When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,124

paintings that surpassed what was currently arrayed in the ballroom. A thick, expensive rug muffled her footsteps, and a massive mahogany desk dominated the center of the room.

And on the gleaming surface of that desk rested three glass cases.

Adeline went directly behind the desk, yanking her mask off and setting the key, her glass, and the mask aside. Her fingers worked the catch of the bulky locket at her throat as she gazed at the cases. Two of the cases before her held an unmounted diamond each, the one on the left a dazzling gray blue that reminded Adeline of a stormy sea, the one on the right sparkling the pale yellow of early sunrise. Both were breathtaking, their worth staggering. Adeline ignored them and instead opened the case in the middle.

The flawlessly cut sapphire gleamed, hues of inky midnight caught in a rich tapestry of cerulean. It had once been mounted in an intricate gold setting, a pool of striking color meant to adorn a graceful neck. The setting had since been pried away, leaving only the stone.

Adeline deftly retrieved the sapphire, placed it into the deep hollow of her locket, and snapped the clasp closed. From her pocket she withdrew a second sapphire, a pretty facsimile made entirely of glass. She placed it in the case and lowered the cover, the hinges making a tiny squeak of protest. The paste jewel would fool no one forever, but she didn’t need forever. She needed only long enough.

She straightened, retrieving her champagne glass, and took steady breaths, slowing her pulse. It was done. Time to slip away. From beside the study door, the portrait of a man gazed back at her, a knowing, self-satisfied smirk curling between an elaborate moustache and a pointed beard. Adeline gave in to the urge and raised her glass in a mock toast to the image.

“Not his best work, I think.”

Adeline froze, her fingers tightening on the stem of her glass.

“But then, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is it not?”

The air stirred behind her, accompanied by the sound of a second, hidden door clicking shut. King moved beside her, the superfine of his coat sleeve brushing against her bare arm.

Alarm at his presence was oddly absent, as it had been when she had realized who stood at the top of that alley. Almost as if she had been waiting for this. For him.

“Perhaps,” she answered slowly.

King gestured at the bearded man in the portrait. “That is George Villiers, the first Duke of Buckingham, painted by Peter Paul Rubens. Found it hanging in a tavern in Calais, can you imagine? A Rubens relegated to overseeing drunkards.”

Adeline took a slow sip of champagne and swallowed, her gaze not leaving the portrait. “A pity.”

“On the contrary. I bought it for a case of middling Madeira.”

King was still standing close enough that she could smell the starch in his shirt and the richer notes of his shaving soap. The contradiction that was this man struck her anew. The apparent lord of London’s underworld, who dressed and spoke like a prince. A man as comfortable in his place among criminals as he was among the aristocratic crowd in his ballroom.

She tipped her head. “The duke looks…”

“Uninspiring?”

“I was going to say vain.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see King’s fingers drumming steadily on the silver head of his walking stick. “You draw that from a single portrait?”

“But it’s not a single portrait, is it?” Adeline replied. “It’s multitudes of portraits. The duke in fine clothes. The duke as an unstoppable equestrian. The duke as Adonis. If Buckingham thought it would further him, I suspect he would have paid to have himself depicted as Jesus. A man obsessed with portraying himself as something he wasn’t.”

King’s fingers abruptly stopped. He shifted, coming to stand directly in front of her. Like Adeline, he wasn’t wearing a mask, and she met his gaze, willing herself to keep her expression neutral even as a crackle of anticipation and awareness raced through her veins, the same way it had when she had faced him in that damn alley.

This was a man who should have been painted by Rubens. Or Titian or Da Vinci or Michelangelo. Or anyone with enough skill to capture the essence of a man who was both compelling and cold at the same time. His red-gold hair was clipped neatly, framing an aquiline face with high cheekbones and a square jaw. He was lithe, not excessively tall or