“Where is our money, Henry? Or, forgive me, Mr. Morton?”
His expression went blank. “Your money? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The money you stole from my father.”
“I stole nothing.”
“So you’ll admit that you counterfeited your identity and your death, yet you will insist you didn’t take my father’s money from him? If you didn’t do it for the money, then for what? Certainly it had naught to do with me. You’re a liar as well as a thief.”
He studied her with slitted eyes. He reminded her of a snake assessing whether it would be beneficial to strike out at a creature who’d disturbed its lair.
She glanced down at the weapon still pointed at her and took a slow, steady breath. She was no less convinced that he wished to kill her—he was just waiting for the right time and place so that he could make himself appear as innocent as possible. He was a wily, conniving liar, and while it might be easy to associate him with the man she’d once thought she’d loved, she mustn’t forget his villainy. Not for a second. It could mean her life.
“I would suggest you cease your accusations, Emma. I don’t believe you’re in the position of power here.” He looked meaningfully at the pistol.
She released a slow, controlled breath. She didn’t think he’d murder her in cold blood in a carriage in the middle of London. Even in the dead of the night, there would be witnesses, and he didn’t want that. Still, he’d made rash decisions before without being entirely careful. He’d staged his own death while leaving evidence of the existence of Roger Morton, for example. He was a villain, but he wasn’t the most thorough of villains.
If she made him angry enough, she didn’t doubt he’d to something rash. To his own detriment…and hers.
She bit her lip. “Will you tell me one thing?” she asked softly. “What was that business with the Duchess of Trent?”
Morton’s lip curled, and he relaxed into his seat, but that blasted gun remained trained unerringly on her breast. “That woman is a virago. Did you know that?”
She shook her head.
“What is it, then? Is word going round that I kidnapped her and did away with her?”
“No one is exactly sure,” she murmured.
“It was nothing like that.” He gave a short, mocking laugh. “I endured that month for an old man I owed a debt to. He forgave the debt in exchange for my services.”
“Ah…a wager, I take it? Like the one you made stating I’d be with child in three months?”
He raised a brow. “Similar, yes, I suspect. So did VanHorne demand his payment?”
She stayed still, clenching her fists in her lap to prevent herself from lashing out at him. “He did.”
He frowned. “How much was that for? A hundred guineas?”
“Five hundred,” she choked out.
“Ah.” Morton made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Well, this wager was of a similar nature. When he offered to forgive the debt if I fetched the duchess for him, it seemed like the easiest of payments. Plus, at the time I thought it might be an entertaining endeavor. I needed a diversion.”
“Who was this man?”
“An old gypsy.” Morton shook his head. “He had the manner of an English gentleman but the disposition of one of the most vile of his race.”
“So you kidnapped the duchess?”
He made a tsking noise. “Kidnapped is a rather strong word, Emma,” he drawled. “By all means, I did not kidnap the woman. She came willingly enough, once she ceased throwing things at me.”
She frowned. “But…why?”
“Wasn’t much of my business. But from what I could gather, the two were lovers. And he wanted her back.”
“What?”
“Is that so surprising?”
She looked down at her lap, thinking of all that Luke had told her about the Dowager Duchess of Trent. She’d kept many lovers, had had at least two children out of wedlock. It wasn’t such a stretch to think that one of those lovers might have been a gypsy.
“Why didn’t he go to her himself?”
“Ah. You sound like the duchess. ‘Why isn’t he here, then?’ she squawked at me. ‘Tell him I won’t go, not unless he comes to me first,’ she harped. But he was unable to come—which was why he’d given over the task to me. I ultimately convinced her to go with me.”
“You took her to Wales?”
“Yes, to Cardiff.” His dark eyes met hers. “So close to my Emma. I checked up on you, you know.”
Fury rose hot in her cheeks. If he’d checked up on her, he’d undoubtedly seen how she’d struggled. He’d done nothing to help, nothing to ease what he had done to them. “You had no right,” she bit out.
“That is a matter of debate,” he said calmly.
“You cannot imagine to claim any sort of responsibility or ownership over me when you were—and are—legally deceased.”
He merely shrugged. It seemed the argument was pointless to him. Clearly he had decided that though he believed them to still be technically married, they certainly wouldn’t be once he’d killed her.
She changed the subject. This topic would certainly gain her nothing. But for Luke’s sake, she needed to find out what had happened to his mother.
“So you took her to Cardiff. What happened then?”
“We waited for the gypsy to show up. And he took his time about it, let me tell you. I think he intended to torture me with that woman’s whims for as long as possible. He only rescued me when I was on the verge of throttling her.”
“What is this man’s name?”
He gazed at her for a moment, then shrugged, seeming to deem telling her to be inconsequential. “His English name is Steven Lowell. I don’t know what they call him in that heathen language of theirs.”
She committed the name to memory. “And he came, eventually, to fetch the duchess. How did she react to him?”
“I do not know,” he said dryly. “I was not present for their reunion. Lowell came to me and said he had no further need of me. I left Cardiff immediately. I’d had enough of the place.”
“Do you know where he intended to take her?”
