Artfully Wicked ('Pon Rep' Regency Rogues Book 1) Read online

  In a particularly undignified offering, he hid behind the prince regent’s rapidly expanding belly dangling a diamond necklace while his last mistress, scantily clad, clasped her hands beseechingly. She had been furious when she had recognized herself, saying she would never beg him for a thing, and then proceeded to hint about diamonds until he gave her what she wanted as his last gift before dismissing her. The lack of another high-flyer didn’t bother him at all. Perhaps at thirty he’d had enough of being indecisive about marriage.

  With that thought in his mind, he pondered Miss Ann Herries and her cousin, Miss Winsome Carsten, who was surely too young to be a chaperon. If he remembered rightly, she was the same age as Rose, three years younger than he. Until Rose had married, she had been his near neighbor in the country.

  In those days, he had been desperate for Rose’s attention. In her eyes back then, he was a mere callow youth. All along, she’d had her heart set on Temple. Langsdene wished he had realized but callow youths were not known for sense. Had he any, he may not have made as big a fool of himself. He breathed out a soft laugh. First loves took a toll on a man. He now knew the gentle beauty was not at all his style.

  An autocratic male himself, he would be better balanced by a woman with a stronger personality. Tonight, Miss Ann Herries hadn’t shown a propensity to do anything other than flirt. For the second time, had been unable to draw her into a conversation, not that he minded, but he had no urge to try again. Aside from that, she didn’t quite have the poise of Miss Winsome Carsten.

  Even as a seventeen-year old, Miss Carsten had been self-possessed, which possibly came from her style, which back then had been elegance without ostentation. His yen for Rose had blinded him to other women, yet he recalled Winsome would sit quietly drawing while he tried his best to impress Rose. On occasions he forgot Winsome was in the room, until she made one of her odd, interesting remarks. These days her elegance had almost disappeared and all she had left was a polite smile. Nevertheless, she was a talented artist, and would surely know, or have heard about, the cartoonist who had used him so unmercifully during the past five years.

  After all this time of shrugging off his unwanted publicity, he had finally had enough.

  CHAPTER 3

  Winsome found her mother in the drawing room, sitting with her embroidery frame upon her lap. The cream lace curtains let in a steam of morning light which turned the few streaks of gray in Mama’s hair into spun silver. “I won’t be making calls with Ann today,” Winsome said, dropping into a chair covered in peacock blue brocade. “Fortunately, she has a friend whose mother is prepared to take her to the bazaar. Rose and Della plan to call. Do you think we could get Humphries to slam the door in their faces?”

  Her mother’s indulgent expression softened with humor. “I could ask, my dear, but I doubt our well-trained butler would find it in his heart to hurt two such lovely ladies. In what way have they offended you?”

  “They insulted my taste.” Winsome slumped, her wrist pressed dramatically against her forehead.

  “No one has more exquisite taste than you.” Her mother lowered her half-glasses to peer at the stitches in her sampler. Today she wore a woolen gown in a shade of dark blue with a lovely flower-patterned shawl to keep her shoulders warm. Although a fire crackled in the grate, the wintry chill always seemed worse in the city. Winsome preferred the country house where the fireplaces were large enough to roast an ox, having been constructed in Tudor times.

  “This is a serious matter, Mama. They won’t let me wear brown to balls.”

  “I’m quite in accord with them. You know you look shocking in brown. You take jokes to extremes sometimes. It was all very well to make your family laugh, but you should never have appeared in public dressed as a duenna. You’re a lady, my dear.”

  Winsome considered. “What if I call the color ladylike brown?”

  “I doubt that will help.” Mama lifted her embroidery for Winsome to see, her delicate eyebrows drawn together. “Should I use pink or red for this highlight?”

  “Red beneath the petals and pink above. Rose and Della hid your paisley shawl. They threatened to throw it away.”

  “That would be a dreadful waste. Aside from that, I like it for the cooler evenings.” She rested her embroidery on her lap.

