Chapter Three

A n hour later, Viscount Fitzwilliam slithered into Hart’s study. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”

“Please sit.” Hart pointed to the chair across from him. He knew the exact moment the viscount got close enough to see his scars. Fitzwilliam’s steps faltered for just a moment before approaching and taking the seat. Hart leaned forward, placing his hands together on top of the gleaming mahogany desk between them. Letting the man take in the entirety of his ruined face. Hart watched his Adam’s apple bob above the linen at his throat. It was almost comical the way Fitzwilliam’s eyes widened dramatically. Almost.

“I had no idea you had returned to town, Your Grace.”

“I expect that is true, considering that you did not come to gain my permission for the gross falsehood that you had printed in today’s paper.” Taking advantage of Fitzwilliam’s discomfort, he lowered his eyebrows into a glower.

“Ah… but it is true.” Fitzwilliam lips curled up into a sickly-sweet smile. “We have become quite enamored of each other this season.”

“That is not what the lady says.”

The man’s smile faded. “You have spoken with her?”

Hart nodded. This weasel would pay for trying to take advantage of Lucy. The faded yellow-green bruise along the man’s jaw did give Hart some satisfaction. Lucy was definitely a spitfire. He would have loved to see her give the rogue blow to the face and good tongue-lashing as well.

Fitzwilliam recovered smoothly. “Well now, I know she is a bit reluctant to get married. The tidbit I passed to the paper was just a little nudge in the right direction. We would make an excellent match. I planned to call on her today and convince her our marriage would be a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“And how did you plan to convince her? Like you did at the Jackson’s ball?” He held up a hand as the man opened his mouth to reply. “There will be no arrangement between you and Miss Middleton. I would never give my consent for her to marry a man who assaults a woman in order to gain her acquiescence in any matter.”

“But it was just a misunderstanding. You know how women are. They sometimes need to be convinced of the right course of action. Lucy is far too self-governing for a female. She just needs a firm hand. I assure you she and I get along famous—”

The nerve of this weasel. Hart rose to his feet. He slammed his hands on the desk, and he leaned forward menacingly. “You may be assured that by the end of today I will own every outstanding marker you have.” Fitzwilliam blanched and shut his mouth with a snap. “Come within fifty feet of Miss Middleton or if I hear of even one foul word besmirching her reputation, I will call in every one. I am guessing it is no small amount based on your desperate attempts to get your hands on Miss Middleton’s dowry.”

The viscount’s mouth opened and closed like a fish caught on land. “But what will people think if it is called off?”

“Not my problem. Now get out of my house.”

Red-faced, Fitzwilliam rose to his feet. “You are as monstrous as you look.” Then he stormed out of the room.

Hart crossed over to the bar cabinet and poured a healthy two fingers of brandy into a cut crystal glass. What a fucking day. Between the minefield of a conversation with Lucy this morning and the ridiculous posturing of the viscount just now, he had about as much interaction with people as he could take. Monstrous indeed. The man hadn’t even been able to see the irony in his own statement.

But his day was not over yet, because Lucy was correct; he should have visited Trudy by now. He swallowed down the liquor and carefully closed the cabinet. There was no more time for wallowing at the bottom of the bottle. He’d done enough of that in the last year. Dulling his emotions along with his physical pain. Now, he wanted to feel every piece of that pain. He would channel all of it to finding the man who had killed his family. Hart crossed to the bell pull.

Moments later, Townson opened the door. Tall and thin as a rail, the butler had not a hair on his head except for two dark, bushy eyebrows. In Hart’s opinion, Townson’s ability to put people in their place with one disdainful look down his long, hawklike nose was the man’s best attribute. Townson had kept everyone at bay for the past year when Hart simply hadn’t the mental strength to face the pity in the eyes of his family and friends. His butler had been his frontline defense… except for today. Hart briefly wondered how Lucy had made it past the man.

Townson raised an eyebrow in question. “You rang?”

“Have Mr. Langford come see me this afternoon at two and have the carriage ready at three.”

“The town coach or the phaeton?”

“The coach. I am going to see my aunt.”

A brief gleam of satisfaction flared in the man’s eyes. “Very well, sir.”

Hart had a sinking feeling that Townson had decided his time in exile was up.

Hart straightened his shoulders. “And bring me my correspondence kit. I have some letters to write.”

