A Dangerous Man

by Connie Brockway

  Hart caught his brother-in-law’s eye and motioned him over. With a sullen tensing of his narrow face Henley made his apologies to the Baron and joined him.

  As he approached, Hart studied him. It had been a year since Hart had been in England. That year had not been kind to Henley. There was a petulant twist that sat too familiarly on his long mouth. His gaze shifted about the room, and his smile was too quick for spontaneity: It bespoke anticipation.

  “Hart, I haven’t had the opportunity to thank you for all you’ve done,” Henley began, “both for Beryl and myself and my career. I am fully cognizant of the debt I owe you. I know that my way in the House has been smoothed—”

  “My pleasure,” Hart cut in, waving away Henley’s gratitude. The other man flushed.

  “I want to know what the blazes is going on here,” Hart said. Henley’s gaze shot to meet his. The russet flush that had mounted his cheeks drained away, leaving him colorless. He wet his lips. At least this time his dark eyes did not waver from Hart’s.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, placing his teacup on a nearby table.

  “Annabelle. What the deuce is going on between Acton and her?”

  Henley released a barely audible sigh. “Oh. Annabelle.”

  There was an odd hint of disappointment in his tone, as well as relief. What the deuce was going on with the man? “Yes, Annabelle,” Hart said. “Beryl led me to believe that Acton was pressing his suit, that an engagement was all but announced, and then I arrive to find nothing of the sort. Acton gives no appearance of being on the cusp of offering for her, and Annabelle, rather than putting herself out to be gracious, has adopted the most extraordinary demeanor.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes. Can you explain the situation to me? I certainly wouldn’t like to think that I have returned to England just to attend a country house party.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” Henley asked with a touch of asperity. But his eyes dropped before Hart could properly read the emotion in them. “No,” he muttered. “Of course you wouldn’t. And we wouldn’t have asked you. We know what you want and what we owe you.”

  “Owe me?” Hart repeated. That was twice Henley had used that term. He acted like a servant, for God’s sake. Indeed, his attitude was that of a man who was about to seek a reference. Hart was in no mood for such nonsense. “A damned peculiar thing to say, Henley. You owe me nothing … except to keep me informed as to my youngest sister’s suitors. And even that is more Beryl’s obligation than yours. I simply want to know how matters stand.”

  Henley nodded, his combative posture dropping away. “I don’t know,” he said. “We, all of us, thought Acton was on the point of declaring. And Annabelle seemed extremely happy about it. But since we’ve arrived Annabelle has become even more subdued than usual, and Acton has been not so much aloof as ambivalent. It is as though something—or someone—has seeded his intent with doubt.”

  “Someone?” Hart asked.

  Henley took a deep breath. “He is obviously quite smitten with Miss Coltrane.”

  Acton, Hillard, Major Sotbey … himself. “Damn it to hell.”

  Henley shifted uncomfortably. “Well, she is an arresting woman.”

  “Isn’t she?” Hart returned dryly. First she had blackmailed him and now she was sabotaging Annabelle’s future as the Duchess of Acton. What had she done to ensnare Acton’s attention? Had she visited his bedchambers in the middle of the night too?

  Hard on the heels of the bright, searing jealousy came a subtler pain. She could not possibly dream that someone with Acton’s antecedents would ever offer for her. To pursue such a fantasy could only bring her unhappiness.

  “What has she done?” he asked.

  Henley looked up, surprised. “Done? Nothing that I can see. She’s simply so dissimilar from Annabelle. Or any of our English ladies, for that matter. I think Acton finds her … refreshing.”

  “Refreshing,” Hart said. “You mean novel.”

  “Yes.”

  “And she is being courted because of her novelty. God, Acton sounds like a dim-witted boy,” Hart said in disgust. He turned from Henley and stared out the rain-lashed window. “Has he not learned that novelty is merely a function of inexperience?” he murmured. “What happens when Mercy becomes familiar? He acts as though she were a toy. Not a human being.”

