Chapter Fourteen

H art entered the cool interior of his carriage. “Harris Street, number two,” he told Thomas.

The door closed, and he leaned back against the squabs with a sigh. That woman was going to be the death of him. The kiss they’d shared last night shook him to the core. Perhaps he had always known deep down there would be no turning back if he gave into temptation and tasted her sweetness. No, not sweetness. Lucy was like a tart summer berry. The sharp flavor hit his tongue delicious and potent, with just a hint of sweet left behind after he finished.

She’d called him a rogue. And he was, for all the reasons he had told her. He was too old, too damaged, too bloody moody. But damn it, he wanted her. He’d never wanted any woman more. The urge to seduce her away from her Mr. Murdoch was strong. She wasn’t some toy to steal then play with. Besides, his skills in seduction had always been based on his good looks. These days… he ran a hand down over his cheek; he wasn’t a catch on any level. No, Lucy wasn’t for him.

Hart glanced out the window. The carriage rolled through the neat squares and wide avenues of Mayfair. His next stop would be an ambush of sorts. The Earl of Blackpool had ignored all of his invitations to meet. It was time to pin the man down. Hart wanted to know what Blackpool knew of the time around his father’s death. Someone among his father’s cohorts must have known something if his father was receiving threats. The fact that Blackpool had been dodging his summons, in addition to the new information that he also had the Egyptian symbol hanging in his office, made Hart all the more suspicious.

He arrived a few minutes later. When he was greeted by the earl’s staff, Hart handed over his card, and the butler disappeared up the stairs. The Blackpool’s townhome was well appointed. Hart glanced up at the large crystal chandelier. It matched the crystal-laden sconces along the walls. The light grey marble floors were polished and pretty. The delicately carved cherry table to his left held a patterned blue vase full of fresh pink roses, giving the home a decidedly feminine feel, which was no surprise as the man was married with four daughters.

“This way, please, Your Grace,” the butler intoned.

As Hart entered the man’s study, the Earl of Blackpool rose to his feet.

“Well, it isn’t often that a duke drops by unannounced to see me. Good afternoon, Your Grace.”

“Blackpool.” Hart nodded curtly. “I was nearby on another errand and thought since you had not responded to my invitations, I would corner you at home.”

The earl had the grace to look chagrined. “Yes, sorry, been very busy recently. Please have a seat. What can I do for you, my boy?”

Hart tried not to roll his eyes at the older man’s attempt to assert his authority. “Lord Blackpool, I will get straight to the point. I hoped to speak with you candidly about the time around my father’s death. I remember that you and he were close friends.”

The earl’s jaw visibly clenched. “Yes, Henry and I were friends since we were boys at Eton. What do you want to know?”

“Do you know of any business dealings that my father was involved in that had soured? Did he ever complain about receiving threats over a bad business deal?”

“No. I don’t remember him mentioning anything about threats. But I don’t suppose he would even if it was happening. Henry kept things close to the chest.”

“Someone was making threats the week leading up to his death.” Hart leaned forward to place his arms on his knees. “I have never accepted that their deaths were an accident of fate.”

Blackpool’s dark eyes turned flinty. “Son, you must accept the truth. It was a terrible incident, but crime in the city, especially in that part of town, is common.”

Hart wanted to yell and rage at the platitude that his father’s friends had said to him over the last fortnight. Rawlings, the Duke of Lavensham—both had looked at him with fatherly concern and told him it had just been a terrible tragedy.

In his frustration with the wall of denial his father’s friends had erected, Hart almost voiced to Blackpool how Lord Galey hadn’t believed it to be a robbery, that he had known who murdered them. But recalling Galey’s words from that night stopped Hart from blurting it out. Galey had said that the culprits had ears everywhere. Could he trust what little he knew with the Earl of Blackpool?

Hart reached into his pocket and withdrew the small gold stamp. Moderating his tone so that Blackpool wouldn’t see his frustration, he asked, “Sir, do you recognize this symbol? I found it in my father’s correspondence kit. I noticed the symbol stamped on many letters that my father received from you and other friends of his.”

Blackpool took the stamp. He stilled for a moment as he stared down at it. Then he passed it back to Hart with a smile—one that did not reach his eyes.

“It was the insignia for a club we had at Eton. It means to protect each other from one’s enemies. Egyptian? I think. He used the stamp to mark all his letters. Henry always had a flair for the dramatic.” Blackpool stared blankly across the room. “That was back when we all had a certain idealism about friendship and what the future held.”

Hart pocketed the stamp. He debated whether to ask his next question. But he must find out where the earl fell in his list of suspects. “What happened between you and my father? I used to see you at gatherings all the time when I was younger. And then you and he seemed to never speak, even at social events.”

The earl’s lips thinned. His gaze grew sharp again, pinning Hart with its intensity. “Your father had an affair with my wife. It is hard to stay friends with someone who would betray your friendship in such a way.”

The revelation pushed Hart back in his chair. No, his father was an honorable man. He would never do something like that to a friend. It must be a lie, a misunderstanding.

Blackpool let out a caustic laugh. “I can see by the shock on your face that you thought your father a perfect gentleman. Well, he shocked the hell out of me, too. I always knew he was a womanizer, but I never thought he would cross the line with one of us.”

