Rake's Guide to Pleasure. (31 page)

"Of course, Your Grace. She departed just before three."

Three. So she'd left soon after he'd fallen asleep. Snuck away. Fled. Escaped. But surely not.

Ten minutes later he left his perspiring valet behind and raced to mount his most nimble horse. It was much quicker than his carriage in the midday traffic. And so he found himself, not an hour after waking to thoughts of her, standing inside her open door, staring at the lonely dance of dust motes floating in the sun.

He'd already raced upstairs, already torn through every room. The few paltry pieces of furniture were covered. The drawers were empty. She was gone. Gone farther than he'd even imagined.

"I tried to tell ye," a small voice said from his side. Hart glanced stupidly down to see
Stimp
, hands clutching a hat, face scrunched up in worry.

Hart shook his echoing head. "Pardon?"

"They left 'fore dawn. When I found out, I tried to see ye."

His mind was turning, turning . . . so slow that Hart could see every single painful, unwelcome thought. "Where have they gone?"

Stimp
just shrugged. His eyes darted up to Hart and then away. "Sorry,
guv
."

Sorry.
I'm sorry,
she'd keened so prettily. She, who must have been lying with every damned word she'd breathed.

The painful thoughts faded beneath a welcome onslaught of rage.

"Help me search," he snapped, startling
Stimp
into a jump. "They must have left something behind, and I will damn well find it. And then I will find
her."

Chapter 18

Nothing.
Two weeks and there was nothing left of her. Nothing but talk of her wickedness and scandalized glee that she'd flown from town to avoid the shame of it all.

Hart clenched his jaw and glared at the pristine white of the paper laid before him.

He had returned to his club the week before, not out of a need for companionship, but because he needed to hear
something.
Anything. And he'd heard plenty, and all of it useless. Nobody knew anything about her except that she was a wild harlot with an almost primal need to gamble. Oh, also that she was a duke's mistress and an uncontrollable and disloyal one at that.

She was rumored to have taken on Hart in every dark corner, and a few others as well. Richard Jones, Marsh, Lancaster, of course. Hart felt the small relief that he did not have to wonder about those tales. And the proof was the crux of his obsession.

Any day now, he expected her to stroll through his door, offer a sly smirk and claim that he owed her marriage. Though how she could prove ruination as a widow was another riddle. But that. . . he was beginning to wonder about that as well.

There was no proof that the woman—whatever her cursed name might be—was actually the Dowager Lady
Denmore
. She had breezed into town, charmed an old couple, rented some rooms, and flirted her way right into society.

She could be an imposter. She could be . . . By God, she could be pregnant with his child. He hadn't used a French letter with her, hadn't wanted to. And she might very well be just a wily neighbor of
Denmore
, or, at most, his maid or housekeeper.

It would not be hard to determine.

The paper seemed to glow with menace in the bright afternoon sun. All he need do was write
Denmore's
solicitor. Drop a note to the local magistrate. He could travel to her little hamlet. She might even be there, holding court with tales of her adventures in London.

But he knew, he knew in his heart that she would not be there. Knew she had played them all false. But he did not want to
see.

He also did not wish to feed new rumors and deepen his own humiliation. If he began investigating, word would get out. Not just that she was a fraud—as she must be—but also that Hart was broken enough to put time and energy into chasing after her.

The mighty duke, brought to his knees by another harlot.

Watch how he raves and rages against his own stupidity.

There is a man who refuses to learn a lesson.

And it would all be the truth, and that was the worst of it. It always was.

But just one letter. Just one. He could not live his whole life with her lies hanging over him. He needed the truth so that he could hate her with clarity.

He was reaching for the pen when the sound of a woman's voice danced faintly through the air. The hair on his neck rose. Numbness flashed over his skin, followed by a wave of heat.

Emma.

"I will inform him myself," that voice said, as Hart rose woodenly from his chair. A woman's voice. Familiar, but. . .

"Hart!" the bright and happy voice called. The doors of his library flew open, and a petite figure stepped through, black curls trailing on the breeze she created. "Hart," she said again, and tears welled in her big blue eyes as she rushed toward him.

He opened his arms automatically as his little sister rounded the desk, but his heart had dropped with a thud. "What are you doing here?"

"I love you too," she sniffled, wiping her tears all over his coat.

"Alex?"

"I wrote you a month ago, you fool. And you can't tell me you didn't know. You wrote back!"

"I. . ." Oh, Christ. Of course. He'd even considered throwing a dinner party and inviting . . . that woman. "Where is your husband?"

"He's out front ordering your servants about. They seemed quite surprised by our arrival, Hart."

"I. . ."

She leaned back to regard him with an arched brow. Her small face was damp from tears and tight with the laughter she was holding back.

"I'm sorry, Alex. I'm afraid I forgot you."

Her mouth quirked up in a mocking smile. "Well, I have been gone seven months. Memories fade."

"Minx."

"Ah, so you do remember me." "It's starting to come back."

