Page 51 of A Scandalous Kind of Duke

Besides, she did need help, even if it was from Leo, and she was curious as to what he might do.

She caught up to him as he disappeared into another room. His study, it turned out. He strode straight to his desk and consulted a large leather-covered diary, without even acknowledging that she was there.

St. Blaise barreled in after her and hurled himself into an armchair. She was oddly grateful for his presence. Everything with Leo felt jagged and raw, and she was not used to feeling jagged and raw over anyone, especially not Leo.

“I’m invited to some sort of political meeting at Renshaw’s residence tonight,” Leo said. “I had not intended to attend, because I would find it more diverting to be stuck with spears, but it would grant me entry into his house. I could find the painting and retrieve the papers for you.”

Juno shook her head. “Thank you, but I must retrieve them myself. It is imperative that no one else sees them.”

With a sigh, he rested both hands on the open diary. “Juno, I would not read your letters.”

“They aren’t letters.”

St. Blaise laughed with lascivious delight. “They’re bawdy drawings, aren’t they? Wicked, wanton ones.” He leaned forward. “Are they drawings of you? Please tell me they’re drawings of you.”

“No.” Juno’s cheeks heated again, which would likely convince the two men that the papers were, indeed, nude drawings of herself.

Still, preferable to them knowing the truth.

“Are they secret government papers you mean to pass to the French?” St. Blaise persisted. “Or you are blackmailing someone else and it is their papers?”

Juno had to laugh, as she sat. “I am not nearly that interesting. No spying, treason, or criminal matters at all. Look, it does not matter what is in the frame. What matters is that I must retrieve them myself.”

“There must be some way to smuggle you inside.” Leo dropped into his chair, barricaded behind his grandiose desk. “Let us try.”

They began with modest proposals, such as infiltrating a ball or musicale, but with no Renshaw events planned, they moved on to disguising Juno as a maid, and, before long, they had magicked up a scenario where Juno, dressed in men’s clothing—all black, naturally—hoisted herself up a wall, over a balcony, and through a window, retrieved the papers, and then fled across the rooftops. Which was terrific fun, but ended in defeat when Juno admitted that she was not fond of climbing stairs, let alone balconies and walls.

“I am very disappointed in myself,” she said with a dispirited sigh. “That my creativity does not extend to criminal activities.”

“You’redisappointed?” Leo said. “I am a duke. I should be much better at crime than this.”

“We don’t even know where in the house the painting is.”

Leo sat up. “Think you could find out, Tristan?” he asked. “Run over there and charm a servant or something?”

St. Blaise tilted his head as if considering. “I suppose I could do it for Miss Bell … in exchange for a kiss.”

“I’ll give you fifty pounds,” Leo said, before Juno could reply.

St. Blaise grinned. “I think I’d prefer the kiss. Don’t look at me like that, Polly. It is traditional to ask for a kiss as a reward for gallantry.”

“It’s hardly gallantry if the kiss is your motivation, and not merely a reward for doing something you’d have done anyway.”

Juno carefully did not look at Leo. “It is very flattering to learn my kisses are worth fifty pounds, but they are not for sale, to anyone, at any price.”

“Fifty pounds it is, then.” St. Blaise yawned and settled more comfortably into his chair. “Painting of Pandora, you say. Are you a student of mythology, Miss Bell? Forgive me, but I have a hard time imagining you studying books.”

She chuckled at his apt observation. “Poring over dusty old tomes, most written by dusty old scholars whose main talent is taking a fascinating subject and rendering it dull? Never, I fear. I like other people to read the books and tell me the interesting bits so I can draw them.”

“And which kind soul told you the tale of Pandora?”

“Not only Pandora. He told me many such myths.”

“‘He,’ Miss Bell?”

St. Blaise could sniff out mischief like a hound sniffing out a fox, and chase it down as doggedly, no doubt. A thorny silence prickled around them.

Leo unfolded from his chair. Very casually, he selected a red-feathered dart from a painted tin box. Even more casually, he threw it at the dartboard on the wall.

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