  “I was hoping for your support.” Winsome sighed, and absently fingered the pearl buttons on her dark pink sleeves. She didn’t dare wear brown today, not that she had another garment in that color. Barely two years ago, she had ordered the gown for a country ball, determined to show that she didn’t mind being unmarried. “I spoke to Lord Langsdene last night.”

  Mama stared at her, eyes wide, holding her breath and patting her chest. “I think I am about to have palpitations. Oh, Winsome, you didn’t say anything.”

  “I could scarcely say I spoke to him if I stood dumb. I said nothing interesting, if that is what you are asking. He only spoke to me because he is thinking of buying a painting. He wouldn’t have social intercourse with a dab like me.”

  “I don’t know why you insist on thinking of yourself as nothing special. You can look very lovely when you try. You have style, my girl, and that’s more than I can say for some of your friends.”

  “Spoken like a loving mother.”

  “Which I am. I would also be a doting grandmother, should I happen to be presented with grandchildren.”

  “I’m quite sure my sister, Hestia, is attempting to provide at least one.”

  “You really shouldn’t try to shock me, dear. I have known you since you were born.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought that mentioning a married lady would like to have babies would be shocking to a woman who had two herself.”

  Her mother shook her head. “You wouldn’t, of course, but anyone who heard you, other than your mother, would be shocked. You are supposed to know nothing of those matters.”

  In a manner of speaking, Winsome knew nothing, but she understood the mechanics and had a strong inkling she would enjoy learning more. She had almost learned more from Langsdene, who in those days had been a mere Mr. John Grant, when she was seventeen years-old and a guest in Rose’s parents’ country house. Fortunately, the self-restraint of Langsdene had prevented her from making an utter fool of herself.

  Dead on ten o’clock, Humphries escorted Rose and Della into the drawing room. Dressed in pastel colored, floating silks, each kissed her mother on the cheek. “Did you see what Winsome wore last night?” Rose asked, her voice outraged.

  Mama nodded. “I did, Rose dear, but there’s no stopping her when she is bent on mischief.” A tolerant parent, she hadn’t tried for years. She peered at her embroidery as if she meant to set another stitch. Pure bluff. During the last three years, she hadn’t yet completed her first bunch of flowers.

  “We’re here to save her from herself. I thought when she finally agreed to come back out into society, she meant what she said.” Della firmed her mouth. “We are here to force her to live up to her promise.”

  “Did I promise? I’m sure I said I would happily chaperone Ann when needed, but no more than that.”

  Rose waved a hand. “No one would expect a lady of your age to do anything other than to enjoy herself while supervising her cousin. Would they, Mrs. Carsten?”

  “I must admit I had hoped she would. But you know Winsome. If she doesn’t want to enjoy herself, she makes sure she doesn’t. Why was I burdened with such an obstinate daughter?” This was said in an even tone, and not a person in the room believed that Mama meant a word she said.

  Rose and Della nodded at each other. They adored Winsome’s patient mother. Everyone did. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, everyone said. Winsome was delighted to be like her mother. If she couldn’t marry a man she loved, she would live with her relatives for the rest of her life. Her parents were understanding and undemanding. Perhaps she needed something more but she had yet to find her place in the world, other than as a doting daughter.

  “You d
on’t mind if we leave you for a while, do you, Mrs. Carsten? We have to go through Win’s wardrobe with her.”

  “Go ahead, my darlings. If you can persuade her to join society again, her father and I will be delighted.”

  Rose and Della trooped up the stairs, one in front of Winsome and one behind, making sure she couldn’t escape.

  “Your swathes fit into rather small packages.” Winsome raised her eyebrows, glancing at the swinging brown-paper wrapped bundles as the ladies marched in unison.

  Rose opened Winsome’s bedroom door. “We know very well you have a plentiful wardrobe. Ah, Jane. Good morning.”

  Winsome’s dresser, a thin woman with a long nose, who had been prepared for this visit and was waiting, nodded and smiled at Winsome’s friends. “Did you see the gown she wore last night, my Ladies? I told her people would talk. Always looks beautiful but last night she even wanted to wear rouge on her cheeks. I hid it from her and I’m not afraid to confess.” She folded her arms across her sparse bosom.

