by Gaelen Foley
“Belinda Hamilton is mine. Belinda!” he yelled toward the steps. “Get down here! You’re coming with me!”
“Why do you think that you own her?”
“I saw her first!”
“Do you even grasp the notion that she is a sentient being with her own wishes and her own will? She doesn’t want you and she isn’t coming down here.”
“Belinda! Come down here now, you filthy little strumpet!”
“Now, that’s really not very nice,” Hawk chided, taking a menacing stride toward him, and another. “Shall we step outside?”
“Gladly,” Dolph growled, missing Hawk’s ruse merely to get him out of the house.
Glowering at him, Dolph warily backed outside, still poised to clash.
Hawk nodded firmly to a footman as he passed. The burly man in livery pulled the front door closed and locked it.
Only then did Hawk feel a modicum of relief, knowing Belinda was safe inside. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the glaring afternoon sun. Dolph’s phaeton crouched nearby in the cobbled street; the poor cowering groom had a black eye. Bloody brute.
“I did approach Miss Hamilton on your behalf, Dolph,” he said, casually skewing the truth a bit. “When she assured me that you have no hope of succeeding with her, I saw no reason not to pursue her for myself. She’s a pretty thing and I rather fancy her. A man in my position needs a hostess—you know, for all the political entertaining.”
“A hostess?” Dolph asked with a bark of angry laughter. “Is that all you can think to do with her, you cold fish? Why am I surprised? You’ll never love her as I do. No one can.”
“Love, Dolph? Your actions toward Miss Hamilton bespeak anything but love. Considering all you’ve done to her, is it any wonder she detests you? Getting her father thrown in the Fleet? What were you thinking?”
“It’s not my fault! I’m not the one who got the old fool into debt,” he retorted, but his cheeks colored with embarrassment. “He did it to himself.”
“And you’ve done this to yourself. I’ll overlook your outburst and your stupid threats because you are young and hotheaded. But know this. Belinda Hamilton is now under my protection. Do I make myself clear?”
Desperation flashed in Dolph’s eyes. “Just let me talk to her—” He took a step toward the door, but Hawk blocked him with a firm hand on his chest.
“Take your hand off me before I break it,” Dolph snarled.
“I see you did not hear my warning.” Keenly, Hawk held his stare. “Are you paying attention, Dolph? Keep your distance from my mistress. What do you suppose the chaps at White’s and Watier’s and every club on St. James’s would say if they knew how you’ve abused their idol? Think, Dolph. Do you want the word to get out?”
“I’m not afraid of anyone! Besides, no one’s going to duel over a demirep,” he retorted hotly.
“Duel, maybe not, but you will be shunned. Cut. Ostracized. You offend Miss Hamilton again or bother her in any way, and you shall find Society a very cold place.”
Dolph’s hazel eyes registered the threat. His expression sobered, but he glanced again evilly at the barred door to Harriette’s house, as though still mulling over how to get in.
Seeing that look, Hawk was glad from the bottom of his soul for the fortresslike construction of Knight House. There Belinda would be safe. He didn’t dare leave her anywhere else.
“Now, then. If you really want to get back in Belinda’s good graces, you may begin by doing everything in your power to get her old man out of jail,” he smoothly suggested. “You put him there. Make it right. If I were you, I would find out the full sum he owes and pay it off.”
“Pay his bills? Are you mad?” Dolph cried. “That daft old man owes nearly three thousand pounds and even if I wanted to pay off his debts—which I don’t—I don’t have that kind of blunt! I’ve got duns of my own to worry about until I come into my inheritance.”
“Ah, well, that is unfortunate. But then—if you can’t pay a trifling three thousand, you couldn’t have afforded Miss Hamilton anyway. Good day, Breckinridge.”
With that he walked back into the house, leaving Dolph standing there fuming.
The footman unlocked the door for Hawk, admitted him, and secured it once more just as Dolph flew up against the outside of it and began banging on it in renewed fury. Dusting off his hands, Hawk glanced dryly at the door as it jumped on its hinges. He looked at the two footmen.