“Of course not. I imagine he intends to take her all over the place, though. Isn’t that what gypsies do? Live nomadic lives by illegally squatting upon properties that rightfully belong to others?”
“You said that he had the demeanor of a gentleman. I thought that meant he might have a home somewhere.”
Morton snorted. “I doubt that.” He waved his free hand. “It is of no consequence. I have washed my hands of that virago the duchess, and I have washed my hands of Lowell as well. It is merely one less debt to repay.”
What of the debt he owed Emma? And her father? The caustic words were on the tip of her tongue, but she didn’t set them free. There was no point. Morton had admitted to everything except his most villainous crime, and he didn’t seem likely to confess that.
In truth, out of all his crimes, it was the theft that was the most likely to get Roger Morton hanged. Maybe that was why he didn’t intend to confess it, even to a woman he intended to murder.
She nodded, shifting in her seat to feel the comforting weight of her pistol. When should she use it? Surely it would be unwise to draw it now, when he still had his own pistol resting on his leg and aimed at her.
She gritted her teeth, her fear and anxiety making her fidget. Thoughts of Luke kept creeping into her head. If he returned home drunk in the early morning hours, would he look for her? She’d left the door to her room open, so if he came upstairs, he’d notice right away that she was gone. What would he think when he saw her empty but tousled bed?
If he was still angry with her, would he go upstairs to check on her at all tonight? And even if he noted her absence, what could he do? She didn’t know where Morton was going, and Luke wouldn’t know either.
She closed her eyes. She felt her separation from Luke as a deep pain in her chest that grew as the distance stretch
ed farther between them. She couldn’t count on him coming after her.
A part of her knew without a doubt that if he saw that she was missing, he would come. Despite everything that Luke had done, despite all the challenges they had faced, he cared for her. She was sure of it.
He might be angry with her, but he would come if he could. He would save her if he could. Those simple thoughts calmed her, soothed her, even as she knew he probably wouldn’t come at all.
Chapter Nineteen
Luke had not found Morton in London. He had gone to the man’s offices, broken in through the blackened window, and rifled through every bit of evidence he could find. He found more addresses and more names—one of particular note. It contained more details on the property Morton had purchased—including its location in the parish of Chiswick, a few miles outside of London.
When he left the warehouse, Luke rode straight to Morton’s sister’s house in Soho. Though by this time it was growing late in the evening, she received him in a shabby parlor and served him what was probably the last bitter dregs of her tea supply.
“I’m so sorry to bother you at this late hour,” he told Mrs. O’Bailey, “but I must ask you some urgent questions pertaining to your brother.”
“Of course, my lord. What would you like to know?”
He gazed at her, mildly disconcerted. Her acquiescence had been too easy, but he also knew why she was so accommodating—because he was the Duke of Trent’s brother.
He didn’t have the energy to be annoyed by that tonight.
He asked her if she knew anything about Morton’s dealings in Bristol. “No, sir,” she told him. “I never knew he’d gone to Bristol.”
“Have you ever heard of Henry Curtis? He was an associate of your brother’s there.”
“No, sir.”
“Do you believe your brother’s investments have been successful ones?”
She seemed to ponder this one for a moment. “Well,” she finally said, “I believe so, but it isn’t something we’ve spoken of often.”
“Does your brother keep his only residence in London?”
“Yes, my lord. Except when he travels outside of London for business.”
“What, exactly, is the business that compels him to leave Town?” he asked her.
“I’m not certain, but I believe it’s to do with prospecting.”
The woman was such a simple, honest sort, he couldn’t bear to tell her the truth. He didn’t want to be the person to destroy her assumption that her brother was a decent, hardworking man. He didn’t want to tell her that the bastard was a criminal whom he intended to have hanged.
He thanked her and left. He glanced in the direction of Cavendish Square—and Emma—but he didn’t go home. Not yet. He wouldn’t go home until he had something to bring home to her, something solid they could use against Morton.
They.
She had betrayed him. She hadn’t trusted him, and she’d revealed his deepest secret. He should be furious with her.
But she had apologized, and her apology had been heartfelt—he knew Emma well enough to understand this. And despite himself, despite all the bitterness and anger he’d always held inside, he had already forgiven her. It seemed she’d somehow leached that bitterness and anger out of him.
He loved her. How long could he stay angry with the woman he loved?
She had betrayed him, yes, and as much as he continued to feel the burn of that inside him, another part of him was convinced that she had done what she’d done only out of worry and care.
Instead of going home to Cavendish Square and to Emma, he turned toward his brother Sam’s house. He had no desire to face Trent right now, but he and Sam needed to talk.
He secured his horse and knocked on Sam’s door. It was answered by his brother’s manservant, who led him into Sam’s back study. As always, Sam was working—scribbling away, probably a report on the mission he’d just completed for the Crown. He looked up, brows raised, as Luke entered, but he didn’t rise.
Luke didn’t bother with platitudes or decorum, either. He went straight to the chair across the desk from Sam’s and sank into it with a tired sigh.
There was no reason to beat about the bush. “She told you.”
Sam knew exactly what he was talking about, of course.
“She did.” His voice was mild.
“And you told Trent.”
