Page 113 of Their Master

Smith’s eyes widened as he took in the north-facing room. Selkirk must have knocked the walls out of several rooms to create the giant space.

The earl was sketching a woman who was reclining on a chaise longue surrounded by strategically placed candelabra, the flickering candlelight creating a magical glow.

“Come in and have a seat,” Selkirk muttered, his left hand flying over the large sketchpad. “I’ll be with you in just one moment.”

Smith lowered himself into the chair across from the earl and turned to the woman on the divan. She was nude except for a slender gold chain around her waist and a narrow black ribbon around her neck. Her knee was thrown out and exposed her sex. The pose should have been lewd, but instead she looked as if she’d simply sprawled that way—perhaps after a lover had finished with her—and was too content to move.

Her face was attractive enough, but not so distinctive that you would notice her in a crowd. Rather, it was her body that drew one’s eyes—or at least it drew Smith’s. She had exceptionally large breasts on a ribcage that was almost freakishly slender, her hips generously flared, her legs long and well-muscled; the legs of a woman who worked, Smith surmised.

There was a chill in the air and her skin had goosebumps, her large nipples puckered into pebbles. Her thighs were sheened and her sex glistened in the romantic lighting. As chilled and exposed as she was, the pose—or something—had aroused her.

The earl gave a low grunt of satisfaction, and then tossed the charcoal into a metal tray with a softtinkand set his sketchbook aside.

Smith watched with interest as Selkirk’s mind came back from where it had gone—some place of pure artistic expression, the sort of place Smith would never know.

Jeremy Winters was a slim man, perhaps an inch or so taller than Smith’s own five feet nine inches, with a shock of prematurely white hair and the finely drawn features of an aristocrat. His eyes were a pale, crystalline blue, made more striking by dark lashes.

“You may dress and leave, Ten,” Selkirk said.

Smith frowned; not sure he’d heard the man’s words correctly. Had he just called the womanTen?

The model quietly and quickly slipped into a plain gray silk robe and moved across the room with exceptional grace, closing the door behind her without a sound.

Selkirk turned to Smith. “I was intrigued by your message—and your desire to see me.” He employed the same crisp voice he’d just used with his model—probably the same one he used with his servants, as well.

Smith was accustomed to aristocrats speaking to him in that tone. To them he was a merchant, and therefore a social upstart, no matter how wealthy he was.

That was fine, Smith hadn’t come to Selkirk to make friends.

“I am here because I am looking for Sir Clayton Tyler.”

Selkirk didn’t display so much as a flicker of surprise. “What makes you believe that I know anything about the man?”

“I know that you are acquainted, but you needn’t worry that it is general knowledge,” Smith assured him.

“Hmmm.” Selkirk’s frosty gaze slid across Smith’s body in a way that left his skin tingling.

“I’m sorry that I must disappoint you,” Selkirk finally said.

“Are you saying that you haven’t had contact with him recently?”

“No, I’m saying that I don’t know where he isnow.A week or so ago he sent one of his minions with a demand for money.”

“And you gave it to him?”

“I did. I also had one of my servants follow Clayton’s man when he left with the money.”

Smith raised his eyebrows. “And where did he go?”

“To a brothel.” His thin lips turned down at the corners. “Unfortunately, Clayton outsmarted my man and slipped away. It is anyone’s guess where he is now.”

Smith swallowed his disappointment. “Why did you have him followed?” He couldn’t imagine the earl planning anything violent, but one never knew.

Selkirk shrugged; the action sinuous—almost erotic. “Curiosity.”

“Why did you agree to talk to me?”

“Curiosity.”

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