by Royal, Emily
His eyes crinkled into a smile. “That’s better.”
“There’s something I must tell you.”
Before he could respond, shouts rose outside, followed by a pounding on the doors downstairs. He lifted his hand in warning and darted to the chamber door, pushing it shut. Footsteps approached and stopped outside, then a man’s voice spoke.
“Your Grace? Sir?”
He held his finger to his lips, but Lilah needed no instruction. To be caught naked in a man’s chamber in the middle of the afternoon would result in a scandal. He opened the door a fraction, using his body to shield her from whoever was outside.
“What is it, Stevenson?”
“It’s important, sir,” the voice said. “Something terrible has happened.”
He slipped outside and closed the door firmly behind him. Low voices murmured, followed by a gasp, then she heard his voice growing louder, angrier. Finally, it took on a note of despair and resignation. Then he barked an order, and the footsteps receded.
When he opened the door, Lilah saw a different man to the one who had seduced her just half an hour before. Her heart clenched at the ashen look in his face.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I’m ruined.”
“Ruined?”
“As good as.” He sighed, and his shoulders slumped as if he bore a huge weight. “Clayton House has been destroyed.”
“Destroyed?”
“Aye,” he said. “A mob ransacked the building and destroyed everything inside.”
“That doesn’t spell ruination, surely?”
“It does when the house is fully mortgaged.” He let out a sigh. “I should have listened to your brother.”
“Dexter? Whatever for?”
“He knew I was heading for bankruptcy,” he said. “When he refused to give me a loan, I should have listened to his concerns that I was too much of a risk.”
“Perhaps the damage isn’t as bad as you fear.”
“Stevenson is not known for exaggeration.”
“There must be something you can do,” she said.
“There’s nothing!” he snapped. She flinched at the force in his voice.
He took her hand. “Forgive me, lass, it’s not your fault. But Stevenson has said that one of my creditors has already called in a loan. News travels fast. The rest will soon be circling me like dogs. The orders I’d hoped would pay for the capital will not now materialize. I pray to God there’s something left in Clayton House I can sell to keep the wolves at bay.”
He smiled as if to reassure her, but despair had dulled his eyes.
She squeezed his hand. “I wish I could do something.”
“You could garrote that bastard for me.”
“Who?”
“Jeremiah Smith,” he spat out the name, hatred thickening his voice.
Dread curled in her stomach. “What does he have to do with it?”
He thrust a piece of paper at her.
A pamphlet. Her stomach heaved as she recognized the words. Someone had taken her final article—the one damning the Molineux family line. The final paragraph had been edited to finish with a call to arms.
“Is this from the City Chronicle?” she asked.
His eyes narrowed, then he shook his head. “It’s a separate pamphlet. Apparently, several were handed out in the taverns around Clayton House last night. It only takes a few drunken dissenters to provide fuel for the fire. Smith’s words were the spark that ignited the flames.”
“How do you know what happened is related to this?”
“The Runners caught the ringleaders,” he said. “They had a copy of the pamphlet on them. Smith has gone too far this time. He cannot hide behind the newspaper.” His voice rose in anger. “I swear, I’ll hunt him down and bloody well kill him!”
Lilah swallowed her fear and held the bedsheet close. What could she do?
“There’s no need to look for him,” she said. “I know where he is.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh lord, Fraser, I’m so, so sorry.”
“You’ve naught to be sorry for, lass. Come, let me help you dress, and I can take you home. Then I’ll hunt down that blackguard.”
“It is my concern,” she said. “I never thought it would go that far. Mr. Stock has a lot to answer for.”
His eyes narrowed, and he withdrew his hand. “How do you know Mr. Stock?”
“I…”
“Do you know Jeremiah Smith as well?”
“I-I don’t actually know him,” she said.
His expression hardened, and she cringed under his scrutiny.
“You said you were sorry, Miss Hart,” he said, his voice quiet and cold. “Is there anything, in particular, you have to be sorry for?”
She lowered her gaze to avoid the accusation in his eyes. “I was merely expressing my sympathy.”
“There’s more to it, though,” he said. “Isn’t there?”
Her chemise lay crumpled on the bed. She reached for it, but he snatched it and held it out of reach.
“Tell me, Miss Hart,” he growled. “Why should you be sorry?”
“I need to dress,” she said, her voice wavering. “It’s getting late, and…”
“Tell me!” he roared.
She backed away and closed her eyes to protect herself from his fury.
“Jeremiah Smith is me,” she whispered. “I wrote the article.”
He muttered a curse.
She opened her eyes. His face had grown pale, his eyes the color of hard emeralds.
“Would you do me the honor of explaining?”
She reached for his arm, and he jerked away.
“Speak the truth,” he said, “but do not touch me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You can do better than that woman,” he said. “You can tell me the truth. Or have you lost all sense of truth, of honor?”
“Don’t say that,” she pleaded. “I never meant for this to happen.”
