A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(90)

West’s gaze lingered on his wife. “I have excellent connections. Ones that extend far beyond my reach.” He returned his attention to Alec. “And there is another thing you should know. Hawkins is evicted from his home in Covent Garden. If gossip is to be believed, he is bedding down here.”

Alec nodded once. “As the home is emptied of its contents, I am unsurprised.”

One of West’s golden brows rose. “And how do you know it is empty?”

“Would you believe connections beyond my reach?”

“No.” He paused. “But if those connections were worth their salt, they would tell you to offer to buy the painting tomorrow if you cannot steal it tonight.”

Alarmed by the frankness of the newspaperman’s words, Alec’s gaze flickered to West’s wife, who he knew was on the Selection Committee of the Royal Academy. The lady inclined her head. “As far as I am concerned, you play the role of Robin Hood here, Your Grace. If I had my way, the thing would have been banned from exhibition the moment Miss Hargrove was made mockery.”

Alec bowed again. “My lady.” Turning to West, he added, “Thank you.”

With their mutual support, he was prepared to do whatever he could to get the painting. Now, all that was left was for Hawkins to take the stage, so he could destroy the man and win Lily’s future.

As though he had summoned her with the thought, she entered the box on the arm of Lord Stanhope, who had collected her from Berkeley Square, where Alec had deposited her the evening before, after they’d destroyed both his sanity and the home of Duke and Duchess Number Nine.

Lily had begged him to let her stay, and he’d turned her away, praying that her anger would consume the other, more dangerous emotion that tempted him so thoroughly.

He was rather proud of himself, honestly, for orchestrating this particular scenario. As sending her away was, perhaps, the most difficult thing he had ever done.

Lady Sesily Talbot trailed behind them—a perfect chaperone considering her sister and brother-in-law stood mere feet away. If one was willing to ignore the fact that Sesily Talbot had taught Lily to escape a home from the third floor and also to wonder what was beneath a man’s kilt.

Not that he had not enjoyed her discovery immensely.

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight and longing for the concealing folds of his plaid.

No. Sesily was the best available choice, as viable chaperones for Lily were somewhat thin on the ground and he had learned his lesson at Hyde Park.

Lily laughed up at the earl as they entered, and though she was obscured from view, Alec was instantly drawn to the sound, to her glittering eyes, to the wide, open smile she offered the gentleman. Memory flashed from the preceding night, a keen reminder of what it had been to hold her in his arms as she’d laughed without hesitation, free and honest, like breath.

Alec’s hands fisted at his side, itching to lay the perfect earl low.

And then Lily was looking at him, and he was the one laid low. She stopped laughing instantly, unable to keep her emotions from her gaze. He identified them immediately: Disappointment. Betrayal. Anger. And behind it, shame.

What in hell was she ashamed of?

He could not ask her, despite a keen desire to do so.

Stanhope released her to greet the others in the box, and Lady Sesily put a hand to Lily’s shoulder, drawing her attention. Leaning in, the other woman whispered something and Lily straightened beneath the words, calm settling over her. Alec made a mental note to destroy any man who disparaged Sesily Talbot ever again, for she played marvelous sentry for Lily.

When he was too weak to do it himself.

The Marchioness of Eversley and Mrs. West extricated themselves from their husbands’ dotage to greet Lily, and gratitude flooded Alec, the two aristocratic ladies lending the full force of their combined power to Lily’s reputation. With their support, she would survive the gossip that would linger after he found the painting and destroyed it.

The ladies moved, clearing a path and indicating Lily should take a seat at the front of the box, in front of all London, bold and proud and unafraid of being seen in Hawkins’s theater. It was then that he saw her for the first time, head to toe. Saw what it was she wore.

The air was suddenly gone from the room.

The dress was the most stunning blue he’d ever seen, silk and perfectly suited to her, with a low neck that made him want to blindfold every man in the room and press wild, lingering kisses along the expanse of skin it revealed. But it was not the dress that destroyed him. It was the sash, tied tight around her waist, falling to the floor in a wide red swath.

It was his plaid. Again.

It should not have moved him. After all, had he not seen her wrapped in the tartan the night before, alone and nude on his bed? Had that not been the worst of all prospects? The one most likely to shred his patience and his nobility?

How was it possible this was infinitely worse?

The evening prior had felt like a gift. Tonight felt like a declaration of war. Like an invasion. A claiming. As though she stood in front of all London and claimed Scotland for her own.

Claimed him for her own.

And he was expected to resist.

As she approached, Alec found himself backing away, until he came up against the edge of the balcony and she said, low and without emotion. “Have a care, Your Grace, or you shall topple into the seats below.”

The prospect was not unpleasant when confronted with the alternative—facing her, looking like a queen. “You wear my tartan.”