“The man’s deranged. Well done, both of you. You have my thanks for your quick work last night as well as today.” He slipped them each a tenner. “If he’s not gone in five minutes, come and get me.”
“Aye, Y’Grace. Thank you, sir!”
He nodded and returned upstairs to collect his new mistress.
Little did he expect to come face-to-face in the hallway with Wickedshifts himself, Henry Brougham in his shirtsleeves, scratching his chest and looking like he had just rolled out of bed. Harriette’s bed, Hawk supposed, pursing his mouth in contained hostility.
“What the hell is all the racket?” asked the golden boy of the Whig party.
Henry Brougham was of an age with Hawk; in fact, he had been born in Westmorland, the neighboring county to Hawk’s native Cumberland. The most brilliant lawyer and radical reformer in London, Brougham was feared and hated by the entire Tory government, perhaps second only to Boney himself. Hawk’s party had cause to fear him. The man was a genius with unflinching moral courage. Apparently, however, he was no more above the lures of the demireps than any other man.
A smile of cynical amusement broke across Brougham’s handsome face as he strolled down the hallway toward Hawk.
“Well, well, who have we here? A fine morning to you, Your Grace. Bit of a change of venue for you, eh?”
“Brougham,” Hawk growled.
“What’s all the noise?”
“Dissatisfied customer.”
“Need help with him?”
Hawk’s lips thinned blandly. “No, thank you.”
“Well, then, if you’ll excuse me, I am going back to bed.” He turned around and headed for Harriette’s room. “Lady Holland still wants you to come to one of her soirees,” he called over his shoulder. “You know we are determined to bring you over to our side.”
Hawk couldn’t resist a retort. “The side of those who sit back and criticize?”
“No, Hawkscliffe, the side of humanity and reform.”
“Thank you, but tell her ladyship I must respectfully decline.”
“Suit yourself, but remember this—” Brougham stopped and turned to him. “What is old and corrupt and decayed must pass away. Change is coming, Hawkscliffe, mark my words. It is only a matter of time. I hope you know which side you’re on by the time that day arrives.”
“Marvelous cant, Brougham, but you might have noticed that it’s difficult to do any good in the world if no one will put you in the government.”
“I’m not worried. Justice will prevail.”
“Only if one gives it a shove, in my experience.”
Brougham smiled bitterly and shook his head. “Well, you just keep shoving then, Your Grace, right alongside those tyrants you sup with, Liverpool and Sidmouth and Eldon, and one day the people of England just might shove back. The lot of you will drive them to it, especially with the Regent’s latest expense report. Your look tells me you don’t believe it. Why not? If it can happen in France, why not here?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Chaos, sedition, mob violence. Is that what you want?”
“Gentlemen,” Harriette called, sailing into the hallway just then. She hurried past Hawk and went to Brougham, slipping her arms around his waist. “This is not the Parliament, my dears. No bickering in my hallway,” she scolded. “Hawkscliffe, Bel awaits you in the salon and I have private matters to discuss with Mr. Brougham. If you’ll excuse us?”
“But of course,” he said coolly.
Harriette shepherded Brougham into her chamber.
Hawk
stood there a second longer, shrugging off his vexation with the way the Whig party was continually wooing him. The dukes of Hawkscliffe were Tories, period.
The government was far from perfect, and it was true that the Regent was an embarrassment to them all, but anything was better than chaos. He ignored the gut feeling that haunted him, that every cause Henry Brougham had so far championed was right and just—ending the slave trade, educating the poor. Still, the man raised his hackles with his audacious free thinking. Whom did that uppity commoner think that he was? Why, Brougham’s people had been raising sheep when his own had been defending the Northern Marches against the Scots.
Brushing off the matter in disgust, he walked down the hallway toward the salon, where he found Belinda waiting for him in the bow window, trying to look brave. When he came in she glanced over anxiously, her delicate profile limned in sunlight. Sensing her fear at once, he sent her a relaxed smile of reassurance.