  “How much rouge was she planning on using?” asked Della, who used a discreet touch, herself.

  “The mood she was in, I couldn’t trust her.” Jane backed to the dressing room door, having previously been told the purpose of the ladies’ visit.

  Rose tossed her parcel onto Winsome’s bed and followed the maid into the dressing room. Della and Winsome followed, the latter apprehensive.

  “As I thought.” Rose turned, her smile satisfied. “You still have lovely gowns, all made in the best of taste. Jane, Miss Carsten shall wear the orange satin to our musical evening tonight. I have the perfect shawl for that in my parcel. Do you think she should wear the green for your ball, Della?”

  The two ladies discussed among themselves how Winsome would be dressed for the next hundred years. She still hadn’t seen the swathes and she was quite looking forward to her friends’ color choices. A discreet tap on her bedroom door took Jane out of the dressing room. She arrived back almost instantly. “You have a visitor downstairs, Miss Winsome.”

  “Do you know who it is?”

  “I believe Lord Langsdene is in the morning room with Mrs. Carsten.” Jane’s eyes widened.

  “I wonder why?” Rose said to Della. “I can’t believe he was attracted to the brown gown last night.”

  Winsome frowned. “Possibly, he thinks he is calling on Ann? Perhaps he doesn’t realize she lives with her parents, though surely he can’t be such a slow-top. If so, I wonder why my mother hasn’t told him. I’ll be but a moment.”

  Winsome slipped out of the door, but Rose and Della didn’t take the hint. Both followed her down the stairs, alight with silent curiosity. She needed to take a deep breath before she entered the morning room, her friends trailing behind. Having to face Lord Langsdene last night was bad enough. Twice in twenty-four hours would stretch her nerve.

  Rose saved her by greeting him first. “John, how delightful to see you here. Della and I were just leaving. Shall you be attending our musical evening tonight?”

  After a short deliberation, he nodded. Today he wore buckskin breeches, a tan waistcoat and a beautifully cut, swallowtail coat of brown that matched the color of his shiny hair. His indigo blue eyes were perfectly framed by his dark eyelashes. The sight of the man had always shortened Winsome’s breath. Between farewelling her treacherous friends, and trying to appear composed while her heart was thundering, she didn’t have time to think. Mama talked nonsense to him until Winsome could turn back to him. “To what to do we owe the pleasure of your morning call, Lord Langsdene?”

  “You used to call me John.”

  She paused for a beat, impressed that he had found a memory of her, and managed a casual wave of her hand. “A lifetime ago, my lord.”

  He kept his gaze on her face. “I wonder if you would accompany me to the Tate British to help me find whomever I need to solve my problem?”

  Mama smiled contentedly. “You have come to the right person, Lord Langsdene. Win is very familiar with the gallery. I swear she knows the work of every artist who exhibits there, don’t you, my love?”

  Winsome snatched a lungful of air, and aimed a tight smile at the earl. “I sketch there every so often. But surely you don’t need me to walk you around rooms full of paintings? You will find your favorites sooner without my bias.”

  “I would be honored to have your company.” Although he offered her a careful smile, his posture expressed a certain determination.

  “You could spare an hour two this morning, couldn’t you, my darling?” Despite her ingenuous smile, Mama was acting against her wary daughter’s best interests.

  “We are expecting a visit from Lady Ampleforth, are we not?”

  “Not today.” Mama looked vague. She inspected the same piece of embroidery she had used for the past few years to appear distracted, rather than to be listening keenly. “Did you say I should use yellow on the petals?”

  “Pink, Mama.”

  “Pink. Run along, my dear. I know you would rather be at the gallery than anywhere else. I don’t at all begrudge your time if you can be of help to Lord Langsdene.”

