Chapter Nine

The rumors are true! The reclusive Duke of Hartwick is back in town. And despite tales of his monstrous scars, back to his roguish ways it appears. He was seen stumbling, sloshed from Brooks, with his cronies well past the witching hour. And earlier that evening, outside of the Thornbury ball, seen luring a beautiful dark-haired debutant into his carriage. A woman reportedly engaged to someone else. It appears ruin seeks to ruin.

Lucy set down the paper with a huff. She glanced across the table at Trudy, who simply raised one eyebrow.

Lucy sighed. “Yes, it was me. I saw his coach in front when I left the ball, and he aided me by taking me home in his carriage.”

“Aided you in your escape, you mean.”

Lucy lowered her eyes and took a bracing sip of tea.

“Young lady, you may not leave a social event alone without telling me. I was worried sick.” Trudy said.

“I left a note to be delivered to you.”

“Coward. You well know I wouldn’t have let you leave. There were several gentlemen there last night that I had not yet had the chance to introduce you to. Lucy, you are not even trying to find a husband.” Trudy sighed. “I want to see you settled already.”

Lucy had no response to the comment, which she had oft heard Trudy exclaim. “I haven’t met any gentlemen that have remotely sparked any interest in me.” She pouted just a bit. The only man she wanted did not want her. “Besides, it’s my money. Why can’t I just live as a wealthy spinster?”

“The money set aside for you by Hart’s father is a dowry. Expressly earmarked for you to have a chance at an advantageous marriage. It cannot be used for any other purpose.” Trudy reached out to pat Lucy’s hand. “My dear, I will not always be here to watch out for you. The ways in which a gently bred woman must make her way in this life are limited and, frankly, in the hands of men. Now, your father was a good man who wanted to set you up for the best kind of future, which is why he asked the duke to be your guardian. You simply need to pick someone to share your life with. They are not all like Fitzwilliam. My own dear husband was kind and generous.”

Lucy wasn’t sure that it was really that simple. How could she tell the true worth of a man if all the courtship was so superficial, so contrived? She rested her chin in her hand. Dare she confess to Trudy that the only man she wanted to marry was Hart? Perhaps Trudy would just tell her how far-fetched her dream was, or perhaps she was the perfect person to help her come up with a plan to woo him.

“Trudy, the truth is that there is only one man I want to marry.”

“I thought as much.” Trudy plucked a ripe strawberry from the tray and popped it into her mouth.

“Do you know who I am referring to?”

“Oh darling, of course I do. And he needs someone to take care of him as well.” Trudy ate another berry. “Hmmm, maybe Hart is the solution to our problem.”

“Our problem?”

“Lucy, this article does not expressly name you, but nevertheless, everyone will know it is you. Reported to be engaged to another… rumors like this can ruin your reputation.”

“But I was never engaged to Fitzwilliam! And Hart has always watched out for me. Everyone knows his father was my guardian.”

“It does not matter what’s true. Only what people think is true. No man is going to court you if they think the Duke of Hartwick is your lover.” Trudy’s voice rose uncharacteristically high-pitched.

Lucy winced.

“There’s only one thing to do.” Trudy mumbled as she rose from her chair.

“What?”

But Trudy simply waved her hand dismissively. “Leave it to me, my dear.” She left the breakfast room at a determined clip, leaving behind her signature scent of lily of the valley in her wake.

*

Lucy walked at her own determined clip toward Hart’s townhouse. Her maid Helen at her heels. The wretched feeling in her gut would not abate after her conversation with Trudy. How dare that ridiculous scandal rag print so many lies. It seemed obvious that the true target of their poisoned pen was Hart himself and that her reputation was an unfortunate casualty. Why would they pick on a damaged man who was still recovering from a horrific accident? Creating lies about drunken behavior when she knew he had been on his way home last night.

Drops of rain splashed her cheeks. She glanced up at the gray sky and then pushed open her umbrella as the rain started in earnest. The foul weather matched her foul mood. By the time she arrived at the front door of Hart’s house, her temper was at full steam. She couldn’t wait to tell him about the article and share her righteous anger with him. Perhaps he could do something. Even buy the paper and fire the man who wrote the scandal section. Yes, that would be immensely satisfying. She knocked on the dark green door.

