Chapter Seven

T he carriage pulled up in front of the Bruton Street house. Hart peered out the window at the grand home of Lord and Lady Thornbury. He’d been to fêtes at their home before. Thornbury had been a good friend of his father’s. So why did the acid taste of fear coat the back of his throat? Through the home’s large windows, he could see people mingling. His dread continued to build. He ran a hand down his face, the raised lines of his scars now a familiar pattern under his fingertips. Why was he hesitating? He didn’t care what others thought of him. He never had. Of course, it had been easier when opinions had always been favorable. Back when he had used his good looks to charm and flirt and used his title to stay aloof and unapproachable.

Now everyone inside would want to have a look at his ruined face and speak with him about where he had been, how he was doing… His hand began to shake at the thought of all those questioning stares, all the pitying looks. He clenched his fingers into a fist, but the tremors spread to the other hand. Beads of sweat popped out on his brow. A discreet knock startled him.

The door opened. Thomas stood waiting. “Are you ready to go in, Your Grace?” His coachman studied him from underneath the brim of his cap. “Perhaps you would like to take a ride around the block first?”

Hart closed his eyes and tried to take in a deep breath and compose himself, but his body refused to respond to his command. Instead, his breath stuttered in his chest. His heartbeat drummed too fast. Dammit, what was wrong with him? Panic, sharp and familiar, thrummed. He needed a drink. The sharp burn of a brandy would ease the tension inside him. He should go home. It had been a mistake to think he could do normal things again.

“Your Grace?”

A swell of music and voices rose into the night air. Hart opened his eyes. Over Thomas’s shoulder, he saw that the front door of the house was open. And illuminated by the glow of light from the interior stood Lucy. A liveried footman held out a hand and then escorted her down the front stairs. Her hair was intricately curled and studded with pearls. A pair of sapphire earrings swung gently from her ears; the pair he gifted her last year for her birthday. The hypnotic swing of the earrings and the familiar slopes and curves of her face enabled him to take in a breath past the tightness of his throat.

“Thomas?” Lucy called out as she reached the drive. “Is that you?”

Hart straightened in his seat as Thomas turned to face Lucy, effectively blocking the door opening.

His coachmen tipped his hat. “Good evening, Miss Middleton.”

“Good evening, Thomas. Is Lord Hartwick in there?”

The soft lilt of her voice brought his shaking to a halt. Hart brought out his handkerchief and blotted his forehead before replying. “Yes, he is. Thomas, it’s all right.”

Thomas moved aside, and Lucy peered up at him. “Hart, what a surprise. I would not have expected to see you here tonight.”

He cleared his throat. “Um, well, I thought maybe it would be good to get out of the house, but as we arrived, I was having second thoughts. I may just go home.”

Lucy’s gaze ran over him. “Well, this is opportune. I was feeling unwell and was headed home myself. But if you can give me a lift, then my coachman will not have to make two trips, as he must return later to pick up Aunt Trudy.”

“Of course, I can.” Relief poured through him at having the perfect excuse to leave. “I’d be delighted to escort you home.” He held out his hand.

Lucy quirked one eyebrow. “Delighted?” She put her hand in his, and he helped her climb into the seat next to him.

Thomas closed the door. Then the carriage rocked gently as he climbed into the box. In the next moment, they were off.

Lucy flicked back the curtain and watched the house as they pulled away. Then she leaned back with a soft sigh.

He frowned. “Lucy, Trudy knows you’ve left, doesn’t she?”

She straightened. “Of course. I left her a note with a footman.”

“You’re not feeling well?”

She swiveled to face him. “If you must know, I am simply sick of being at these boring events. I saw my friends at the beginning of the evening, but inevitably, they must also go dance with men their mothers want them to meet. And Aunt Trudy kept parading me around. I swear we stopped to talk with every gentleman in attendance tonight.” Her bottom lip jutted out. “I could not take another moment.”

He shrugged. “You won’t receive censure from me. I could not even force myself to get out of the carriage.”

“Why didn’t you want to go inside?”

“I’m not sure,” he replied honestly. He couldn’t put his finger on what caused his overwhelming feeling of dread. Except that ever since the accident, the feeling had been ever present. Haunting him at moments he least expected.