As Hart sat stunned, grappling with the phrase womanizer as a descriptor for his father, a discreet knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” the earl called out.

The door opened, and the butler stepped across the threshold. “Sir, Mr. Murdoch is here for your one o’clock appointment.”

“Thank you. Give us a moment or two and then bring him back.” Blackpool turned to Hart. “If you’ll please excuse me. I have a meeting with my solicitor.”

Hart rose to his feet. Wait, Lucy’s Mr. Murdoch was here? “Mr. Murdoch, of Jackson and Worth?”

“Yes.”

“Could I meet him?” Hart improvised. “I have heard good things about the firm.”

“Are you thinking of switching?”

“Perhaps,” he replied. This was his chance to size up the man in person. There was only so much Hart could infer about someone from a piece of paper.

The earl crossed the room and pushed open the door. In the corridor, a golden-haired adonis leaned with one shoulder against the wall. A toothy grin stretched across his face as he spoke with Violet Blakely, the earl’s oldest daughter. The man straightened with a start when he noticed her father. Tucking his leather bag under his arm, he gave a small bow.

“Come inside, Murdoch. The Duke of Hartwick would like to meet you.”

Hart watched silently while the man came into the room. Damn him for being so handsome.

*

Lucy rang the bell at Violet’s house. The door swung open almost immediately, but instead of Lord Blackpool’s butler, her friend stood there.

Violet grabbed Lucy’s wrist and yanked her across the threshold. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Sorry I’m late. I stopped to get us sticky buns from that little bakery on Derry Street.” She offered her friend the small twine-wrapped box.

Violet looked over her shoulder toward the staircase. “Thank you, but there is something you should know immediately.” Violet’s panicked expression was worrying.

“What is it, dear?”

“Mr. Murdoch is here.” Violet squeezed her hand painfully. “And the duke is here as well. They are all in my father’s study. Together.”

Lucy raised her hand to her heart. Panic bubbled up into her throat. “But how can that be?”

“Bad luck, I guess. The duke showed up unannounced about a half hour ago.”

“How long have they been in there?” she asked.

“Maybe ten or fifteen minutes. I came to stand sentry at the door so I could make sure to tell you right away.”

“We must go hide at once. Neither of them can know I am here.” Lucy whispered. Oh my Lord. Was Hart in there grilling Mr. Murdoch about his intentions? Certainly not. Not in front of the earl. Would he?

“Thank you for meeting with me, Blackpool. Good day.” Hart’s deep voice echoed from the upstairs hallway.

She exchanged a panicked look with Violet. Lucy felt lightheaded as she glanced around for an escape. She might actually swoon for the first time in her life. Violet pulled her across the polished floors to the left. Yanked open the door to the coat closet and shoved her inside. Lucy stumbled back and landed against a rack that held umbrellas, making them rattle. Violet thrust the box of sticky buns into her hands and shut the door in her face.

Lucy could hear the muffled clicking of Hart’s cane as he navigated the stairs down to the ground floor. She slowly cracked open the door to the closet, just enough to peer out with one eye.

Violet swung around. “Oh, Your Grace, good afternoon. I did not know you were here.” Violet gripped her skirts with a white-knuckled grip.

“Didn’t I see you upstairs moments ago with Mr. Murdoch?” Hart asked.

“Oh, did you? I did not know you were here.” Violet repeated herself and then seemed to realize what she had done because a crazed giggle rang out.

Lucy winced. Poor Violet was not a natural at lying.

Just then, the butler came striding into the foyer. “Your hat and gloves, sir?”

“Yes, and can you tell my coachman that I am going to walk home from here? I need some fresh air.”

Lucy studied Hart. His expression was tight and grim. What had he learned in his meeting with the earl? Or was it due to finding out from Mr. Murdoch that she had fabricated her fake beau? Was he upset that she had lied to him?

The butler came into view as he retrieved Hart’s hat and gloves from the console table next to the closet. Lucy took a step back into the dark interior in case the man glanced toward the closet to see an eye peering back at him.

Hart donned his gloves and hat, then nodded at Violet. “Good day, Lady Blakely.

She curtsied in return. “Good day, Your Grace.”

After Hart left the house, the butler turned to Violet. “Is there anything I can get you, miss?”

Violet put her hands behind her back. “Oh no, thank you, Hoby.”

The butler turned and returned to whence he came from. Her friend hurried over to the closet. “The coast is clear.”

Lucy emerged and lifted one hand to smooth a stray hair that had fallen into her face. “Thank you. That was quick thinking. You are a true friend, Violet.”

“No thanks necessary.” Violet winged out her elbow. “Shall we adjourn to the drawing room to eat sticky buns?”

“If there was ever a time for sweets, now is that time.” Lucy glanced back at the door and frowned. “But Hart looked almost distraught. I think maybe I will try to catch up with him.”

Violet tilted her head. “He did?”

Lucy nodded. “Better to know now if Mr. Murdoch ratted me out than to wait and fret over it for days. Can you call for my maid, please?”

“Of course, dear. But you must send me a note later, or I will simply die of curiosity.”