Rake's Guide to Pleasure. (32 page)

Their gazes clashed and held. Ten seconds passed before the lightness faded from Lancaster's face. His eyes flashed with something icy and his face turned much harder than Hart could ever have predicted. It seemed he was more than just a careless charmer.

"What do you want?" he finally asked

"I want to know where she is."

"I have no idea."

"Did you know she was planning to disappear?" No answer, which was answer enough. "Why?"

"It has nothing to do with you. None of it did."

Hart scowled. "What the hell do you mean?"

"I mean she was in London for a specific reason,
Somerhart
."

"What reason?"

The charming smile flashed momentarily back to life. "Why, filthy lucre, of course. I find it easy to recognize the signs." He gestured vaguely toward himself.

"She's not a thief," Hart said with more certainty than he felt.

"No, she was honest enough to work the tables for it. Though . . . I assume you've considered the possibility that the honesty ended there?"

Who else had determined that she was a fraud? Hell, it didn't matter. The Season was set to begin. Someone would arrive in London spouting the truth before long. Despite the letter he'd sent out that morning, he found he no longer needed to see the reply.

"She was not Lady
Denmore
," Hart muttered, and the words pierced deep into his heart. He had exposed his soul to her, whispered things he hadn't even dared to think for so long, and she'd been nothing more than a well-crafted illusion.

"I think it likely she was not."

His fury, never well hidden these days, flowed to the surface of his skin like welling blood. "Why was it easy for you to see all this?"

Lancaster shrugged. "It wasn't easy. It wasn't obvious. Emma was no gypsy girl masquerading as a lady."

Emma.
The sound of his voice around her name . . . Oh, it grated. "What else do you know?"

"Nothing. Or nothing I'd reveal to a man who's looking for revenge against a woman."

Bastard. "I could destroy you with one word, Lancaster. It's clear you're living a hairsbreadth from ruin."

"Not a difficult thing to discern." But the man's eyes didn't look scared. He looked cold as winter. "But as you said, we were friends, and I have loyalty and decency left, if little else."

Jesus, the man had to be noble as well as charming? Oddly enough, Hart found himself capitulating easily. "I will not hurt her. I swear to that. I need to know who she is, where she is, if only for my own peace of mind. She's clearly a gentlewoman, if not the one she claims to be. She's alone and running God knows where. She could be in danger. I need—" The subtle shift in Lancaster's smooth expression stopped Hart in his tracks. "What? Is she in danger? Is she under threat?"

"I'm sure she will be fine."

"You're
sure?"

His shoulder rose in a shrug that Hart caught in a vicious grip before the man could finish the gesture. "What are you not saying, Lancaster? You will tell me or I'll beat you to a pulp, do you understand?"

"Do you think I cannot see it in your eyes? That you mean to have revenge?" He knocked Hart's hand away. "She is only a young girl. She did not mean to hurt you."

"She didn't—"

"She was desperate. Afraid. Couldn't you see that?"

"I. . ." But of course he had seen those brief flashes of anxiety that she had never explained. He'd never pushed her to explain. And why was that? Because he'd wanted to pretend she meant nothing to him.

"Tell me." He nearly choked on the word, but he got it out. "Please."

"If you find her, and I don't know that she can be found, I want your word as a gentleman that you will not harm her and will not see her brought to harm."

"I give you my word." He did not even think about it before he spoke, though surely he'd meant to have revenge. Still, Lancaster studied him for long moments, doubt writ clearly on his features.

"All right. I believe you. And I've been worried. There was . . ."

"What?"

"She came here, several weeks ago. Arrived on my doorstep at dawn. She said she needed help."

A shaft of fear slid slowly through Hart's chest. When it reached his heart, he realized it was pain too—hurt that she hadn't come to him. "What was the matter?"

"A man followed her to London. Someone from her past."

Hart shook his head, but Lancaster didn't pause long enough for Hart to clarify that there
were
no men in her past.

"He was from Cheshire. She said he'd fallen in love with her and made a nuisance of himself. After her husband died he became irrational. Delusional. Claimed that she had never been married and that she was meant to be his wife. She was frightened."

Hart was still thinking over the man's so-called delusional claims. "What else did he say?"

"That was all she told me. But she was obviously frightened. Apparently the man had broken into her home and confronted her. She wanted him gone. She wanted to
be
gone."

"That's why
she left?"

"Partly, I suppose. But she needed to make sure he didn't follow. I found a willing constable to take him to jail. Emma paid to keep him comfortable and well fed until she could leave."

"He's still there?" This man, he would know—"

"He was freed last week."

"His name."

"Matthew Bromley. I was there when the constable took him. I have to admit I doubted her story, but the man was clearly disturbed. He ranted about Adam and Eve. The treachery of women."

"And what did he say about Emma?"

Lancaster flashed a humorless smile. "Why, he said she was not Lady
Denmore
."

His mouth went dry. "Who is she?"