“Didn’t you? How long have you been writing such filth?” He shook his head as if in disbelief. “To think, all the times you spoke to me of honor, of dignity, of doing some service to the world to make a difference. Did it all lead to this?”
“I never wrote a word against you!” she cried. “It was all about the Molineuxs. They destroyed so many lives. Your predecessor treated his wife—my friend—so cruelly. He terrorized me when I was a child. The duke before him was a murderer and was never brought to justice!”
“Foolish woman!” he snarled. “Was this all due to a personal grudge against a man I didn’t even know? Did you not stop and think what might happen if your vile words were used to rouse a rabble?”
“I didn’t mean to rouse a rabble,” she said. “I started to doubt the words I wrote, but Mr. Stock said they were selling well, and I thought there was no harm in it.”
He stared at her.
“He promised he’d read my poems once I’d finished the articles,” she continued. “Can’t you understand that? I wanted my poems published so badly, and nobody would take them.”
“So you sold your integrity,” he said. “I suppose I’d expected too much when I believed you were different compared to the cold-hearted women of society. But you’re the same. Worse, even, for you deceived me into thinking you possessed a shred of honor.”
His words, spoken with such cold detachment, tore through her heart.
“Don’t say that!” she cried. “You can’t think I wanted anything destroyed.”
“And yet, I find my home, and most likely my business, destroyed,” he said. “You’re no better than the revolutionaries of France who tore down the houses of the aristocracy and ruined lives, murdering their way through the country to get their greedy hands on what they wanted.”
“How can you say such things!”
She reached for his hand, but he remained still.
“Fraser, please!” she cried. “Let me speak to Mr. Stock. He can withdraw the art
icle. It was the final one.”
“It’s too late,” he said. “The damage is done.”
He threw the chemise at her. “Get yourself dressed.”
“Let me explain,” she pleaded.
“There’s no need. I only want you out of this house.”
“You’re throwing me out?”
“I’ll take you home in my carriage,” he said. “I wouldn’t toss anyone out on the street, however much they’ve sinned against me. You have ten minutes to get yourself dressed. I’ll await ye by the front door. I care not in what manner you leave this establishment, but it’s better for you if you undertake the journey fully clothed.”
“What will you do?”
Emotion rippled in his eyes, then he blinked, and it disappeared.
“At this moment,” he said, “other than ridding myself of you, I neither know nor care.”
“Fraser, please!” she cried. “I love you!”
His eyes hardened. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“I do!” she said. “You’ve shown me what it is to love, and that I was wrong to judge others. Does my love mean nothing to you? Do you not care for me? Even a little?”
Regret flickered across his eyes, then he shrugged. “I feel nothing for you, Miss Hart, other than disappointment.”
Before she could reply, he left the chamber, slamming the door behind him. Not long after, she heard him bark an order, then silence fell, punctuated only by the ticking clock and the beating of her shattered heart.
Chapter Twenty-Three
As soon as the carriage drew to a halt outside Lilah’s home, Fraser opened the door and climbed out. Lilah followed. She slipped on the step, and he tightened his grip on her hand. Hope fluttered in her heart, but it was extinguished when he withdrew as if her touch burned him.
She smoothed her hair, painfully aware of her disheveled look. She hadn’t been able to reach the ties of her gown, and she prayed that her pelisse concealed her state of undress. Her petticoat had a small tear near the hem, and several threads in her stocking had been snagged. Sarah would likely remark on it tomorrow unless Lilah mended them herself.
A hand grasped her elbow and steered her toward the door. She tripped on the steps at the quickness of his pace. Did he have to show such eagerness to be rid of her?
The front door opened, and Lilah gave a cry of shame and recognition.
Dorothea stood before her.
“My God! What’s happened? You look terrible!” Dorothea glared at Fraser. “What have you done to her, you ruffian!”
He let out a cold laugh. “I’ve done nothing which she did not beg for. I suggest you ask what she has done.”
“Delilah?”
Thea’s soft inquiry released the tears which had been threatening to spill. With a sob, Lilah pushed past her sister and fled inside. She rushed up the stairs, almost knocking a maidservant sideways, and didn’t stop until she reached the safety of her chamber. Only then did she yield to her despair.
He had believed her to be honest, had placed her on a pedestal, praising her integrity.
And she had betrayed him.
She reached inside her reticule and gave a cry of frustration. Her precious poems! She’d left them at his house.
But what did it matter anymore? Those poems had been written from the heart—a heart that was now broken. They had been written for the man she loved.
A man who hated her.
*
Rather than the relief he’d been expecting, Fraser felt only regret as she disappeared inside. Her hair in disarray, it was only too clear what they had been doing.
Dorothea Hart watched him, her eyes sparkling with intelligence and insight. Were their circumstances different, she might have been an interesting conversationalist. But now was not the time to engage in small talk. He took a step back.
“Not so fast, young man!”