*

The hustle and bustle of the city was much the same as it had always been. Hart stared out the window of the town coach as it made its way to Portman Square, where Trudy and Lucy lived. Perhaps it was him that had changed because everything felt so foreign. The noise grated his ears, and had women’s hats grown in size this season? As the ladies of Mayfair promenaded down the street, it seemed to him that their wide-brimmed hats laden with flowers and ribbons were particularly ridiculous.

He smoothed a hand over his hair, which his valet trimmed this afternoon. It was still long enough to swoop over his right eye and cheekbone if he let it fall forward but shorter in the back, so he didn’t so much resemble a shaggy dog anymore. His great aunt would be brutally assessing and not mind giving her opinion on his deportment. She had been telling the dukes of Hartwick what’s what for three generations. The coach pulled to a stop in front of Trudy’s charming townhome. The gleaming whitewashed front of the house was interrupted by a bright yellow front door. Two marble columns flanked the steps to the entrance, and bright colorful flowers spilled from the window boxes.

He slapped his hat on his head and made his way up to the door. It opened as he arrived in front of it, and he was ushered in by Trudy’s butler.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace.” The man held out his hand for his hat and accessories.

“I’ll just keep this.” Hart gripped the smooth brass head of his walking stick.

The butler nodded. “Lady Weatherby is expecting you in the Rose Room.”

“Thank you.” He followed the man up the stairs and to the right down a richly carpeted hallway papered in a soothing blue damask. Hart let out a long breath. He was safe here in Trudy’s home. The quiet sumptuousness of her house soothed his nerves, which had been jangled ever since he forced himself to leave the house today. They walked all the way to the back of the house. The last door on the left was his aunt’s personal sanctuary. She sat by the window, her embroidery hoop in her lap.

“You’ve finally come to see me.”

“Good afternoon, Aunt Trudy.” Hart gave a deep bow. “I apologize for my tardiness in visiting.”

Trudy’s sharp eyes raked over him from top to bottom. He resisted the urge to fidget. “I suppose I’m too pleased to see you looking so well to be angry. Come sit.” She turned to the butler, who still hovered by the door. “Have the tea cart sent in.”

Hart sat across from her. “You are also looking well, Trudy. How is your health?”

“Just fine, young man. How is yours? Still drinking yourself into a stupor every day? Wandering the halls of Belstoke Manor at night like a ghost?”

Hart blinked at her, his shock muting his tongue.

“Did you think I wouldn’t keep tabs on one of my only remaining relatives? My favorite nephew?”

“Who has been—never mind. No, I am no longer drinking and haunting the manor.”

“So, you have emerged. Tell me, what has brought you to town?”

“Some business matters,” he replied.

“Typical. The appropriate response would have been to repair relationships with important people in your life, but I guess that would be asking too much of a man. Go on and ask me what you came to. Let us get business matters out of the way first.”

How did she know he planned to steer the conversation toward his father’s associates? He planned to be subtle, but Trudy was, as ever, too shrewd. “Aunt, do you know what this is?” He pulled out the small wax seal stamp from his pocket and handed it to Trudy. “I found it in Father’s desk among his correspondence. This symbol was stamped on the pages of a letter sent to him as well.”

Trudy peered carefully at the carved seal. She shook her head. “Something about it is familiar, but I cannot put my finger on where I have seen this symbol before.” She looked up and met his gaze. “Why do you ask?”

“Why would father seal letters with anything other than the Hartwick seal? The letter he received, which was stamped with this same symbol, was angry and threatening. It made no sense; the author was upset that father was going pull out of some deal, but what the deal entailed was not made explicit. It contained threats of retribution.” Hart ran his thumb over the gold seal. “The words on the page felt personal. I suppose a business venture gone bad could raise the same emotions. Dangerous emotions.”

Trudy frowned. “I am sorry I can’t remember. I will think on it, though.”

A servant entered with the tea cart, and Trudy set aside her embroidery hoop on the table next to her. Once the tea was poured, she took a sip and eyed him carefully over the rim. “Lucy told me that you looked shaggy and unkempt. She feared you were still not well. But I can see she was overreacting.”

He pushed his hair back from his face and sat up straighter under her perusal. “She was not. I had Niles shave me and trim my hair just this afternoon. I hadn’t been worrying overmuch about my appearance while at Belstoke. But when Lucy barged into my breakfast room this morning, I was reminded that appearances matter.”

“And how do you feel? What is the status of the eye?”

“I can only see blurry shadows and changes in light. At low light or at night, it is fully useless.” His sharp frustration with losing his sight in the eye had dulled over time as he learned to maneuver using the cane to feel out possible obstacles in the blind spot he now had on the right side.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I hoped it would heal. But it is not the worst impediment.”

