“Let them knock.” He took Kat’s hand, knowing the other two were obedient little followers.
Once they were outside, it was a simple matter to hoist them into his carriage. They all sat together, shoulder to shoulder. Two of them had the shame to hang their heads.
“This is all so ridiculous,” Kat said.
“You do not get to speak. Now, is Lady Beckham home this afternoon?”
“No, she and Uncle went to Surrey this morning,” Prim said.
“They go every Tuesday,” Jenny added.
“Well then. We are going to Kent. I will let your father sort this out.”
Jenny started to cry first. Joshua handed over a handkerchief.
“Oh, please no,” Prim said. “He will never let us go to London again.”
“Don’t you think that is what you deserve?”
“You are so cruel. And to think Char wanted one of us to marry you,” Kat said.
Joshua could see Squire Taylor insisting that he marry one of his daughters, and not the one he had proposed to. He didn’t know which one he’d seen naked the first time, but this time, he’d clearly compromised Jenny’s reputation.
“So why did you do it?”
“Paul DuChamp. Do I need to say anything else?”
“Well, not to me. I expect your parents will require a better answer.”
Damn, that painting was going to cost him a pretty penny, even if it was incomplete.
And Kat was right. Who would know which one was in the painting? The Taylors were of similar build with golden hair. The woman posing was not only masked but turned away from the audience. Unless there was some betrayal of their secret who was going to find out?
And what about Char? Though he’d proposed for the wrong reason, that didn’t make his proposal any less sincere. Char. He did not have the luxury of thinking about her, not in the way he’d been allowing.
A sob burst from Prim. Kat put an arm about Prim’s shoulder and held her close.
“Cruel!” she said again.
“For some reason, I doubt your father and mother will be surprised when I explain who I suspect is the ringleader in this little rebellion.”
And with that final, crushing statement, Kat wailed. He thought she uttered a few more “mean, cruel and unfair” statements as she blubbered into her own handkerchief.
Would DuChamp forfeit the incomplete painting? He’d need to return to London soon to retrieve the evidence. And once destroyed, that would be that.
Char was in as much danger as her sisters. Who was to say she hadn’t also posed? Perhaps Char had a more mature, appealing body. But a gossip hell-bent on telling the latest news could easily assume Char was one of the culprits. Not a victim.
He hadn’t packed a valise. He was not going to stop and allow them to either. Who knew if he’d ever get them back in the carriage without scandalizing the entire household.
Three hours later the wailing had stopped. Prim and Jenny had offered him a few reconciling smiles, but Kat sat in the corner of the carriage with her arms crossed. The go-to-hell look she cast his way was enough to remind him how happy he was their father was still alive.
“Prim?” He had earned the right to call them by their given names, had he not? “What matter has upset Lady Dunlevee?”
“Oh, that awful man she was married to.”
“He had two gets with his mistress and she has no means to care for them.”
“So she thought to sell them to Char and Char was too soft-hearted to tell the deceitful paramour no.”
“Poor children. Char says they are adorable.”
“But they’re not Char’s responsibility.”
“It’s not the children’s fault. They shouldn’t have to pay for their mother’s mistakes.”
“Or their father’s.”
“Oh, don’t be daft. Children must pay for their parents’ sins all the time.”
Joshua glanced at each of them in turn as they forgot their woes, gossiping about their sister instead. He settled back, listening to the conversation. It turned out Arthur Dunlevee was an ass.
The Taylors seemed to have forgotten Joshua and the reason they were traveling in a carriage together. After the much-discussed Dunlevee marriage, they proceeded to less controversial topics, so Joshua closed his eyes, wondering how he’d gotten himself into this mess.
He’d faced down three crying girls on the precipice of ruin. Was he ready to face two irate parents who might be willing to commit murder? And one shocked sister who might look at him with something other than somnolent desire?
CHAPTER SEVEN
THERE WERE JUST TIMES when a woman needed her mother.
Crying for three hours, alone in the carriage, on the way home hadn’t helped.
A good night’s rest, in her own bed, hadn’t helped either. Her heart still ached.