Read Online The Art of Sinning by Sabrina Jeffries - Free Book Online

but I assumed . . . Oh, never mind.” She faced Damber, who was giving her the once-over with an insolence she apparently chose to overlook. “You must be Mr. Keane’s apprentice.”
    He gave a curt bow. “The name’s Damber, my lady.”
    She cocked her head. “What an interesting name. Did you know that it’s street cant for ‘rascal’?”
    â€œIt is indeed, my lady,” Damber said warily.
    â€œIs it a nickname?” she went on with an air of fascination that surprised Jeremy.
    Damber, too, apparently. “I suppose. Only name I ever had.”
    â€œI see.” Compassion glinted in her eyes. “Well, then, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Damber. I’ve informed the servants that you’ll be staying in our extra room downstairs. I hope you’ll be comfortable there.”
    â€œLong as it’s no spring-ankle warehouse, I’ll be fine,” Damber mumbled. Then, as if realizing what he’d said, he added, “I mean—”
    â€œI should hope it’s better than a gaol,” she said cheerily. “We have no catchpoles or caterpillars here, I assure you.”
    Damber perked up. “No, but I daresay you’ve plenty of country Harrys.”
    She laughed. “We do at that, sir. And high shoons, too.”
    Damber broke into a grin, then shot Jeremy an accusing look. “You said I wasn’t to use cant around a gentry mort, and here she’s using it more than me.”
    â€œThan I, ” Jeremy corrected him, then realized how ridiculous that sounded in light of the conversation.
    How the devil did she understand Damber, anyway? Jeremy only did half the time. From his many trips to the stews, he thought “catchpoles and caterpillars” were sheriffs and soldiers. And he could guess what a country Harry was. But a high shoon?
    â€œI’m afraid I’m not your typical gentry mort,” Lady Yvette told Damber, with a twinkle in her eye.
    To put it mildly. Come to think of it, she’d known quite a bit of coarse slang the night they’d met. Granted, her other brother had apparently been a criminal, but not the ill-mannered kind Damber had grown up among. So where had she learned it?
    â€œI collect street cant for my dictionaries,” she explained, as if she’d read his thoughts. “It’s a hobby of sorts. Indeed, I would be delighted to have you add to my store, Damber, especially if you know any boxing terms.”
    Damber’s mouth fell open. “I know more than anybody! You just tell me when, and I’ll give you as many as you like.”
    â€œI shall take you up on that sometime.” She glanced at the footman, who’d come up beside her to wait, having finished unlashing the men’s bagsfrom the back of the curricle. “But for now, you should probably get settled in.”
    â€œAye, my lady,” Damber said with a bob of his head.
    She faced Jeremy. “Forgive me, Mr. Keane, but I’m not sure exactly what a painter’s apprentice does. Will you need a valet, or will Damber—”
    â€œMy apprentice will do just fine for whatever I require,” Jeremy said, ignoring Damber’s groan. “If your man will show him to my room, he can start unpacking, retightening the canvases, and mixing my paints for the morning.”
    The lad had been getting too full of himself of late. It wouldn’t hurt to remind him that talent was nurtured through hard work, and not all of it was as enjoyable as painting and sketching. Or, for that matter, trading slang terms with an unconventional earl’s daughter.
    â€œVery well.” She turned to Damber. “Tom will show you to Mr. Keane’s suite.” She seemed to note the footman’s stiff posture and added, “And your master is right. Perhaps you should save your use of street cant for me and Mr. Keane. I’m not sure my staff would . . . appreciate