A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(95)

Alec, her massive Scot, whose broad shoulders and superior height dwarfed Derek, blocking her view as she advanced, having had enough of Derek Hawkins. “Should you not be on stage, Derek?”

That’s when she saw the sword, poised high and dangerous, the tip of it at Alec’s heart. Alec, who looked calmer than any man should be in that position.

Lily froze, terror threading through her at the image. “What do you think you do, you madman?”

Derek did not look at her. “I protect what is mine. My theater. My art. And I am willing to do anything for it.” He paused, looking down at Alec’s empty hands. “You are wise to have avoided taking anything from within.”

When Alec spoke, it was with utter, complete disdain. “You think I want your artwork? To what end? To grace my walls with your child’s play?”

The words were rife with insult, and Lily’s jaw dropped. How could he taunt a man with a broadsword pressed to his chest?

Derek sneered. “I think you want at least one piece of it, Diluted Duke.”

“There you are right. But I’ve no intention of looking at it.”

Derek laughed. “I suppose you think that having seen the real thing, you do not require it.”

While Lily gasped at the insinuation, Alec did not move, except to raise his hand and clutch the blade of the broadsword in one massive fist. Her gaze fell to his fingers, expecting them to bleed with the cut from the blade. Her stomach flipped at the idea that he hurt himself for her. “Let us go, Derek. You must return to the stage. And we’ve taken nothing.”

Derek raised a brow. “How do I know that is true?”

She cut him a look, spreading her arms wide. “You think I hide canvas beneath my skirts?”

Alec did not let Derek finish. “Let’s get to it, shall we, Hawkins? You’ve a play to return to . . . and I’ve anywhere else to be than to watch it.”

Derek scowled. “You’re no longer welcome here.”

Alec’s reply was dry as sand. “You wound me. Truly.” If there were not a sword between them, Lily might have laughed. Instead, she held her breath until Alec said, “How much?”

Derek did not move. “How much for what?”

“You’re impoverished. You’ve lost the house in Covent Garden, the studio. Your paintings line the walls here because, no doubt, you’ve nowhere else to sit them. From what I am told, the theater breaks even, but you cannot stop losing money at the tables. So I ask again—and you will not insult me by pretending not to understand—how much for the painting.”

Derek shook his head. “It is priceless.”

“I do not believe you.”

“Believe me. It is the greatest artwork since the Creation of Man.” His gaze moved to Lily. “Look at her, Warnick. You see her beauty, no doubt. Imagine what it looks like when portrayed by a genius.”

Lily could only see one side of Alec’s face—enough to see the muscle in his jaw clench and tic with anger and frustration. “Name the price.”

Derek shook his head. “There is no price. My version of Lily is not for sale.” His gaze flickered to Lily, “You see, darling? Perhaps I am the hero of the play, after all. Your duke has no trouble selling you to the highest bidder.” He paused then, like a rude child. “Oh, wait. No. He isn’t selling you. He’s giving you away. With a fortune as a bonus payment.”

Alec’s hand tightened around the sword, his knuckles going white, and Lily stepped in to ensure his fingers were not severed. She did not shift her gaze from him. “I think you ought to reconsider, Derek.”

“For you?”

“Would it make a difference if I asked?”

“No. That painting will sell all the others. That painting will make me a name for the ages.”

“And the fact that it is a painting of me? That I never intended for it to be seen?”

He gave her a long, pitiful look. “Then you should not have sat for it, darling. I shall revel in the wealth that comes from it, earned from you. As though you’d worked for it yourself, flat on your back.”

Lily gasped at the coarse words as Alec moved, fast as a cat, the broadsword turning in the air like magic, in his grasp in an instant. He took Derek by the lapels of his ancient costume and virtually carried him to the wall in the hallway beyond, setting the blade of the wicked-looking sword to his cheek. “For one so renowned on the stage, I find it difficult to believe you tempt fate so well as to exhibit such hubris while in this particular costume. You would do well to remember what happened to Macbeth.”

Derek’s gaze found Lily’s over Alec’s shoulder, and she saw it there, the expectation that she would rescue him. That she would reenact the last time they had been together as a trio. The last time Alec had threatened Derek.

She would rescue him no longer.

He must have seen it in her eyes, as he looked back to Alec and spat, “I play a brutish Scot with a whore wife. And lo, I discover a similar pair skulking about the playhouse.”

Alec pressed the sword deeper into his cheek, his words going soft and terrifying. “What did you call her?”

Derek narrowed his gaze. “You heard me. And remember, I am qualified to identify the characteristic.” He paused. “I was there before you.”

Lily paled at the words. At the scathing insult in them. Shame flooded her, and she wished to do the man serious damage for everything he’d ever done. For everything he’d ever said. And for that, spoken to Alec. Reminding him of her past. Of the things she’d done that she could not take back. “Today, like a fool, you have handed me a weapon that you toy with while prancing about your stage. A weapon I have trained with for decades.”