“Breckinridge will be gone in a moment,” he assured her. “He’s having himself a little tantrum right now, but I believe I made him see reason.”
Her reaction took him by surprise. She rushed to him in a flurry of light yellow muslin and slipped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against his chest. She closed her eyes fervently and held him for all she was worth. Taken aback, Hawk wasn’t quite sure what to do.
He rested his hands tentatively on her shoulders. She tilted her head back and stared at him. The wretched gratitude, almost hero worship in her eyes abashed him. Though he had known her for less than twenty-four hours, he had a feeling he was seeing the true Belinda behind the cold distant star of the demimonde, and she was not the hardened professional she pretended to be.
Strangely moved, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed a kiss to her hair. “Hush, darling. Everything’s fine. He can’t hurt you now.”
“Thank you, Robert,” she choked out barely audibly.
“Nonsense, Belinda, it was nothing.” He furrowed his brow. Lifting her chin with his fingertips, he searched her eyes. There were deep violet shadows in amid the blue, like smoke clouds across a silent battlefield concealing scenes of furious destruction and loss of life. What had happened here? he wondered as he intercepted her lone tear with his fingertip. He wiped it away. Her stare was soulful, as though she could not speak.
“Come,” he murmured softly, “let me take you home.”
She sniffled, nodded, leaned against him as he walked her slowly across the salon to the stairs.
“Robert, what about all those dogs of yours? I’m scared of dogs. I’m scared of everything,” she said in misery.
He turned her by her slender shoulders to face him and smiled tenderly at her. “I don’t think you’re scared of everything, Belinda. On the contrary, I think you’ve got quite a lot of ballast in your hull for someone so pretty. As for my dogs, they’ll listen to you. I promise.”
She looked away, her eyes red rimmed. “Devotion, eh?” she said almost too quietly to hear.
“Pardon?”
She smiled at him faintly. “Nothing.” With a small nod as though to steady herself, she left him there and went up alone to pack her belongings.
Troubled by the secretive young beauty, Hawk leaned against the newel post and watched her climb the steps. An instinctual wave of protectiveness made his body clench. He had failed to save Lucy, but by God, he would not let Dolph harm a hair on this one’s head.
Strange, fragile, wounded creature, he thought, momentarily forgetting his staunch vow not to get involved.
He had always been at his best when someone needed him.
CHAPTER SIX
Night found Bel in the rambling oak-paneled library of her new protector.
The later grew the hour, the more nervous she became, wondering if Hawkscliffe would indeed keep his word or if the rules of the game would change now that she was all but imprisoned in his baroque vault of opulence and decorum. Trying to conceal the slippery fear that slid through her veins, she perused the bookshelves in a careful attitude of idleness while the duke worked at his desk by candlelight.
She had seen the smoldering potency in his eyes after dinner as he had stared down the glossy twenty-foot table at her, sitting back in his chair, sipping port after their lavish repast. She mistrusted it.
The uncertainty was nerve-racking, worsened by the fact that she had overheard the argument between him and Mrs. Laverty, the housekeeper, who presumed to give him a fine dressing down for taking a scarlet woman under his roof. She heard enough of Robert’s tolerant answers to gather that Mrs. Laverty had been with the family for decades, if not generations. Only a servant rock sure of her supremacy in the household would have dared to speak so impertinently to her employer. Still, as a former Lady of Quality, well versed in the management of servants, Bel was appalled at the old woman’s tirade.
“This used to be a decent house! I might have expected such behavior from Alec or Jack, but from you, Robbie? What would your father say?”
“Miss Hamilton is a friend of mine and she is in danger.”
“Send her elsewhere or you’ll have my resignation!”
Bel had fled out of earshot then, not wanting to hear the rest. The maids had regarded her in mingled fascination and scorn as she passed, the footmen with leering interest. After all, she was only a kind of specialized servant herself and their master wasn’t there to rebuke them for their rudeness.
She marveled that supper ever arrived that night with the staff in such an uproar over her arrival. Fortunately, at least the terrifying brute dogs liked her. Now they were on duty, prowling the neat, green grounds, keeping watch within the high spiked walls of Knight House.
