by Emily Royal
Miss Hart might have betrayed him, but perhaps she’d done him a service. He ought to congratulate himself on a lucky escape from being shackled to that family forever.
As he returned to his carriage, he turned and took a last look at the Hart townhouse, his gaze drawn to a first-floor window.
Was she there?
His heart skipped at a movement. Then a face appeared, its features clear in the light of the setting sun.
Sir Thomas Tipton.
“Still sniffing round Miss Hart, I see,” Fraser said, though the man couldn’t hear him. “Well, you can have her and suffer the disappointment that another got there before you.”
Sir Thomas raised his hand as if in salute. Then he smiled.
Sir Thomas’s eyes glowed with a sinister look, sparkling with an emotion so strong, Fraser could almost taste it.
Triumph.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Almost as soon the main doors slammed shut downstairs, Lilah heard her sister’s voice outside her chamber door.
“Delilah, sweetheart?”
There was little point feigning sleep. Thea’s tenacity rivaled even Dexter’s.
“Come in,” she said.
Thea slipped into the room. Rather than speak, she took a seat, folded her hands in front of her, and regarded Lilah with a thoughtful expression.
Not long after, Sarah appeared with a tray bearing a decanter of Dexter’s brandy and two glasses. At a nod from Thea, she poured a little into each glass.
“Thank you, Sarah, you may leave us now.” She nodded toward Lilah’s glass.
“Drink, Delilah, dear.”
“For what purpose?”
Thea said nothing but took a sip from her glass, then set it aside.
Where Dexter had learned the art of drawing out the truth by asking intimidating questions, Dorothea had learned the subtler form of attack. She created a void of silence, which attracted words and explanations as surely as the dish in Lady Jersey’s hall attracted calling cards.
“Forgive me, Thea,” she said.
Dorothea picked up her glass again. “Would I be better prepared for your story, Delilah, if I were to drink this?”
Shame elicited the tears which had been stinging Lilah’s eyes, and she nodded.
“Did he—take advantage of you?”
Lilah shook her head. “H-he didn’t…” she stuttered and took a mouthful of brandy, choking at the taste. “I was not unwilling.”
Thea sipped her drink. “So he spoke the truth. In that respect, at least.”
“Are you angry with me, Thea?”
“Of course not,” came the reply. “It takes two to make love.”
Thea took another sip. “And the other matter,” she said. “Is that true also? What he accused you of doing?”
“You mean Jeremiah Smith?”
Thea let out a sigh. “So, it is true. I shouldn’t be surprised, given how closely your views were aligned with those expressed in his articles.” She shook her head. “But the leaflets, Delilah! That was a step too far. Not even your passion to right the wrongs of the world can justify such senseless destruction.”
“I had nothing to do with the leaflets,” Lilah said. “As for the articles—my views have long since diverged from the sentiments they expressed. I told him that.”
“But he didn’t believe you.”
“No, he accused me of dishonesty.”
“In part, he was right, wasn’t he?”
Lilah withered under her sister’s frown. “I deceived him, yes, but I swear I had nothing to do with the leaflets! The last thing I’d want is to hurt him.”
Thea nodded.
“I believe you,” she said. “Your only crime is that of naiveté. In truth, you’re the most honest person I know. You’ve never been afraid to speak the truth, even if it causes offense. Such honesty is rare.”
Thea’s words, meant for comfort, only served to increase her distress. Hadn’t he said the very same before he discovered her deception?
“Oh, dear God,” Lilah wailed. “What will Dexter say when he discovers what I’ve done? I’m ruined!”
Thea took her hand. “There’s no need to tell him.”
“What if Fraser…” Lilah said, and Thea lifted her eyebrows. “What if Molineux says anything?”
Warm, comforting arms enveloped her. “We’ll address that problem if and when it arises, Delilah, dear,” Thea said. “And if it does, I’ll deal with our brother.”
“Why are you being so kind?” Lilah asked.
