
“Of course.” Artemisia craned her neck to look up at him. Her nipples demanded his mouth once more, but he hadn’t reduced her to begging. Not yet. “Isn’t that how these things are done?”
“What do you mean by ‘these things’?” His eyes narrowed.
“Just as I told you. I intend to take a lover. I wish that lover to be you.” She pulled her robe closed, gathering her shredded dignity with it. How could he run so hot and then so cold in mere seconds? “I would agree to a generous stipend, of course.”
“A stipend,” he repeated.
“That way you wouldn’t have to continue working for the counting house.”
“So I’d be available whenever you need me,” he said flatly. “To perform for your pleasure when you wish.”
“Exactly, clever boy.” She wished he didn’t sound so doubtful about it. She could already imagine furnishing a little love bower, a place apart from the rest of the world where she and Thomas could plumb the depths of delight without fear of interruption or discovery. “We could even draw up a contract, if you like. Some men do when they take a mistress, I’ve heard tell.”
“I see.” He ran his hand through his hair, but one lock fell back down on his forehead. She reached up to push it away, but he grasped her hand and held it tightly.
Too tightly.
“So I’m to be available to rut you on command?”
“There’s no need to be vulgar.” She tried to pull her hand away, but his grip was firm.
“What if we agree on a good roll thrice a week and maybe a quick swive or two as needed?” he suggested, his face hard as English oak. “I’m pretty good with my hands, I’m told. Perhaps we should write a diddling now and then into the damned contract, too.”
“Why are you so angry?”
“Because, madam, I am unable to enter into a
service
contract of that nature with you,” he said coldly.
“You don’t find me attractive?”
“That is beside the point.”
“Then what is the point? Men enter into this type of arrangement with women every day of the week.” She finally worked her hand free. He’d left her knuckles red and aching. “Why are you making everything so difficult?”
“Because, Your Grace, you are not a man and I am not a woman. I cannot be your kept mistress.”
“Semantics, Mr. Doverspike.”
“Reality, madam.” He knotted the sash at his waist. A muscle in his jaw worked furiously. “And now, if you would please clothe yourself, I will assist you with your corset. Then I find I must absent myself from this house before I do something I will later regret.”
His dark eyes glinted dangerously. Then he turned and waved a hand toward the tall windows where the sun was reaching its zenith and disappearing over the manor house’s steep gables.
“As you can see, Your Grace, we have already lost the light.”
“The manifest of the
Valiant
, the disposition of her cargo and the final tally of profit from the latest voyage—I believe you’ll find everything as you hoped, Your Grace.” James Shipwash slid the thick file across the desk to Artemisia.
She was meeting him in the small suite of offices she kept near the wharves instead of in her study. Mr. Beddington had to keep up appearances and a business address was one of them.
It was a tidy collection of spaces, an anteroom where Mr. Shipwash did his work, Mr. Beddington’s inner sanctum where they held their weekly conference, and a storeroom to house the records the business generated. During day-to-day operations, James Shipwash ran interference when occasionally someone tried to call on Artemisia’s
nom de guerre.
It was simple enough for Shipwash to tell a visitor Beddington was unavailable or had just stepped out.
Mr. Shipwash pushed his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose. “Even with the week’s delay on account of squalls off Bermuda, the
Valiant
has produced more profit than we projected. If I may be so bold as to say, taking on that coffee shipment was a stroke of genius, madam.”
Artemisia leafed through the ledgers of neatly totaled columns and sighed. Once the world of business had excited her almost as much as her art. Perhaps it was the clandestine foray into a man’s world under the guise of Mr. Beddington that gave the enterprise its spice. She certainly had a knack for it, a definite gift for predicting which cargo would bring the most coin once it was brought successfully to market. But lately, the facts and figures of trade failed to stir much enthusiasm in her.
Perhaps because Mr. Doverspike had shown her that there were some masculine realms into which she could not enter, no matter how well-moneyed or well-intentioned she was. A woman could not keep a man as a man might keep a mistress.
At least, not that man.
But why should it matter who paid the rent on a love-nest if both the birds were content to flock there together?
Evidently, it did matter. It mattered a great deal. Thomas Doverspike had not returned the following morning for his sitting, or any morning since. The canvas of Mars remained in shrouded seclusion.
And the painting would have been good,
she thought with bitterness. Strong and controversial in theme, her Mars was just the sort of work that would catapult her to the pinnacle of the art world’s attention.
But now it would never see the light of day.
Why did Thomas Doverspike insist on being so difficult?
She shifted her attention back to the ledgers. At least, numbers were easier to understand than men.
“This looks fine, Mr. Shipwash.” She turned her gaze to the window where a spiky forest of naked masts bobbed in the Thames. “Be good enough to draw up a list of exportable items for the return trip to the Caribbean and the Americas by Thursday next and I’ll make my decisions then.”
“Very well.” He gathered up the report and filed it in one of the polished mahogany cabinets. “Now as to the other matter you asked me to investigate . . .”
“The other matter?”
“The gentlemen, madam,” he said. “Here is a dossier on each. As you can see, Lord Shrewsbury’s son has debts in excess of ten thousand pounds to proprietors of various gaming hells.”
Artemisia waved that away. It was the bargaining chip her mother was counting on to arrange the match between the viscount’s son and her sister Delia. Ready coin was the surest way for a moneyed commoner to marry into a title.
