A Scandalous Portrait (The Rose Room Rogues #1) - Callie Hutton Page 0,15

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.

He walked quickly from the building, down the street to where the hackney awaited him. With a quick nod to the driver, he entered the carriage, placed the covered painting on the seat across from him, leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

He’d done it. Diana’s reputation had been salvaged. But he had a feeling the torture for him had just begun.

It was a quick ride home and, after paying and dismissing the hackney driver, he made his way around the back of his house and entered through the servants’ door. He’d dismissed his valet for the night before he’d left, and with the picture fisted in his hands, he hurried up the stairs to his bedchamber.

A low fire burned in the fireplace, keeping the dampness from the room. Hunt carried the painting to the hearth and set it down with the linen still covering it. He removed his clothes while his conscience fought diligently with his lust.

Sadly, his conscience lost.

Slowly he lifted the linen and gazed at the scandalous portrait in much better light than the studio had provided. Since he knew Diana herself had not posed for it in the nude, he convinced himself he wasn’t a voyeur. However, he couldn’t help but wonder how accurate Mallory’s depiction of her body actually was.

She sat on a solid rose-colored lounge with her arm relaxing on the wooden armrest. Her knees were bent and her legs rested on the seat of the lounge. Her head was tilted down and to the side so her visage wasn’t very visible.

Even clothed, the sitting was a bit provocative for a gently-bred young woman.