Her smile widened. Hart felt his own mouth twitch up. He'd forgotten this, how much light his sister added to his life. "Well, you're here now. I suppose I must act pleased to see you."

He took her by the shoulders and backed up a step to sweep a careful glance down her body. "You look well. As always."

"Thank you."

His eyes lingered on her narrow waist. "You're not. . . You haven't. . .?"

Her smile faded a little. "No. Not yet. But in truth I think Collin is relieved. He's convinced I'm too small to carry the child of a big Scots brute like himself. Rubbish."

"Perhaps he's not doing it right. I hear those Scotsman can be—" He glanced up to find the big Scottish brute glowering from the doorway. "Hello, Blackburn."

"
Somerhart
," the man growled. "If you're through disparaging my manhood to my wife, I thought I would show you the mare we've brought."

Hart inclined his head and managed not to glance back toward the mocking blankness of the paper on his desk. "Of course. I'll have my stable master ready her stall."

"I've already spoken with him. But I believe your housekeeper desires a word."

Hart winced. Emma's lies had wreaked more havoc than even she could know. There was little worse than living with an angry household. Still, they'd all be so happy to have Alex back for a visit, surely their resentment would vanish before the hour was out.

And surely Hart's resentment would disappear just as quickly. He loved his sister much more than the ghost of Lady
Denmore
, and she'd be far better company. So why did he feel the loss of his solitude so sharply?

Alex looped her arm through his and interrupted his brooding. "Don't worry. We'll only be here a week." She looked him up and down. "You look terrible. Drawn and thin. Fallen in love, have you?"

Hart nearly groaned. He managed to hold it back, but apparently his little sister didn't need the sound to sense his dismay. She jerked to a stop, and Hart soon found himself staring down into a severe frown.

"You," she bit out, "had better tell me everything."

He was surprised by the urge to do just that. But of course he couldn't. He shook his head.

"Collin!" she shouted, her husband stopped near the front door. "The mare will have to wait an hour. My brother is sick with love."

Collin arched a look of disbelief over his shoulder.

Alexandra steered Hart back toward the library.

"I've nothing to tell," he growled. "You've gone mad. Again."

"Mm." She paused to stick her head back into the hallway. "Morton! Bring the whisky!" The sweet smile she turned on Hart had lulled many a man into tenderness, but it sent a shiver of apprehension up Hart's spine. "A toast to celebrate my arrival? How thoughtful! And lucky you, we've brought a whole crate of the Kirkland's best whisky."

Slumping into the nearest chair, Hart ignored Morton and the freshly opened bottle he delivered. He ignored the generous glass that Alex poured and shoved into his hand. He even ignored her expectant smile.

Finally, she gave an innocent little blink and raised her glass. "To notorious friends," she said.

Hart tensed.

"And to Aunt Augusta who sends the most entertaining letters."

He glared.

She sipped her whisky and made a little humming sound before turning those twinkling eyes back to him. A shiver of foreboding dripped down his spine. "But, Hart, perhaps you could clarify something for me. Who in the world is this young Dowager Lady
Denmore
I've heard so much about?"

Hart was refilling his glass before the last drop of whisky had burned from his throat. Alex waited patiently, innocent smile still in place. He'd never been able to resist her. Ever. In fact, he'd spoiled her rotten as a child. So it was no surprise when he broke like a cracked pitcher, and spilled his story to his baby sister in a great and glorious mess.

It
'
s clear what you must do,
Alex had said. And of course it was clear to her, who had such an inevitable sympathy for scandalous women. So he'd dashed off the letter to the solicitor and now here he was in Lancaster's morning room, hands clenched to fists as he waited for the viscount to meet him.

If anyone knew anything about her, he supposed it must be Lancaster. They'd been friends of some sort.
Stimp
had seen the viscount visit on more than one occasion.

"
Somerhart
?"

Hart stood as Lancaster entered and he shook Lancaster's hand, though he rather felt like punching him. As far as he knew the man had done nothing wrong, but the thought of breaking his nose proved immensely satisfying. Hart shook off the temptation.

Lancaster raised one tawny eyebrow. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Perhaps. You know that Lady
Denmore
left town rather abruptly."

The man's expression of helpful concern shut down to immediate blankness. "Yes, I'd heard that."

Hart held his gaze, and let his eyes go cold. "Did you speak with her before she left?"

"No."

"I ask because you two seemed to have developed an association of sorts."

Lancaster tilted his blond head in cautious acknowledgment. "A friendship. Nothing more."

"Yes, I know."

His eyes betrayed a moment of surprise, and Hart supposed that it was odd for a man to be so certain of a dishonest woman's virtue. Little did he know.

Lancaster shrugged. "Lady
Denmore
and I took the air together on a few occasions, but I know nothing of her personal life. I gathered that was your area of expertise,
Somerhart
. What is it you think I might know?"

"Don't be snide with me. I'm not as susceptible to your charm as others."