Trailing her fingertips over volumes of old history books that would have sent Papa into scholarly ecstasies, she felt safe from Dolph, but she wasn’t entirely sure of Hawkscliffe. In the silence of the library, she could feel his stare on her body. When she turned her head, she found him watching her.
She lifted her chin indignantly. “Do you mind?” she asked in cool, haughty bravado.
Caught, he smiled and took a drink of his port, then licked his handsome lips. “Surely a thousand pounds buys me the right to look at you. I was thinking perhaps I’ll commission a painter to come and make your portrait. You have a classical look about you that would well suit an allegory, I should think. Would you pose for Thomas Lawrence? Make your beauty immortal?” He grinned. “Nude, preferably?”
“Oh, you’d like that, would you?”
“I believe I quite would.”
“An allegory for what?”
He stroked his mouth idly, letting his gaze travel over her. “Aphrodite, perhaps. Persephone.” He snapped his fingers. “What was the name of the chit Zeus ravished in a rain of gold coins?”
“Danae,” she said, laughing despite her indignation, for the two of them were just such an odd pair, saint and magdalen. “Wicked paragon, are you insulting me again?”
“I’m only teasing,” he said softly. That beguiling glow had come back into his eyes. Maybe it was just the port. But the room, the very air that stood between them was charged with tension.
She looked away self-consciously and sauntered toward the large piano by the corner window. “Do you play?”
“Not anymore. Do you?”
“A little.”
“Play us a song, then, lovely,” he murmured.
“Your servant, my lord,” she said wryly as she took her seat at the bench, then sucked in her breath when she saw the gold-lettered insignia. “A Graf,” she marveled. The proud magnificent piano was almost too beautiful to touch. “Oh, Robert, I don’t dare.”
“Of course you do,” he said, smiling indulgently as he watched her.
“Mr. Graf makes the pianos of Maestro Beethoven,” she said in awe. “My middling skills cannot possibly do it justice.”
“But I wish you to play for me. Go on.”
“I noticed pianos in nearly every room, Robert, but I am mystifie
d by why you would keep a work of art like this in your library.”
“Music is a personal affair to me, Miss Hamilton. Now will you play for me or not?”
“Well... if you insist.” She rested her fingers lightly on the keys and explored, warming up her hands by playing scales, but then stopped abruptly and looked at him. “It’s out of tune!”
He nodded and took another drink. “I know.”
“Oh, you vex me to the point of fascination,” she exclaimed. “How could you? You keep a piano like this here in your private library where only you can enjoy it, and then you let it go out of tune. Lord Eldon ought to make that a crime.”
He smiled.
“In any case, I refuse to indulge you when I know full well my serenade will sound like cats fighting until this poor regal thing is tuned. I refuse to so thoroughly discredit my playing, which is bad enough to start.”
“Well, you are a courtesan, you must be highly accomplished. What else do you do?”
“Nothing you have paid for.” Resting her elbow on the top of the piano, she laid her cheek in her hand with a saucy smile.
“Little cutthroat.” He laughed quietly, but she remained mistrustful of the beguiling gleam of desire in his eyes.
She glanced around the drafty library, trying to spy a distraction. “Do you have a picture of Lady Coldfell?”
His languid expression stiffened automatically, but he didn’t move. “Why?”
“I want to see who it is we are avenging.”
He veiled his eyes behind his long black lashes, and reached into his desk. She rose and walked over to him. Without a word, he handed her a miniature portrait in a small silver case with a gold clasp.
She opened it and beheld the likeness of a serene beauty with red hair, green eyes, and porcelain skin. She studied it, saddened by the world’s loss of a young, vibrant life. “Did Lady Coldfell give you this?”
“Yes.” He quickly took it back from her and locked it again. He avoided her gaze; his strong, square face remained taut. Fingering the locket, he said nothing further for a long moment. “It was a self-portrait, actually. She was quite a gifted artist.”