Mr. Townson answered the door himself. “Good morning, Miss Middleton.”

“Good morning, Townson. I must speak with his grace.” She shut her umbrella and stepped past the butler into the foyer.

“I’m afraid that he is not accepting callers at this time, miss.”

“Townson, must we do this every time I come to visit? I am not just any caller. He will see me. Now, where is he? Breakfasting?”

“No, miss. I’m afraid he is indisposed.” Townson’s eyes darted to the left, where Hart’s formal drawing room lay.

Strange. Why would he be in a room expressly used for receiving guests? Who would he be entertaining at this hour of the morning? Lucy passed her umbrella and bonnet to Helen and then headed for the door. Mr. Townson hurried after her across the black and white tiles of the polished marble floor, sliding to a stop in his rush to prevent her from entering the room.

Lucy turned to face him. “Are you going to open this door and announce me, or shall I barge in?” She glared at the butler who looked so red he might be having an apoplexy.

She was in no mood for games this morning. She had important venting to do, and Hart must listen to what she had to say.

“Right then.” She turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Inside, the smell of liquor and smoke hit her right in the face. Three men lay across various pieces of furniture. One man slumped in a chair, his long frame stretched out. His arm hung down over the armrest, a bottle of liquor clutched in his hand. Another man lay prone along the settee, one leg over the edge of the cushions and one planted on the floor. His sprawl was comical as he was dressed elegantly in evening clothes.

Then she spotted Hart. He lay in the chaise. His eyes closed, and was that blood staining his shirt?

“Dear Lord! Why is there blood on your shirt?” She hurried across the room.

Hart’s eyelids popped open. He blinked, bleary-eyed, as though he was trying to focus. “Lucy?”

“Indeed.” She glanced again around at the other two men, whom she had woken, as they clumsily straightened to sitting.

It was clear that the gossip rag hadn’t made everything up. He had gone out drinking with his friends.

She put her hands on her hips. “And here I thought I would find you having a quiet morning with a cup of tea. Instead, I see you left me at my doorstep last night and then went out for a night of carousing with your degenerate friends.”

“Hey,” one of his friends protested.

Hart ran a hand down his face. “Lucy, could you please speak at a lower volume?”

“No, I cannot. Why is your shirt stained with blood? I told you to be careful until we could figure out what sort of danger is afoot. But no, you immediately go out and find trouble. What happened?!”

Hart rose to his feet. “Lads, I must ask you to go. Now.”

The two men struggled to their feet and straightened jackets and cravats. One of them paused as he passed Hart. “Sorry, mate, didn’t know you’d taken a wife.”

Hart closed his eyes briefly. “I haven’t.”

Lucy crossed her arms and waited as the two men exited the room.

Hart turned to face her. “I’m fine. The wound has been stitched up.” He tugged the two sides of his waistcoat together, covering his bloodied shirt.

She couldn’t stop herself from moving closer. “What happened?” she repeated.

His fingers quickly fastened the buttons. “I was attacked in the alley behind Brook’s. It’s just a flesh wound.”

“Attacked? By who?”

“Just some ruffian trying to steal my coin while I was taking…” He coughed into his hand.

Doubtful. Did he really think it a coincidence? “More likely someone hired to finish the job they started last year. Think about it. No one knows how much Galey did or did not tell you in that carriage. That makes you a liability for whatever secrets they are keeping about the death of your family.”

Hart frowned. “Perhaps. It’s hard to tell. He ran off when my friend’s carriage pulled up behind us.”

“Hard to tell. You mean because you were sloshed?” she scoffed. “I felt bad for you last night, but you were just beginning your evening of drunken revelry.” She paced away from him.

To think she had been angry on his behalf for the lies she assumed the scandal rag had made up. But everything it said had been true. Her reputation was tarnished just by being acquainted with an infamous rake like him. To top it off, someone was trying to kill him, and he was too stupid to realize it.

She swiveled on her heel and strode back across the room, coming to a stop in front of him. “How could you be so reckless?” She poked a finger in his chest.

“How I spend my evenings is none of your concern.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“None of my concern? How incorrect you are, sir.” Lucy pulled the torn-out page of newsprint from her jacket pocket and slapped it against his chest. Then she turned to leave. To hell with him. She was too angry to stay and watch him put two and two together.

