A Rakes Guide to Pleasure Read online

  "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 an
d 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."

  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.