“Because you’re already suffering,” Thea said. “I can see the shame in your eyes. No amount of punishment Dexter metes out can compare to that which your conscience is already inflicting on you.”
“I never meant to hurt him,” Lilah said, “and now he hates me!”
“I’m sure he doesn’t.”
“You should have seen the look in his eyes when he realized what I’d done.” Lilah shook her head. “Such disgust—I cannot bear it.”
Thea patted her head. “I know, Delilah,” she said. “Your intentions were honorable. You were merely misguided. If he’s a good man, he’ll come to realize that.”
“And what if he doesn’t?” she cried. “What will I do?”
Thea stiffened. “You love him.”
It was not a question.
Lilah blinked, and a hot tear splashed onto her cheek.
“I thought as much.”
“How did you know?” Lilah asked.
“You’re more concerned with the harm you’ve caused him than the damage to your reputation.”
A sob welled in Lilah’s throat, and she yielded to her sorrow while Thea rocked her, whispering words of comfort.
“Hush, little sister,” she said. “Everything will be well.”
“But Dexter…”
“Our brother will understand.”
“But he only cares about our position in society,” Lilah said. “He wants me to marry a title, but no one will have me now.”
“Haven’t you always said you didn’t want to be a society wife?” Thea asked. “In which case, consider this a blessing. And if Dexter cares so much about uniting our family with a title, then he can marry one and suffer the consequences of a loveless marriage. In fact, I believe he’s already set his sights on a lady. He’ll be so occupied with courting that he won’t have time to admonish you.”
“Then, what shall I do?”
“Do what you’ve always done,” Thea said. “But rather than try to change the whole world, why not focus your energies where your talents lie? Sir Thomas was telling me only yesterday what fine poems you write.”
“He knows nothing of poetry,” Lilah said.
“He’s anxious to support your endeavors, and that should be commended,” Thea replied. “And there’s Mrs. Forbes. She recognizes your qualities and appreciates your help.”
Lilah shook her head. “I do so little.”
“The most effective way to make a difference is to take small steps,” her sister said. “A pebble, when dropped into a lake, causes ripples which extend to every corner of the surface. And if you make a difference to a handful of lives, then for them, you have changed the world.”
Thea was right. In her quest for justice, Lilah had believed she could change the world by influencing the minds of many. But all she’d done was help James Stock sell more copies of his paper. And it had not brought her fulfillment—only misery.
But her realization had come too late. By concealing the truth from Fraser, she’d given him every right to hate her, where she had every reason to love him.
Thea kissed her forehead.
“You must rest,” she said. “A little sleep will do wonders for your disposition. Shall I send Sarah up with a tray for your supper? Sir Thomas is here. He’s dining with us, but I can make your excuses if you’re not up to company.”
“No, thank you,” Lilah said. “I cannot hide. I must face the consequences of my actions.”
“You needn’t
worry about Sir Thomas,” Thea said, smiling. “There’s a lovesick puppy if ever I saw one. He’s followed you around since we arrived in London.”
“He’ll soon stop following once he knows I’m a fallen woman.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Thea said. “Now get some sleep. I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed until supper.”
After Thea left, Lilah heard voices elsewhere in the house, followed by Sir Thomas’s unmistakable little cough. Eventually, the voices faded.
How had Thea described him? A lovesick puppy. Though he couldn’t excite her passion, Sir Thomas had been a friend ever since Dexter had brought the family to London. He looked up to Dexter. And he weathered Lilah’s sharp tongue.
Perhaps a woman was better protected from heartbreak if she avoided passion altogether. Passion destroyed lives, and now it had broken her heart. Was that why so many people married for convenience rather than love? A woman who never loved was, at least, spared the agony of heartbreak.
Lilah rose from her chair and lay on her bed. She sank back against the pillows and closed her eyes. But sleep eluded her. She had contributed to the ruin of the man she had fallen in love with. A man who matched her perfectly in every way, who believed in hard work and loyalty, and strove to better himself and the lives who depended on him. He let himself be ordered about by her and weathered it all with good grace.