Hart snorted.

“You still have one working eye, do you not?” Trudy challenged.

He shrugged. She sounded like Lucy, chiding him for feeling sorry for himself. Which he’d done plenty of the past year. “Yes, and I can see your look of worry clearly with it. Aunt Trudy, I’m fine. I promise.”

She nodded and set her cup down. “Moving on to pressing matters. I’m in need of your help with a family matter.”

“Is there something the matter with Fred?” Hart asked. Trudy’s son lived with his very large family in Dorset. Although a jovial man and an excellent father, Fred was a bit dimwitted. He was next in line to inherit, and Hart highly doubted that his cousin could handle the running of the dukedom. That had been reason enough for him to hang on when things had felt particularly dim. After all, Hart had a duty to uphold as the Duke of Hartwick. At least until he sired a proper heir.

Trudy waved her hand dismissively. “No, he and his brood are all doing fine. Who I mean is Lucy.”

“Aunt Trudy, Lucy is not in our family.”

“What a thing to say! That girl has been my companion for four years. She is more precious to me than anyone else besides my Fred. I want to see her safely settled before I die. That could be any day now.”

Hart stifled a smile. All the Barclays were prone to the dramatic. “Aunt Trudy, I thought you said your health was just fine.”

“At my age, my health is as mercurial as the weather. You can never tell when I will up and keel over. Lucy must be married. Because of the portion left to her, she is at risk from predators like Fitzwilliam, as you well know. And as head of this family, it is your responsibility to match her with an appropriate husband.”

“I took care of Fitzwilliam today. He won’t be bothering her again.”

“Good. I knew you would. Now, I need you to find her someone decent, not too old, athletic, not a gambler, and someone with some spirit, no dullards.”

“I have only been in town one week after a yearlong absence and you want me to pull a young, decent, non-gambler, non-dullard gentleman out from my back pocket for Lucy to marry?” What did Trudy think he was, a magician? Even when he’d been active in society, the only gentlemen he’d been friends with had been reprobates. Certainly not anyone he would allow to get near Lucy.

“Don’t be silly. I have a list.” She reached into her embroidery bag and drew out a piece of folded parchment. “I need you to vet the men on this list. And let me know who we are left with to introduce to her.”

Hart reluctantly took the list from her. It contained at least a dozen names. A quick glance through made him snort in disbelief. Most were unacceptable. “I can tell you right now most of these men don’t meet all the criteria. Has Lucy seen this list? Surely, she has opinions about who her future spouse should be.”

“Oh, she has opinions all right. But her most ardent opinion is that she does not want to marry. We will have to figure out who to put into her path.” She pointed an elegant finger at the list. “But she cannot know we are doing it. It must appear that she has made the choice.”

Hart ran a hand down over his face. This was not a good idea. Trudy did not know about the private things that had been said between he and Lucy. How badly he had smashed to bits Lucy’s heartfelt declarations. He should have rebuffed her feelings more gently. Nevertheless, she hadn’t needed his desperation and despair in her life any more than he needed her kind pity. So, he had sent her away.

He looked down again at the list of prospective husbands for Lucy. She deserved to have someone to take care of her, someone who would be able to return her affection. “All right. I look through the list, cross off the ones who I know are trouble, and investigate the ones I don’t know enough about.”

“And help me introduce the gentlemen we think are good candidates to Lucy in an inconspicuous way?”

“Aunt, I have no plans to jump back into society. No one wants to see this face across the dining table. And with this blind spot I cannot twirl around the dance floor without risk of bumping into people. I would hardly make a coveted guest these days.”

Before the explosion, he had always been on every guest list in town. His over inflated reputation as a rake had not outweighed the allure of his title or his good looks. Every woman in London had wanted their chance to capture a duke as a husband. But Hart had never minded the hunt. He always enjoyed the company of women. Of course, now, who would he find that would be willing to marry a scarred and damaged husband, even if he was a duke.

“Nonsense. The scars are not so bad. You simply look like a war hero.”

“Except that I am no war hero.”

“You are a duke. No one would dare insult you.”

“To my face,” he muttered.

“You have the connections to help introduce Lucy to the right suitors. Besides, having been away for the past year has only made you more interesting. Mysterious. Lucy deserves to be settled safely. This innuendo that was printed in today’s scandal sheets will damage her reputation unless it is corrected immediately. Only a respectable marriage can save her now.”

Hart nodded tightly, already regretting his part in this. He had his own investigation to pursue. He did not need to add matchmaking to his list of to-dos.