“Lucy, wait. This is ridiculous. Luring young maidens into my carriage.” He chuckled.

“Aunt Trudy didn’t think it ridiculous. She said that everyone would know it was me. She was quite upset.”

Hart moved to block her from leaving. “No one of substance reads these gossip rags anyway. You must ignore it.”

He really didn’t understand.

She clenched her hands into fists. “Everyone reads this paper. You read the false announcement of my engagement to Lord Fitzwilliam just last week.”

“I’m sorry that your reputation was called into question because you were simply being a good friend.” He reached for one of her hands, gently uncurling her fingers. “Our conversation last night did help me. In fact, because I felt much improved, I decided to go to the club and renew my investigation.”

The warmth of his gaze held her in a thrall. His thumb brushed gently across the hand he held, and her breath caught in her throat. What was she mad about? Certainly not about the way it felt to stand so close to him. To feel petite against the breadth of his chest and to see his grey eyes turn molten. She took a step back. No, she must not get distracted.

“Well, um, we must have a plan to show that there is nothing untoward happening. Everyone knows that your father was my guardian. We must show that your interest is purely in helping me in my season.”

Hart stared at her for a long moment before shaking his head. “Yes, of course. How do we do that?”

“I think it would be good if you escorted your aunt and me to a social function. Something respectable, something a brother type would do.”

Hart nodded tightly. “Whatever you need. Let me know which function. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to clean up.”

“Of course.” She started for the door but turned back to send him a stern look. “And eat some breakfast.”

*

Hart rose from his bath and grabbed the towel off the nearby chair. He roughly ran it over his head to dry his hair. Then was more careful as he dried his torso, gently blotting at the stitches that sewed up the four-inch gash in his side. He walked out of the bathing room and across his bedroom to the tall mirror next to his bureau. The angry red mark under his ribcage stood out against the pale pink waxy burns that swathed his right side. Another scar to add to his collection. His lips pursed as he surveyed his disfigured body.

The smooth unnatural skin of the scar tissue twisted around his shoulder and down his arm. His right pectoral was similarly swathed by burns, the hair that should cover his chest refusing to grow through the thick scars. He ran a hand over the marks, tracing their winding path down his abdomen and around his hip bone. They were repulsive. Logically, he knew he should be glad to be alive. Glad that his body was still strong and capable. Except for the eye, of course. But whenever he looked in the mirror, he was reminded that he was damaged. His scars an outside reflection of his battered soul.

The horror of that night enveloped him. The flash of the explosion so bright. The acrid smell of smoke. The tearing pain in his eye, and later the agonizing torture as the doctor peeled away his charred clothing from burned skin. The weeks that followed were a hazy mix of pain and feverish nightmares that could only be dulled by laudanum. He had only patchy memories of gentle fingers across his brow and a sweet voice, which had soothed some of his terrible dreams. Hart shook his head to clear the memories he knew would suck him down into a spiral of despondency. He turned from the mirror.

Slowly, he raised his right arm up over his head, stretching the skin and joint while his body was still warm from his soak. Then he rolled his shoulder, his arm following the path in a circular motion that ached, but gradually released the tension that seemed a constant companion there. Hart moved through the stretches the doctor had suggested to keep the skin from tightening to a point where his right arm would be useless. He grimaced at the painful twinges as he pushed through the exercises.

Lucy had been right; he’d left whatever good sense he had in a bottle of brandy last night. Bad habits were so easy to fall back into. Especially with fucking friends like his. He shook his head. No, he shouldn’t blame anyone but himself. His focus should be on his task to find out what happened to his father and brother. And those responsible were clearly not done trying to be rid of him. God, Lucy had been so angry. Magnificently so. Her blue eyes spitting fire as she pushed at him. Even hungover and covered in blood, his body responded to her.

Hart scraped a hand down over his face. His attraction to Lucy had been a thorn in his side for years. He should stay away from her, but now he would have to attend social functions with her as, what had she called it—a brother type. A dry laugh erupted from his chest. If Lucy had any idea how very un-brother-like his thoughts were, she would turn tail and run. No, more likely, she would just punch him ballocks.