If His Kiss Is Wicked. Jo Goodman
it would appear, Miss Hathaway. Have you a need to marry for money?”
Emma’s dark eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. “Do you never temper your tongue, Mr. Gardner?”
“To what purpose?”
“Civility.”
What Restell did not try to do was temper his amusement. His grin was deep and hinted at the wickedness of his thoughts. In contrast, the dimples that appeared on either side of his mouth made him seem wholly innocent. His laughter was short and sharp, entirely robust and unrestrained.
“You have no use for observing proprieties?” Emma asked rather more sharply than she intended. “Or are you laughing at me?”
Restell reined himself in. “I have the greatest respect for you.”
Emma supposed that answered her question. It was his regard for socially correct behavior that was suspect.
“You have not answered my question,” he said. “I am noticing that you have a talent for turning me from the end I have in mind.”
“It is a talent apparently in need of refinement. You are like a dog with a bone.”
“You flatter me.”
Emma sighed. He was perfectly intractable. “I have no need to marry at all, Mr. Gardner. My uncle is content to have me under his roof. I am given to understand that upon his death he will settle his fortune upon his daughter, but l expect to have a comfortable living.”
“But not so much that you will become the target of fortune hunters.”
“Goodness, no.” She chuckled at the thought of it. “There is nothing about that prospect that is appealing.”
“There is something to be said for being the poor relation,” Restell told her. “At least I have always thought so.”
“That view does seem to explain why you choose to accept favors for your services rather than expect remuneration.”
Restell’s small smile saluted her perspicacity. “Do you have occasion to see Mr. Johnston?”
Emma wondered what sort of partner Mr. Gardner would be in the waltz. She credited herself with being an accomplished dancer but in this particular milieu she was incapable of following his lead. More than once she felt as if she’d trod upon her own toes in an effort to keep up. “Mr. Johnston was able to secure a position as a clerk with the firm of Napier and Walpole. They underwrite business ventures, similar to Lloyd’s.”
“I am familiar. The firm is almost as revered as Lloyd’s. It is somewhat surprising that Mr. Johnston was able to find employment there, given the fact that Sir Arthur supplied no character.”
“My uncle is not vindictive, Mr. Gardner. He did not oppose Mr. Johnston’s efforts to seek another position. He expressed some concerns when he learned that Mr. Johnston would be working for the insurers, but he believed, rightly I think, that there would be such an examination of his work that there would be no opportunity for embezzlement.”
“So no one, in fact, informed Napier and Walpole that they were employing a thief.”
“No.” She regarded him with sudden alarm. “You would not take it upon yourself to—”
Restell shook his head. “I would not. It is most assuredly not my place.” He saw that her relief was palpable. “I imagine his current wages are not what they were in your uncle’s employ.”
“I don’t know,” Emma said. “It is likely you’re right.”
“Does he have a family?”
“His wife and his father.”
“Can you conceive that he might be the sort of man to be moved to an act of vengeance?”
“Vengeance? Mr. Johnston? No, it is not possible.” She considered why he was posing the question. “Are you suggesting that he might be responsible for abducting me?”
“I do not recall suggesting anything. Did it seem that way? I believe I asked if you could conceive of spiteful behavior in the man.”
“Mr. Gardner, I can hardly conceive that he is guilty of theft. That he would act on a plan of revenge, or even entertain the notion, is quite outside my comprehension.”
“That is all I wondered, Miss Hathaway. You might have simply said so.”
Emma felt a measure of heat rise in her cheeks. She drew herself up, holding the sketches in front of her, and refused to look away from his implacable stare as if she’d committed a transgression. “Do you intend to pursue these same questions with my uncle and cousin?”
“With your uncle, your cousin, Mr. Charters, and most likely, with Mr. Johnston. I have many more questions for them. Didn’t I say there would have to be a full accounting?”
Emma sat down abruptly on the stool behind her. “I never thought…” Her voice trailed off.
“It is frequently thus,” Restell said sympathetically. “People rarely can comprehend the full consequences of applying for protection.”
“Are you persuaded that what happened to me was not a random act?”
His voice was gentle. “I think you know it was not.”
Emma’s shoulders sagged. She expelled a puff of air between her lips that completed her deflation. “Was I the intended victim, Mr. Gardner? Or mistaken for Marisol?”
“I have not yet been able to determine that. There is still much to be answered, but it seems—” He stopped because he heard the creak of the door at the bottom of the stairwell. He had been careful to close it before he followed Emma to the studio, and now it was being opened.
“Emmalyn? Are you up there?”
Emma came to her feet. “It’s Marisol,” she told him. More loudly, she announced herself to her cousin. “I’m still here. I am discussing Sir Arthur’s paintings with our guest.” She heard Marisol’s quiet tread on the steps before she’d finished speaking.
Restell turned in Marisol’s direction just as she reached the top of the stairs. He made a slight bow and awaited the inevitable introduction. Marisol, he noted, appeared to be trying to recall where she might have encountered him. As he had not tried to avoid being seen at Lady Claremont’s affair, he was not troubled that he had attracted her notice. In truth, he was more surprised that it might be so. It was his judgment that Marisol Vega saw little that was beyond the length of her own nose.
“Mr. Gardner, allow me to introduce my cousin, Miss Marisol Vega. Marisol, this is Mr. Gardner, your father’s visitor. He has come to inquire about one of Sir Arthur’s recent paintings.”
Restell did not correct Emma’s explanation of his purpose. It was true enough, but did not encompass the whole. “A pleasure, Miss Vega.”
“Mr. Gardner.” She glanced at Emma. “Father sent me to find you.”
Emma doubted that. It was much more likely that Sir Arthur had instructed a servant to do that task, and Marisol had offered her services instead. What her intention might be, Emma could not divine.
“I fear I have kept you overlong, Miss Hathaway. Are we settled on the sketches?”
“You truly want them?”
“I do.”
Marisol walked over to the table and held out her hand to Emma. “Those sketches?” she asked. “Allow me to see.”
Restell did not miss Emma’s infinitesimal hesitation. He understood her reluctance as caution when he observed how Marisol held the drawings without regard for the placement of her fingertips. She seemed to have no awareness that she might smudge the sketches or curl the paper. He was tempted to take them from her hands himself but feared she would shred the paper with her nails, so tight was her