And he had taught her the meaning of pure, unbridled pleasure.
Yet now, he couldn’t bear the sight of her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“So, tell me, Mr. Hart,” Fraser said, “why have you asked me to see you?”
One week after Clayton House had been destroyed, Hart had sent Fraser a message, demanding to see him. Fraser had expected to be called at dawn, but Hart showed no sign of knowing that Fraser had taken his sister’s maidenhead.
Maybe Hart was about to draw out a pistol from his desk and shoot him.
Fraser glanced at the rug on the floor of Hart’s office. The predominantly red background would be perfect for disguising bloodstains.
“I’ve been looking into your finances,” Hart said.
“For what purpose?”
Hart stared at him in the manner of a schoolmaster, irritated at being interrupted by a particularly weak-brained pupil.
“All in good time,” Hart said. His gaze was unsettling, the cold blue of his eyes searching, calculating.
Dexter Hart had the uncanny ability to probe into a man’s mind to discover his secrets, then use them to his advantage. Did he apply the same approach to ruling his family?
For a moment, Fraser found himself pitying Delilah Hart. Her brother’s iron fist would stunt her free spirit. Had he discovered that she was no longer a maiden? Had he punished her? And if he knew who she’d lain with, would Fraser find his manhood sliced and scattered over Hart’s Aubusson rug?
“How bad is my situation, Hart?” he asked.
The banker rolled his eyes. “The news is not good, but you’ve managed to evade total ruination, at least for now. I took the liberty of writing to the trustees of the Molineux estate, and my lawyer heard from them yesterday.”
Why would Hart meddle in Fraser’s affairs? Though, if anyone could persuade those old fossils to release the funds to service Fraser’s debts, it was Hart.
“Is that why you asked to see me?” Fraser asked.
“It is.”
“Did you ask them to help me?”
“Good lord, no,” Hart said. “I expect you to be man enough to ask them yourself, though it would be an exercise in futility. The estate is losing money, and the trustees would be fools if they agreed to waste its funds on a failed enterprise run by an incompetent.”
Did the man have to be so brutally frank?
“Then why contact them?” Fraser asked. “And why would they respond so hastily? Ordinarily, it takes them weeks to answer my letters.”
“That is, I suspect, because your letters are never to their advantage.”
“And yours was?”
Hart tapped the surface of the desk with his forefinger.
“I believe I’ve found a solution to everyone’s benefit.”
“Are you going to fund me?”
The banker let out a cold laugh. “I’m not foolish enough to throwing money at a bad investment either. But my proposal should protect you from bankruptcy, even if it’s unlikely to restore your business interests in London in the near future. Though it does require your cooperation.”
“What must I do?” Fraser asked.
“Retrench. Abandon your business expansion in London and concentrate on servicing your debts where you are best placed to do so. In Scotland.”
“Abandon London?”
“You must have considered it.”
Hart was right. It was the first idea which had come to Fraser’s mind. To return to his homeland and concentrate on his own people, where he could not be plagued by…
By what? A little hellion? A wee terrier?
“Yes, I’ve considered it,” Fraser said. “Once I’ve vacated my lodgings, there’s nowhere for me to go, and I have no wish to waste funds on new lodgings.”
“Indeed.”
“But what does this have to do with the trustees?” Fraser asked.
A flicker of emotion crossed the banker’s expression. “As you know, the Molineux estate is losing money at an alarming rate. I’ve been able to secure an arrangement that will best serve you and it.” He blinked, and his expression took on a predatory air. “And myself, of course.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Fraser said.
Hart raised an eyebrow and set his mouth into a firm line.
“What have you arranged on my behalf?” Fraser asked.
“On my behalf, actually. The trustees, though not disposed to sell the estate, have agreed to rent it.”