“Why did you want to attend this ball?”

“I need to speak with my father’s friends. To start inquiring about the time period surrounding his death. Previously, I was reluctant to voice my suspicions that his and Robert’s death was not a piece of bad luck. But the time for self-doubt is over. I can’t find the answers I need sitting at home.”

Lucy scrunched her nose. “I understand it must be hard to face the wolves when you’ve been gone so long.”

He closed his eyes. He didn’t give a damn about the wolves, or did he?

Now that his heart had settled back to its normal sedate rhythm, he felt foolish for his panic. “I’m frustrated with myself. It’s just the idea of everyone gawking, wanting to be the first to see how damaged I am. It makes me want to run.” He shook his head in disgust. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

Lucy scooted closer. Her hand slid up to cup his ravaged face. “Hart, these scars don’t change anything about who you are. You are the Duke of Hartwick. Intimidating, roguish, and far too charming for your own good.”

The light touch of her fingers sent a tremor through him. Unlike the earlier ones, this was an all too familiar shiver of awareness. Hart pulled her hand away and guided it gently back to her lap. He had no business receiving gentle touches and kind words from this lady. Her affections were engaged elsewhere, as they should be. He didn’t need or want to think about how good she smelled or how her soft touch left his skin heated. Or how having her near settled him like no glass of brandy ever could.

He scooted down the seat, putting a few extra inches between them. He glanced out the window into the dark night beyond. It wasn’t late, perhaps half eleven. This used to be the beginning of his evening out.

“Everything has changed.” He shook his head. How could he possibly explain? “The knowledge that someone killed my family, killed Galey for telling the truth about it, and almost killed me has been burning in my gut for the past year. Finding and punishing those who did it is the only thing that can stop this anger from eating me alive. It is the only thing that matters now.”

Lucy’s eyes widened, the deep blue almost midnight in the dim interior of the carriage. Her hand reached out to touch his arm. “Hart.”

He flinched. She needed to stop touching him.

Her hand paused, then retracted.

She stared forward for a long moment. “I had a thought about that symbol on the letters. Where did your father go to school? Perhaps it is a fraternity of sorts from his school days.”

“He went to Oxford. The place is famous for its secret societies. Thank you, Lucy. That is a brilliant idea.”

Robert would have known what their father was involved in, business and personal. He had been the golden child, his father’s confidant, his heir. It never bothered Hart much; after all he knew his place in the pecking order. And it had been impossible to be resentful when Robert had been such a good brother. Always taking an interest in his life, filling in the cracks caused by their father’s disinterest. Letting him tag along with the older boys at Eton. And when their mother died, Robert had been the one to comfort him, let him cry and rage as little boys would. Christ, he missed Robert. Why had it been him? Why would anyone want to snuff out the life of such a good man?

They rode the rest of the trip in silence. Lucy sat unusually quiet and still. The carriage pulled to a stop. He turned to apologize for being so morose, but the carriage door swung open, and instead, he alighted to the street. Hart held out a hand. Lucy hesitated before laying her hand in his and descending.

He forced a smile. “Let me walk you to the door.”

“That’s not necessary.” She pulled her hand from his the minute she stepped to the ground.

“Nevertheless.” He took hold of her elbow and escorted her to the door.

As they paused in front of the cheerful yellow door, Lucy turned to gaze up at him. Her head tilted. “Hart, I want you to be careful until we figure out the why of all these deaths. I don’t want you to become a victim.”

He couldn’t promise her that he would be safe. He had no way of knowing if the killer also wanted him dead or would once Hart started asking questions again. It was a risk he was willing to take to find out the truth. So, he simply raised an eyebrow and countered with his own question. “We?”

“You know very well you need my help. I am far cleverer than you.” She patted his lapel. The front door opened. “Goodnight, Lord Hartwick.” Lucy disappeared into the safety of her house.

He chuckled under his breath. She was right, of course. She had been the one to make all the conjunctures thus far. Not that he would ever admit it to her.

He walked back to the carriage, his dark mood lifted by Lucy’s teasing. “Thomas, I am feeling much improved. Take me to the club.”