  “If you have such a contempt for novelty, why do you always seek it?” Henley asked. “Why would you travel so much, if not to experience the new?”

  For a moment Hart had forgotten Henley was there. His brother-in-law was watching him curiously and Hart was reminded of how perceptive he’d once thought Henley—though the man had given scant evidence of it since his arrival here. Nevertheless, he did not want to awaken Henley’s sympathies by telling him just how very tired he was of all his much-vaunted travels. “It’s not the same thing at all. One can abandon a vista without causing it harm, either emotionally or socially.”

  “I see.”

  “Well,” Hart said, displeased he’d given voice to such private musings, “we can only hope Acton comes to his senses.”

  “Yes,” Henley said.

  “And when he does, we shall see if Annabelle is still interested in him. You must ask Beryl to discover her feelings on the matter.”

  “I will.”

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me …?” He nodded curtly and left his brother-in-law studying him from above the rim of his teacup.

  Chapter 14

  Throughout dinner Hart watched Mercy divide her attention between Hillard and Baron Coffey’s youngest pup. He was too far away to hear what she said. As the Earl of Perth he had been seated near the head of the table while Mercy, untitled and unclassifiable, had been positioned near the far end.

  He should have been pleased. Down there Mercy could not compete with Annabelle for Acton’s attention. Though, Hart noted, more than once the Duke’s gaze slipped in her direction. Not that he could blame him.

  Dressed in shimmery midnight-blue velvet that draped elegantly and closely about her bosom and hips, she was riveting. Wide, marigold-colored bands edged the narrow sleeves and gathered back the heavy train, revealing a richly brocaded garnet underskirt. As intricate as the dress was, it was nearly severe in comparison with the other ladies’ countless tiers of pastel ruching, myriad nosegays, and layers of glass beads encrusting their bodices.

  Cynically, Hart wondered if she had adopted such restraint only to enhance her individuality. Was she aware of it? Did she play on it? He shook his head, refusing a dish of rum-stewed apricots.

  “No, take it away,” the dark-haired young matron on his right said as the servant offered her the same. “I cannot accept one more morsel, no matter how skilled Acton’s chef. Isn’t he skilled, Lord Perth?”

  “Very,” he said, turning politely. He’d barely noticed her before. But now that she’d addressed him, courtesy required he make the requisite small talk.

  “I’d give much to have a healthy appetite, but I fear I have too delicate a constitution to enjoy food.” The woman—Lady Jane Carr, was it not?—glanced at Mercy and Hart followed her gaze. Unaware she was being observed, Mercy popped a piece of capon in her mouth.

  The currant glaze clung to her lower lip. The tip of her tongue appeared and licked it clean. He felt his body quicken in response.

  “You have traveled extensively, have you not, Lord Perth?” Lady Jane asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he responded, refusing to look at Mercy’s lips, Mercy’s eyes, Mercy’s porcelain smooth shoulders devoured by the night-sky-blue velvet.

  “You have doubtless seen many extraordinary sights since the last time we met.”

  “Yes.” Good Lord. Had they met before? He racked his brain. Of course. At Beryl’s wedding three years ago. He remembered her as being a sweet-faced girl, charmingly enraptured with her first season out. The three years were not reflected on her smooth countenance. There was nothing marring her features, though nothing to recommend them either. He cu
rsed himself for comparing her to Mercy.

  “Have you visited the Far East?” She tilted her heart-shaped face. “I have always been fascinated by antiquities. Unfortunately Donald is averse to traveling abroad.” She peeped at him to see if he was attending. “Donald is my husband.”

  “My congratulations to him.” Hart inclined his head. “You are newly wed, then?”

  “Oh, dear, no. I have been married a full two years now.”

  “Then you are but a bride,” Hart said chivalrously, watching her turn a delicate coral color. “And where is your lucky groom?”

  “In Scotland. Hunting.” She lowered her lids, touching the linen to her clean lips. He’d never seen anyone eat so daintily. It was an unusual accomplishment. “Donald is always hunting. Quite keen on it, he is. But I’d much rather hear about your travels. Have you been to eastern regions?”