"I would not claim him as a reliable source. But he said she was not the wife of Lord
Denmore
, but the daughter."

"The . . ." The startling feeling of truth shivered over his skin. "His daughter."

"Actually, the daughter of the
ninth
Baron
Denmore
, great-niece to the tenth."

"That. . ." Good God, could that be her story? Daughter to that. . . that disgusting reprobate? "The ninth Baron
Denmore
died six years ago. Did you know him?"

Lancaster shook his head.

"He was a selfish drunk with no apparent decency. He belonged to one of the old Hellfire clubs, if that gives you an idea. Killed himself and his heir in a riding accident. That was the last I heard of the
Denmore
line. Until recently. But I think perhaps he had a daughter."

A daughter, a young noblewoman, raised in that filth.

"The constable," Lancaster said without being asked. "His name is
Rawley
."

"All right. I'll see what I can find out from him. But you've no idea where she might have gone?"

"None. Although she once mentioned Scarborough and the seaside. She'd gone with her mother as a child."

"Scarborough?" He couldn't quite picture her there. Rather, he expected to track her to Paris or Rome or Lisbon. Scarborough would be too simple. Not enough adventure to be had. No deep pockets to be turned out. No rakish dukes to mislead.

"I'll keep that in mind and I thank you for your help. And your trust. If there's anything I can do for you in the future. . ."

"Ah, well. I'll put the bank on notice of your good opinion. But for now I'd be happy with word of her good health when you find her."

If Hart hadn't been so anxious, he would have quite enjoyed his driver's expression when he stepped to the street and gave him his new driving instructions. "The city jail. Quickly."

He'd never expected that Emma would lead him to visit the jail for the first time in his life, but somehow he couldn't muster any surprise.

Chapter 19

The silence of the church contracted around him, squeezing Matthew's heart until he began to weep. Tears spattered against his folded hands.

That mad constable had finally let him go, but Emily had disappeared again. All that searching and suffering and he had gained nothing but a terrible fear of confined spaces. He had not repaired his soul, had not brought her to God.

Reverend Whittier had welcomed him home with a sympathetic embrace and stern words.
If you still lust for her, you cannot enter the service of the church with this sin on your soul. If you cannot make it right with the young woman, you must pray for forgiveness. Pray for your very life.

And so he had. Every day, every night. His knees had long since given up working properly. His neck ached with strain. But Matthew did not stop. Either God would remove this hunger from his body, or he would offer a miracle and return Emily to her rightful place.

"Mr. Matthew, sir?" a small voice said.

He raised his head and stared up at the statue of Christ. "You are never to disturb me during prayer."

"I'm sorry, sir," the maid stammered, voice echoing around the chapel. "Your father bade me fetch you. Someone has arrived from London. A gentleman."

When he spun toward her, the girl backed away. "From London?"

She nodded and added in a whisper, "In a crested carriage, sir."

Matthew lurched past her, limping as fast as he could toward the doors. His miracle. His miracle was here.

The black carriage seemed an enormous beast lounging in front of his father's home. The gold crest shone in the sun, glinting danger and decadence. Matthew didn't bother studying it; he was a simple man of God. He knew nothing of great names or family crests. He only knew this man
must
have something to do with Emily.

He rushed through the door, letting it slam into the far wall. Three faces turned toward him from the parlor. His father, his sister, and some man who looked like Satan in his most beautiful disguise. That face was like a sculpture of a Greek god. Perfect and cold and frighteningly confident.

Matthew shivered.

"Matthew," his father said as the stranger rose from his seat. "This man is the Duke of
Somerhart
. He is here about Emily."

Emily, Emily.
His mind spun, sending all his thoughts into useless disarray. "Where is she?" he finally managed to croak.

His cow of a sister gasped his name and his father paled, but Matthew only stared at them in confusion. What did they want from him? "Where is she? Shall I fetch her home? This is her home, you know. We are to be married. There's no time to waste. I—"

His father took a step forward. "Matthew, show your respect."

Propriety? This was what worried them? Matthew waved an impatient hand, but when he looked to the visitor, he realized his terrible mistake. Their worry had nothing to do with propriety and everything to do with the menacing power in those impossibly pale eyes.

Matthew dropped into a deep bow. "Your Grace," he rasped, picturing that devil gaze, wondering if he would be haunted by it in his dreams. The man looked perfectly capable of murder.

"As I was saying . . ." The duke's voice had turned away, so Matthew felt it safe to rise from the bow. They had all seated themselves, though his sister fanned herself and shot terrified glances in Matthew's direction. He limped over to join the discussion.

The duke's smooth voice held little emotion. "I do not know where she is, but I have something I wish to return to her. I am hoping you can assist."

"You mean to find her?" Matthew blurted, then swallowed his breath when the man glanced at him.

His question was ignored, but Matthew had found his miracle. This man, this duke with all the power of England behind him, he would find Emily. And he would deliver her right into her rightful husband's arms.