Young man? She couldn’t be much older than him. But an unmarried woman approaching thirty had little to recommend herself to a suitor and would have resigned herself to spinsterhood. Most likely, Dorothea considered herself the family matriarch. Her voice reminded him of his old nanny who could render him weak and trembling with a single glance.
Damn her! It was not for him to feel guilty.
“I’m busy,” he said, his tone as sulky as it used to be when defying his nanny.
“I don’t care,” she said. “I insist you come inside and explain yourself.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Her lips thinned into a hard line.
“You may have the manners of the savage,” she said, “but you’ll find I am not at such a loss.”
Her brow furrowed into a frown, and a determined expression glittered in her eyes, which gave him a jolt of recognition. He’d seen that expression before when Delilah had persuaded him to volunteer at Mrs. Forbes’s.
With a sigh, he followed her inside, and she led him into the morning room.
She took a seat and gestured to him to do likewise. She did not offer tea. Instead, she stared at him and lifted an eyebrow, waiting for him to explain himself.
He was not to be intimidated.
“What do you want?” he asked.
She huffed through her nose and glanced upward in irritation before resuming her gaze on him.
“I want to know what you’ve done to my sister.”
“I suggest you ask her.”
“I’m asking you,” she said. “Or perhaps I should instruct my brother to meet you at dawn? He’s an excellent shot.”
“I’ve not got time for this,” Fraser said, rising. “I have a business to tend to.”
“Sit back down, you cad!” she cried. “My sister is more important than your damned business!”
He flinched at the unladylike curse. Fire blazed from her eyes, and she rose to her feet.
“Your sister has destroyed my business, madam,” he said, “and right now, my only concern is to try to ascertain the extent of the damage before it’s too late.”
She shook her head. “Don’t be foolish. Delilah has neither the means nor the inclination to do such a thing.”
“You don’t know,” he said, “do you?”
“Don’t know what?”
“Have you heard of Jeremiah Smith?” he asked. “The bastard who’s been writing those damned articles in the City Chronicle about my ancestry?”
“I’ve read one,” she said. “Rather inflammatory, but considering the political leanings of the Chronicle, not unsurprising. But I don’t see what some second-rate hack writer has to do with Delilah.”
Fraser let out a laugh. “You really have no idea, do you?”
“What’s he done?”
“Mr. Smith has been distributing pamphlets among the taverns of London, inciting mobs to riot.”
“Good God!” she exclaimed.
“The Almighty had no hand in this, madam,” he said. “Not one hour ago, I was informed of a riot which has all but destroyed Clayton House.”
“And that’s destroyed your business?”
“Given my cashflow position, yes,” he said. “My creditors are already calling at my door in anticipation of my ruination.”
“Then you’re a fool for not better managing your business risks,” she said. “I only hope my brother has not been so foolish as to have lent you money.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Then I salute him,” she said. “Can you seek recourse?”
“Who from?”
“Mr. Smith, of course!”
“Precisely.”
Her eyes clouded with confusion. “Does Delilah know him?” she asked. “Is that why she’s so distressed?”
“No, madam,” Fraser said. “Your sister doesn’t know Mr. Smith. She is Mr. Smith.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She’s been writing under a pseudonym and selling her blasphemy to the City Chronicle.”
“Delilah would never do such a thing.”
“And was this before or after you defiled her?”
“Your sister spread her legs for me, Miss Hart. She must live with the consequences of her actions—all of them.”
She paled at his words. For a moment, he thought she was going to strike him.
“Is that your definition of justice?” she asked. “No, there’s been a misunderstanding. Hot-headed my sister may be, but she’d never go out of her way to harm another.”
“Then why do I find myself in such a position?”
“Has your person been harmed, sir?” she asked. “From what you tell me, a few material possessions have been damaged. Possessions can be replaced. But a lady’s virtue, once lost, is lost forever. If your business is so finely balanced that a little property damage places it in jeopardy, then I’d suggest the fault lies with you.”
He snorted. “Clearly, her lack of integrity has been learned from observing her siblings. Is that how your brother made his fortune so quickly? By ruining others?”
He caught a blur of movement, then felt a sharp pain across his face. Momentarily blinded, he stepped back. Her eyes blazed with fury, and a jolt of recognition ran through him, the memory of the first day he’d encountered Delilah in Clayton House, all fire and passion.
“That’s hardly the behavior of a lady, Miss Hart,” he said, rubbing his cheek where she’d struck him.
“My behavior is not in question,” she retorted. “If Dexter were here, he would have you horsewhipped through the streets for what you’ve done. Consider yourself fortunate that I will merely warn you never to darken our door again.”
“I’ve no intention of having anything to do with your family again,” he said. “I pity your brother but can now see why he works so hard. It’s to avoid spending time in a home overrun by harridans.”
“Get out,” she said, giving him a push.
“With pleasure.”
As soon as his feet touched the steps outside, the door was slammed behind him.
His priority, now, was to limit the damage. But would it be so bad if he lost Clayton House to his creditors? Scotland was his home. His soul could wander among the slopes of Beinn Mo Chridhe.
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.