  He nodded.

  “I have heard they are unearthing wonders in Egypt,” she said.

  She was a perfect English lady: her expression composed, her voice serene, her appearance unexceptional. Her hands retreated modestly to her lap when she spoke. They did not execute arabesques in the air to diagram her words as Mercy’s did.

  “Very many wonders, Lady Jane,” he answered. “There are tombs in Egypt that still hold the treasures buried in them three thousand years ago.”

  Her eyes grew large. “And you’ve seen them? Would you please tell me about them? I am avid for some distraction.”

  Laughter, full throated and delicious, teased him. Mercy was responding to someone’s comment. The sound of her amusement reminded him she’d laughed at something he’d said yesterday. It had surprised him that she’d found wit where others were quick to read scorn.

  But that had been before she’d blackmailed him. Before she’d forced him to her will. Before she’d lied. And after she’d suffered his mouth open over hers, after he’d tasted the honey-sweet warmth of hers, his hands had learned the weight of her breasts.…

  With iron resolve he smiled at Lady Jane Carr. Poor woman, lonely without her husband, no doubt. “I will be delighted to provide such entertainment as I can for so lovely a lady,” he said. And, vowing to ignore his heart’s irrational tendency, he spent the rest of the evening doing his damnedest to please.

  The scrawny, pint-sized stable boy who’d saddled the green gelding for him met Hart at the entrance to the stable. There was a cheeky grin on his broad face.

  “What are you doing up, lad?” Hart asked, glancing at his timepiece. It was nearing eleven o’clock.

  “Doin’ me job, milord. Very popular place the stables is at night.” He winked, touching a grimy forefinger to his brow in a conspiratorial salute. “Very pop-u-lar.”

  Hart dismissed the urge to question the boy. He intended to make London by midnight. “I need a mount. Something fast. And not that deviled creature you gave me yesterday.”

  “Sure thing, milord. But you did ask fer somethin’ wid a bit of brimstone in it,” the boy said reproachfully. He trotted down the line of stalls and returned shortly with a roan mare dancing in her tack.

  Hart swung into the saddle, touching his heels to the mare’s sides. The boy jumped out of the way as he guided the horse to the stable door.

  “London Road joins the east drive a mile out. If you be needin’ the names of some sporting establishments, I can be of some ’elp,” the boy offered cheekily.

  “The Peacock’s Tail. Do you know it?”

  “Peacock’s Tail, ye say? If it’s the place I’m thinking on, try Cambridge Circus,” the lad said doubtfully, catching the coin Hart tossed him. “But it ain’t a nice place, milord.”

  Outside, the cold wind sucked the air from Hart’s nostrils as he squinted into an icy drizzle, cursing the night, the rain, and Mercy Coltrane. He was nearing the front of the house when a dark figure astride a pale horse detached itself from a shadowed copse of dripping hemlocks.

  He could not contain a surge of pleasure though it was followed hard by outrage. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked.

  Mercy Coltrane eyed him from beneath the brim of her ridiculous battered Stetson. Her leather-gloved hands were wrapped tightly on the reins.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  In answer she withdrew a paper-wrapped parcel from beneath the man’s overcoat she wore and flung it at him. He caught it one-handed.

  “There’s two hundred pounds sterling in there,” she said hoarsely.

  The wretched creature! Actually thinking he’d do this for money—What the hell did it matter to him what she thought? Abruptly, he stuffed the package into his coat pocket. He’d keep it, all right, if only to remind him of what she saw when she looked at him. Not a lover; a hired gun.

  “Ah.” He couldn’t resist paying her back a little for her low opinion of him. “My fee. Good. You’re sure it’s all there? I’ll count it later, you know.”

  She nodded, her lower lip thrust out.

  “Now, just so that we are absolutely clear on this point, you say I don’t have to kill anyone?” he asked.

  “No!” Even in the dark he could see her grow pale. Good.