“Shrewsbury the younger is fond of drink, mad for foxhunts and absents himself from Parliament as often as he can.”
“In short, he’s a model British peer,” Artemisia said cynically.
“There is nothing to urge against his suit of your sister,” Mr. Shipwash admitted.
“On the contrary, my sister is the one pursuing him. And if I know my mother, she’ll see the match made if for no other reason than to repay Viscountess Shrewsbury for snubbing her at the theatre,” Artemisia said. “And what of Trevelyn Deveridge?”
Mr. Shipwash frowned. “He’s a bit of a chancer, madam. Second son and all. Served admirably enough in the military, but resigned his commission under unspecified circumstances. He seems not to have any visible means of support other than the miserly pittance his father, the earl, doles out. Yet he lives well. No unusual vices, other than what might be expected in a healthy young man.”
Artemisia took the cryptic remark to mean Mr. Deveridge fancied light women. She knew her mother would not consider that a detriment as long as the gentleman hadn’t contracted the French pox. “He’s young?”
“Nearly thirty, I’d say,” Mr. Shipwash said. “It’s noised about that Lord Warre is not terribly pleased with his youngest offspring.”
“Why not?”
“I’m thirty years of age myself, Your Grace,” Mr. Shipwash said. “My place in the world is established. I have a wife and child and meaningful work which engages me thoroughly. Trevelyn Deveridge is a man who might have been an earl but for an older twin. Now, he’s a ship without a rudder.”
“Well, if that’s all he lacks, Constance Dalrymple will supply him with direction in short order once he marries Florinda,” Artemisia said with a rueful chuckle. She could almost pity the faceless Mr. Deveridge. “Thank you, Mr. Shipwash. I will present these reports to my mother.”
“I must apologize, Your Grace, for my failure on the other matter.” When she frowned quizzically at him, he continued. “Thomas Doverspike. The man is a vapor. I consulted the constabulary, but he has no history of arrest. None of the counting houses in London has heard of him. I found no trace of him for good or ill.”
“Did you check the parish records in Wiltshire as I instructed?”
“Yes, madam. We only found one Doverspike in the shire,” he said. “Ezekiel Doverspike of Amesbury.”
“He wasn’t able to tell you about Thomas Doverspike?”
“Since he’s been dead for nearly eighty years, he was rather unhelpful,” James Shipwash said with drollness.
Artemisia swallowed her disappointment. The man she knew as Thomas Doverspike was gone. For some reason, he must have lied about his name. Whoever he really was, she would never find him now unless he wished to be found. After their last parting, she held out little hope of that.
“I think I should also inform you that several people have been here asking for Mr. Beddington,” Shipwash said. “All within the last week.”
Artemisia arched a brow. One query a month was more usual and easily dealt with. “Who was here?”
“Your stepson, for one. He was most insistent, battering down the door to this office when I refused him entrance.”
“I’m sorry Felix troubled you so. Was he the worse for drink?”
“I fear so, madam. He was here to demand a larger allowance and would not be denied entry into this office. Fortunately, there is a rear door so I was able to convince him that Mr. Beddington had stepped out that way.”
“More money is not going to solve his problem.” Artemisia leaned her cheek upon her palm. “Felix needs to stay away from the gaming hells or he’ll bankrupt the estate once he comes into his full inheritance. See our solicitor this week and tie up what assets you can in a binding trust until he turns thirty-five. Unless he learns to behave like an adult, he needs to be protected, even from himself.”
“I wonder if there aren’t others he needs protection from as well. Two Russian gentlemen, and I use the word very loosely, were here asking to see Mr. Beddington in order to settle Lord Southwycke’s debts.” Mr. Shipwash adjusted his starched collar in a nervous gesture. “They gave me the impression they could be quite unpleasant if the funds are not forthcoming.”
“Did they threaten you?” A flutter of alarm coursed through her chest.
“Not in so many words, Your Grace, but . . .”
“If they return, pay them what they ask, Mr. Shipwash,” she said. “We can afford to lose the money. We cannot afford to lose you.”
A timid smile lifted his mouth.
“Was that all?” she asked.
“There was a fellow looking for employment—a Terrence Dinwiddie.”
“Perhaps you could use an assistant, if you think this fellow trustworthy,” she said. “Especially if those Russian gentlemen return, it might be safer for you to have someone else here.”
“No, Dinwiddie was goodly sized, but he was a stoop-shouldered and near-sighted blighter. Spectacles thick as bottle caps. He’d be no deterrent to even a mouse.”
Artemisia stifled a smile. Mr. Shipwash fit that meager description himself.
“He’d be no use in a crisis and besides, I’d not trust him with your secret,” her assistant said. “There was something about him, the way he kept insisting he speak with Mr. Beddington. I didn’t like the look in his eyes. And his accent seemed to change once or twice.”
“His accent?”
“Yes, he had a bit of a Scottish burr at first, but then when I convinced him Mr. Beddington wasn’t here, the accent faded ever so slightly. It was so quick, I may have imagined it, but the fellow left a bad taste in my mouth.”
Terrence Dinwiddie. Thomas Doverspike. Both of them affected accents and both sought to gain an audience with Beddington.
Artemisia gnawed the inside of her cheek. She was being fanciful in the extreme, grasping at the slightest chance to think of Thomas again. It wasn’t just the painting, she realized, though it was hard to discount the importance of finishing what she started. The truth was she missed the man.