  Left with no excuse, Winsome donned a navy blue pelisse and large poke bonnet with an oversized pale green bow. Lord Langsdene’s eyes smiled when he saw her. “Very nice,” he said, running his gaze over the hat.

  She hated herself for blushing. He had likely been trained by one of his inamoratas to comment favorably on ladies’ hats.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Are you interested in portraits or landscapes, Lord Langsdene?”

  Langsdene glanced at his smartly dressed companion on the high front seat of his phaeton. Instead of her previously dowdy self, Miss Carsten had transformed into an attractive, stylish woman. Although her features were inclined to the classical and her nose did not have a fashionable up-tilt, on the whole, she looked elegant. He had noticed when she had walked into her mother’s morning room that she wore an unusual shade of pink which set off the color of eyes he would have said were muddy brown. Then again, he hadn’t really taken note. Now that he had, he could say she had eyes of an interesting grayish-green. “I don’t have a preference.”

  She appeared to absorb his answer. “Who, then, do you wish to meet?”

  As a matter of fact, he didn’t wish to meet anyone. “I have abducted you under false pretences, though if I must buy a painting, I would prefer a landscape.”

  “Should I be flattered that you have abducted me? If you want my views on landscapes, they would be no better than yours. Anyone who wants to buy a painting should choose whatever they would enjoy. I would choose for you something that may not match the style you prefer.”

  “More than buying a painting, I want to find an artist.”

  Her forehead creased. “In that case, you will need to peruse many paintings until you find a painter you admire.”

  He nodded. “I thought I could save time if you gave me the names of artists who are skilled in caricature.”

  Her questioning gaze blanked and she turned her focus to the busy street. In this frowzy weather, pedestrians rugged up in winter brown or black coats and hats, scurried along the footpaths like ants preparing for a storm. Wagons creaked and groaned, the iron of their wheels protesting the rough surface of the street. “Are we are expecting rain?” she asked in what sounded like a hopeful voice.

  “Dust, more likely. Rain would settle some of the smoke.”

  “It’s nicer in the country. I rarely leave, but this year Rose and Della prevailed upon me to come to town. Then my aunt irresponsibly took ill. Instead of all the treats promised me by Rose and Della, I’m chaperoning my cousin Ann.”

  “Could your mother not have managed her niece instead?”

  “She said not. Perhaps Aunt will be well soon. I long to go back home.”

  “Do you still live in Kent?”

  She nodded. “I love the sea air. I can paint there without interruption.”

  “I own a small property in Kent. Currently, it is
being used by my second cousin. I was living there when I met you.”

  She turned to him, a strange expression on her face. “I often used to visit Rose at her family’s country house.”

  He heard an accusation in her tone. “I remember, but you can’t blame me for not recognizing you at first. You almost wore a disguise last night in that brown gown and with your hair ...” He trailed off. He had never seen such an abundance of ringlets in his life as she had worn last night. Today, her heavy brown hair had been lightly drawn back, which emphasized the stark precision of her cheekbones. He couldn’t help thinking that, when she clearly had taste, she had deliberately made herself appear unattractive last night, and he couldn’t imagine why.

  She drew a deep breath, clearly putting his answer behind her and returning to the main purpose of the trip to the Tate British. “I suspect any artist could make a caricature. I can’t narrow down any particular one. What would you wish to have drawn?”

  He maneuvered the phaeton between a brewer’s wagon and a load of coal, and turned the corner into Vauxhall Bridge Road. The next quick turn took them up Milbank Street to the imposing entrance of the gallery. An urchin standing near the steps rushed out to hold the horses. Langsdene’s groom leaped from the back seat. When the restive team calmed, Langsdene stepped down, flipped the lad a coin, and awaited Miss Carsten’s hand. Once on steady ground, she straightened her pelisse, raised her chin, stared at him, and finally took his proffered arm.

  Together they walked up the majestic stone steps and into a large bright room with vaulted ceilings, parquet floors, and doorways decorated with marble columns. Fortunately some twenty people had the same idea today and he wasn’t left with her in a vast silence, though most of the viewers spoke in hushed tones.