“Clayton House is uninhabitable,” Fraser said. “And it’s mine outright. The trustees have no right to touch it.”
“I didn’t mean your townhouse,” Hart said. “I was referring to Molineux Manor.”
“The country estate?”
“It belongs to the trust,” Hart said. “And you’re not occupying it. A tenancy seems the ideal solution. It will prevent the trustees from hounding you for funds you don’t have and ensure the property is maintained.”
“Who on earth would want to live in that damned mausoleum?”
Hart interlocked his fingers and laced his hands on the desk. “I was able to secure excellent terms.”
“You?”
A cold smile crept across the banker’s mouth.
“Did the trustees see you coming?” Fraser asked.
“They know a good offer when they see one,” Hart said. “They’ve even agreed to release a small percentage of the rental income to you. Not enough to prevent your creditors seizing Clayton House, but it will assist you in restoring your fortunes.”
Was this what Hart had planned all along?
Fraser shook his head and sighed. “I always thought it was lawyers who benefited from the misery of others,” he said bitterly.
“Bankers are capable of that also,” Hart said. “I’m not a charity.”
“At least on that, we are agreed,” Fraser said. “Did you have this in mind from the outset when I first asked you for a loan?
Hart’s smile slipped. “I may drive a hard bargain, Molineux, but I’m a fair man. Honor does not always walk hand-in-hand with charity.”
“Well, if you wish to live in that godforsaken place, I wish you joy of it,” Fraser said. “Though I cannot understand why. Unless there’s a woman involved.”
For a moment, Hart’s composure slipped, and he looked away. The urge to discompose this arrogant man was too much to resist.
“I hear the debutante of the season is Lady Atalanta Grey,” Fraser said. “Perhaps you’re feathering a nest to bag that particular bird. Or the Honorable Elizabeth Alderley, perhaps? The other day, Mrs. Pelham remarked on having seen you riding wit
h her in Hyde Park last week.”
Hart’s eyebrow twitched.
“My reasons don’t concern you.”
“In matters of the heart…” Fraser began, but Hart interrupted him.
“I have no heart where women are concerned. Except for my sisters, of course.”
Fraser flinched, expecting to be called out. Had Delilah told her brother what had happened?
Hart remained silent and picked up a pencil, which he proceeded to tap on the desk.
“Elizabeth Alderley is the perfect match for you,” Fraser said. “Heartless, sour-faced, and haughty. And those are her most endearing attributes, by all accounts.”
Hart’s eyebrows creased into a frown.
“Her father’s just as bad,” Fraser continued. “Viscount Alderley snubbed me for being a Scotsman. I can’t see him taking kindly to the prospect of a commoner as a son-in-law, no matter how wealthy he is.”
The pencil snapped.
“Alderley will learn the error of his ways,” Hart said quietly. “We go back a long way, and he’ll bend to my will, you can be sure of that. And when his daughter is mine, I will teach him a valuable lesson or two.”
Fraser lifted his hand. “I have no wish to know,” he said. “You’re at liberty to do what you want with Molineux Manor. Have your lawyer draw up the necessary papers, and I’ll sign anything you need, especially if it means I can leave London as soon as possible.”
He rose to his feet, took Hart’s hand in a firm grip, then exited the office.
As he stepped out onto the pavement, he lifted his head and closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the sun penetrate his face.
The image of Miss Hart swam across his vision—the passion in her eyes when he’d first seen her, and the look of horror on her face when he’d introduced himself as Duke Molineux. That passion had softened when she’d spoken of the plight of the women of the world and the forgotten classes. But it had intensified when he’d shown her the pleasures their bodies could enjoy. His blood warmed at the memory of her face, flushed with need for him, lips parted in surprise and wonder when he’d buried himself inside her as if he belonged there.
But passion was a weakness. Perhaps that was why Fraser had failed, where impassive creatures such as Dexter Hart thrived in a world where there was no place for hearts and souls.