Sam nodded. He placed his pen in its tray and steepled his fingers at his chin.
“Why?” Luke asked him.
“I thought he should know.”
“I disagree.”
A corner of Sam’s lips quirked upward. “That much was obvious, considering you haven’t deigned to tell him—or any of us—for the last twenty years.”
Luke’s fingers tightened over his knees. “It was my problem to manage on my own.”
Sam scoffed. “You were a child.”
“So were you,” he shot back.
“But older,” Sam said. “I could have protected you.”
Luke rolled his eyes heavenward.
Sam’s lips tightened. “It is a family’s responsibility as a whole to keep a child safe. We failed you in that regard.”
Luke fidgeted, feeling more uncomfortable by the second. He gazed down at his lap as his throat tightened with some emotion he couldn’t name. He sucked in a breath. “I c-came…” His voice cracked loudly. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I came here to let you know that I won’t tolerate anyone speaking of it. It happened in the past. It is over.”
“Not to you, evidently. Mrs. Curtis said you have nightmares.”
Luke closed his eyes against yet another unwelcome jolt of betrayal. “Let it go, Sam.”
“Very well,” Sam said, too easily. When Luke opened his eyes, he saw a glint in Sam’s. “Word of advice, Luke: You need to stop interpreting all that Trent does for you in the worst possible light.”
“What do you mean?” Luke demanded.
“Everything he does for you comes from a place of deep caring. You don’t seem to see that, though. Even when he arranges to have you exonerated from a hanging offense, you have no doubt found a way to blame him. The truth is, however, that there’s only one reason he left parliament early today and nearly killed himself to ensure you were cleared of the charges brought against you. And that reason is that you are his brother. He loves you.”
The word love plowed into Luke like a deadly arrow finding its mark. It was not a word that had ever been bandied about freely in the Hawkins household.
He stared at his brother, who was gazing at him, his expression inscrutable.
“Forgive Trent,” Sam said quietly. “He doesn’t always express his love in the most forgivable of ways, and he has a tendency to push you to extremes. Hell—you have a tendency to push him to extremes, too. But he means well. The news of your abuse at his father’s hands has devastated him.”
“I…don’t want it to devastate him…” Luke pushed out.
“What do you want, then?”
“I didn’t want him to know at all.”
“It’s too late for that,” Sam said, a rare gentle tone in his voice. “He does know. So does Esme, and no doubt Theo and Mark will know soon as well. You’ll need to live with that.”
Luke thrust a frustrated hand through his hair.
“Why does it vex you that we know, Luke? Is it because you feel it makes you look weak? Because we will see you as less of a man?”
It felt like a giant fist tightened around Luke’s chest. He stared at his brother for a long moment. “Maybe.”
“That’s stupid,” Sam said flatly. “You were just a boy.”
“Exactly. It all happened long ago. So I should not be dwelling upon it now, and neither should the lot of you.”
“You were brutalized at your father’s hands.”
“Not my father,” Luke said quickly.
“The man you thought was your father, then. Those kinds of scars do not fade quickly.” Emotion
bled into Sam’s flat brown gaze. He knew what it was like to be beaten. Perhaps not in the exact same way, but he’d fought in wars and had been injured in battle. He’d endured the deaths of two wives and an infant son.
“How do you live with it, Sam?” Luke murmured.
“I live a day at a time,” Sam replied, equally quiet. “I can’t think too far ahead. If I think only of today, then I can endure it.”
It was odd, but for the first time, Luke felt he had gained a deeper understanding of his stoical brother. Sam had endured worse than Luke had. Sam had suffered, but those close to him had suffered even worse. Luke couldn’t even begin to think of how he would feel if Emma died. All he knew was that he’d succumb to madness once and for all.
“Sometimes,” Luke said in a low voice, “it feels like I’m going mad. Like he’s driving me straight to insanity.”
“I know,” Sam said. “And I’m sure he is attempting to do it, in your mind. Attempting to drive you straight into the welcoming arms of Bedlam. But you’ve battled against him for this long, and I’ve no doubt that you’ll continue to fight. Harder, even, now that you have Mrs. Curtis.”
Luke jolted at her name. “What about Mrs. Curtis?”
Sam’s expression subtly softened. “Come, now, brother—”
“What about her?” Luke demanded.
“She is a tigress.”
Luke narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”
“She was prepared to bare her claws and tear into the flesh of anyone who would slander you, much less throw you into prison on false charges. She fought hard for you, and with great passion.” Sam sounded impressed.
“She did?”
“Yes. And I thought she would kill me when I told her I needed to take the problem to Trent. She begged me not to go to him, but in the interests of expediency, there was no other choice. I had to entreat the duchess and Esme to calm her. Still, she paced my corridor like a prowling cat all afternoon. And when Esme and I drove her back to your house in Cavendish Square, she snarled if anyone so much as mentioned your name.”
Luke was surprised to feel a smile curling the edges of his lips. “Did she, now?” he asked softly. Love for Emma bloomed in him, swirling sweetly. He wanted to go home to her. Tell her how much he loved her. Ask her for forgiveness for speaking to her in anger earlier.
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