The latest caricature was a viciously brilliant work of art.
A white picket fence divided the comic in two panels. To the left were three beautiful maidens, frolicking in a meadow of flowers with a dozen adorable puppies. One of the young ladies cuddled a puppy to her bosom, another nuzzled her nose against the pup’s face, and the third pressed a kiss between a pair of floppy ears.
The other half of the panel featured the rear view of a spindly centaur standing in an ankle-high swamp of his own muck. The legs and back were that of a horse, but the florid waistcoat and piqued expression belonged to none other than Phineas Mapleton.
The caption read: “Stallion among pups… or horse’s arse?”
No wonder it had become an instant classic.
“Stop braying!” Mapleton shrieked. “Donkeys are not stallions!”
All of the neighs and whinnies immediate changed to donkey-like brays.
As much as Heath despised the caricaturist, he couldn’t bring himself to crumple up the paper. Mapleton had tried to talk him into an extortion scheme to blackmail their friends. Now he would know what it felt like to have his own words and deeds become fodder for mockery.
The caricaturist still must be stopped, of course. Although the anonymous cartoons never named names, every member of thetonwould know exactly who and what the comical contrast referred to.
Heath pushed to his feet. Before he could reach the door, a red-faced Phineas Mapleton blocked his path.
Mapleton waved a pound note before Heath’s nose. “Represent me!”
“I’m not a barrister,” Heath replied in irritation, trying to dodge the bill flapping in his face.
Mapleton shoved the note inside Heath’s coat pocket. “Now you possess it. It’s done. You represent me.”
Heath tightened his jaw. This was not what he meant when he had let it be known that any person who could scrounge up so much as a ha’penny was more than worthy enough to be his client. Heath preferred free will on both sides. But this was neither the time nor the place to get into a public argument with the dandy who was currently the talk of the town.
He cast Mapleton a flat stare. “What is it you expect me to do?”
“Find him.” Mapleton waved a copy of the cartoon in Heath’s face. “Stophim. I’ll pay you as much as you need. Do you want me to donate a hundred pounds to that stupid charity right now?”
“Two hundred,” Heath said automatically.
Under other circumstances, Phineas Mapleton would be the last person Heath would have accepted as a client. But he was already working toward the same goal. If saying yes meant a few more meals for hungry orphans, Heath couldn’t turn even a horse’s arse away.
“Done.” Mapleton crumpled up the caricature and dropped it into the closest mug of ale. “It will arrive by morning.”
Heath lifted his hand. “Then, if you’ll excuse me?”
Mapleton stepped aside, glaring at dozens of rowdy gamblers who had already forgotten him and returned to their dice and cards.
Heath pushed out of the dark club and back into the sunlight. He was done playing games. Not just with the caricaturist, but with his own life, too.
Chapter 22
Heath had only been awake for an hour and a half, but already the following morning was off-kilter.
His breakfast table had seemed empty. His town house, too quiet. And though he had the most talented valet in all of London creating a masterwork of intricate folds with his cravat, Heath could not help but wish those were Miss Winfield’s hands upon his chest.
Ever since their kiss, he could not glimpse a linen neckcloth without remembering how it felt to have her arrange his after he had tasted her lips. His heart lightened. He no longer required hearing the strains of music to be moved to dance. He just needed to have Miss Winfield in his arms.
Heath’s eyes widened. That was indeed the crux of the matter. Heneededto have her in his arms.
He was in love.
The floor seemed to tilt about him at the realization. He had known they were more than compatible, suspected their trajectory would not end with a single kiss, but he had not realized his future was already predetermined.Love. So what was he meant to do about it?
His blood quickened. Make room, of course. Not just in his heart, but in every aspect of his life.