  “Oh, well.” He sighed with exaggerated disappointment and then brightened, as though as some pleasant thought had occurred to him. “I expect I’ll at least have to hurt someone, won’t I? One often does in these piecework affairs. Should I endeavor to cripple or merely incapacitate?”

  “Neither! You don’t have to shoot, maim, kill, or hurt anyone. Just find my brother.”

  “Well, that rather takes the fun out of it, doesn’t it?” he asked dolefully.

  She blinked at him, her eyes widening with surprise. “You’re teasing me,” she said.

  “Am I?”

  “Yes.” Her lips were parted in wonder and he suddenly remembered too well the feel of her slender body, the music of her heartbeat counterpointing his own thudding pulse.

  “Perhaps,” he replied, acutely aware of how dangerous teasing Mercy Coltrane was. “All right, Mercy. You’ve dutifully handed over the money. You can go back now.”

  “No. I’m going with you.”

  He shouldn’t have been surprised. But then, she had an uncomfortable knack of surprising him. “No, you’re not. You’re going back to the house.”

  “I am not. I’m not going to let you ride into London and spend my money on liquor and then return at dawn and tell me you gave it your best try.”

  “You think I’d do that?” he asked softly.

  She lowered her face, hiding her expression. “I’m not willing to take the chance,” she muttered.

  “You’re going to have to,” he clipped out, and started past her.

  She spurred her horse forward, matching his gait. “Look, Hart,” she implored, “I have to go with you. If you find Will, what are you going to say to him? How ever would you approach him? I need to be there.”

  He didn’t bother to reply to that bit of fantasy. He wasn’t going to find Will. At least not tonight. Oh, he’d look, all right, but a man who set out to get lost in Soho could stay lost a dozen lifetimes with no more hope of being found than a whisper in a windstorm.

  “I’ve dressed like a man.” Her words tumbled over each other. “I’ll keep up. I promise. And I’ll stay out of the way.”

  He reined in and swiveled around. Her horse nickered as she pulled it to a halt beside him. He eyed her derisively. The coat hid her form and her hair was tucked up tight beneath her hat. It didn’t matter.

  “Don’t be a fool,” he said. “No one in their right mind would mistake you for a man.”

  “A boy, then.”

  “Or a boy.” Her skin was too fresh, too creamy and smooth. Her lips were too softly lush, her remarkable eyelashes too extravagant, to have been wasted on a male.

  “It will be dark,” she pleaded. “I’ll stay outside.”

  “Forget it.” He turned around, preparing to put distance between them, when suddenly she reached out and grabbed his horse’s reins close
up under the bit.

  “No.” Her tone had lost its plea. Anger and obstinacy replaced it. “Damn it. Damn it,” she said with distinct satisfaction. “You should understand. Of all people, you should understand. He’s my brother, Hart. My only brother. Think of what you did, what you risked, for your sisters.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he clipped out.

  “A fool can see what you’ve tried to do, if they only know half the story,” she spat back. “The clothes, the Seasons, Bentwood … you sacrificed everything so that they could have the sort of life you thought they were meant for, didn’t you? Lady Acton told me about your father leaving your family without any means to provide for themselves. Beryl filled in the other areas. I know what you did, Hart.”

  “You’re not only intractable and willful, you’re melodramatic.”

  “I’m right,” she said flatly.

  He kneed the gelding. She refused to let go of the reins and he would not trust himself to lay hands on her to loosen her grip.

  “It’s no different for me,” she said. “I know I lied to you. I gave you my word and I didn’t keep it. But I had no choice.”

  He made a violent sound of disparagement.

  “I didn’t have a choice,” she insisted. “Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I don’t care just as deeply for my brother as you do your sisters. I have no less an obligation toward my family than you do toward yours. It is not simply that I will not abandon my brother. I cannot.”

  “You haven’t abandoned him,” he said woodenly. “You’ve hired me.”

  “No. I have to go,” she said. “If you appear, looking like this”—she motioned toward his rough garb—“he’ll think you were hired by the men who want to hurt him. He’ll bolt. He’ll run and there won’t be any hope of finding him then.”