A Dangerous Man (31 page)

“Impossible. She doesn’t have enough real emotion in her for a pique, let alone a fit.”

“The same has been said of you, Hart,” Beryl said. “And, like you, she has very strong emotions indeed. Occasionally
she
gives voice to them. Like now. She claims you’re about to ruin her by forming a mésalliance with Mercy Coltrane.”

“I’ve asked Mercy to marry me,” he said. “Whether she’ll accept or not is another matter.”

“Marriage?”

“Yes, Beryl,
marriage.”

“Oh, dear.” Beryl let out a little whoosh of breath and sank onto a chair. “I’d supposed from the way Annabelle was carrying on that you’d intended
to set the girl up as your mistress. But marriage …”

“You can save the protestations for someone who is willing to listen to them. Annabelle has already made quite clear how disastrously she expects this will reflect on all of you.”

“Oh, Hart—”

“No,” he broke in, unwilling to listen to her beg him to reconsider. “You will listen. And then you will relay this information to Annabelle, and after that you and Henley will repair to whatever hotel Mercy is presently hieing herself off to and act as her damned chaperone whether she wants it or not!”

“Yes, Hart.”

“If I can convince Mercy to have me, have me she will.”

“Do you love her, Hart?” Beryl asked.

“Love?” Her question took him by surprise. His mouth twisted around the word.

“Does she make you happy? Can you imagine life without her?”

He paused and for one brief instant considered describing for her what he imagined life without Mercy would be like. But he had no words for what he envisioned and, being ever a private man, kept that imagined anguish as his own burden.

“If you’re asking whether I can live without her, yes.”
I can survive without her
.

Beryl’s brow knit. “Then why would you risk so much? Society will be severe in its judgment. Oh, certainly there are those who would accept her
simply because you are the Earl of Perth, but there are those who will not.”

“Society be damned,” he said. “If you or Fanny or Annabelle chose to attach your happiness to society’s whims and dictates, then the more fool you. I have tried to give you everything and in doing so I have robbed you of that which is ultimately invaluable. The truth.”

She twined her fingers in her lap and he went on then, determined to tell her everything. When he was done, Beryl would have at her disposal every fact, every bit of history, that affected her, whether directly or indirectly. She could then determine her own actions.

Mercy was right. He had been arranging his sisters’ lives, he’d made a bloody mess of it, and he was done with it.

“First, our father did not die in a boating accident,” he began, and, once started, he spoke for over an hour.

Mercy descended the grand staircase into the lobby of Browne’s Hotel and restrained a surge of frustration. Beryl Wrexhall rose from her station near the door.

“Miss Coltrane?” The tentative smile on the older woman’s dark face nearly undid Mercy’s resolve to act cool. Whatever Hart had said or done to force Beryl into shadowing her every move had been effective, she would grant him that.

She could not leave her suite without bumping into Mrs. Wrexhall. She could not appear on the avenue without a shiny carriage, the Perth coat of arms emblazoned on its side, lurching to a stop beside her and a liveried driver leaping to her side and asking where she would like to go. She could not walk down a street without Hart himself—ridiculously and improbably attended by the maid Brenna, of all things!—pacing silently behind her.

Hart she could, and did, ignore. Beryl with her worried and conciliatory air was beginning to trouble her conscience. It was not Beryl’s fault she’d been bullied into acting as a duenna.

She sighed. “Mrs. Wrexhall.”

The woman’s smile brightened so much at that scant encouragement that Mercy felt another tug of guilt.

“Miss Coltrane, would you … could you care to take tea?” Beryl asked, pitifully eager.

With a silent curse for Hart, who’d placed them in such an onerous position, Mercy nodded. She allowed Beryl to take her by the arm and lead her to a discreet alcove where a silver swan-necked teapot and delicate china service awaited them.

They took their seats and Beryl poured out tea as a waiter slipped a plate of cakes and sweet breads in front of them and disappeared. For long minutes they sat in strained silence, munching and sipping and regarding each other covertly over the rims of their cups.

“This is most unnecessary,” Mercy finally said.

“Miss Coltrane?”

“I don’t know what pressure Hart is using, but you really needn’t concern yourself with me.”

Beryl gave her a gently dissenting smile. “Miss Coltrane. You are alone, unchaperoned, and possibly, from what Hart says, my future sister-in-law. It is my duty to see that you are not made the topic of conversation among polite society.”

“I don’t give a—”

“Exactly what Hart said you’d say. But, might I add, my duty is also my pleasure.”

Mercy drummed her fingers on the linen-clad table. “Mrs. Wrexhall, let us be candid. I remain in England for one reason and one reason alone. To find my brother. As soon as I am successful in this I shall return to America, where I shall endeavor to forget all about London, polite society, and your brother.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Beryl’s brows dipped in consternation. “You won’t marry Hart?”

“No. I will not. There is … no need.” She felt her face grow warm.

“I see.” Beryl sat back in her chair and dabbed at her perfectly clean lips with a napkin. “Well, I suppose I can understand your aversion to marrying him.”

“How perceptive of you.”

“I mean what with him shooting you and all.…”

Mercy gaped at her, caught completely off-guard. “You know?”

“Oh, yes.” Beryl nodded, helping herself to another slice of bread and generously slathering it with butter. “He told me all about it. And about Father’s blackmail. And the title. Yes,” she went on in response to Mercy’s stunned expression, “it was initially rather overwhelming, but it makes sense of things I’d wondered about for years: why Hart never settled down, his isolation, his aloofness. He’s had rather a burden to carry, hasn’t he?”

“Yes,” Mercy snapped, unable to keep herself from responding to the unfairness of it.

“Just imagine,” Beryl ruminated, “all those years of trying to do what was best for us and never considering himself.”

“Apparently it’s a hard habit to break.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“He’s doing it again, with me. That is what your presence here is all about, don’t you see? Trying to make things right?”

“Really?” Beryl tipped her head, considering her remarks. “I don’t know that I agree. I think Hart is finally doing something for himself. But then if you must hate him for having shot you—”

“I don’t hate him for shooting me,” Mercy denied hotly, sitting forward in her chair, her hands palm flat on the table. “He saved my life.”

Beryl raised one black brow, making Mercy immediately aware of the belligerence of her pose. She settled back and lifted her teacup to her mouth. The liquid shivered across the surface. She banged it down on its saucer, furious anyone could think Hart’s actions less than heroic.

“Oh,” said Beryl. “Then why
do
you hate him, my dear?”

When had they gone from “Miss Coltrane” to “my dear”? Mercy wondered an instant before realizing what Beryl had asked.

“I
don’t
hate him,” Mercy protested. “Not at all.”

“Oh.” Again that slightly puzzled frown. The expression was suddenly replaced by one of enlightenment. “Ah! Then it is a matter of your heart not being engaged. I understand. You cannot force an affection where there is none. Please, allow me to finish. I have to admit I was rather hoping it might be otherwise. I asked Hart if he loved you, you know.” She glanced at her.

Mercy had stopped breathing. She couldn’t have spoken had her life been threatened.
Could Hart love her?

“I don’t suppose you’d like to hear what he said.”

Mercy blinked.

“I will tell you. Perhaps it might prove instructional for you in regard to some future relationship.” She smiled. “Hart said he wouldn’t know what the word meant.”

A dark, chilling despondency settled over her thoughts. She tried to reach for her teacup but her hand refused to act. It lay limply in her lap. She could only stare, numb and despairing, at Beryl.

“I find that rather amusing, don’t you?” Beryl continued blithely on. “I mean, here is a man who has endured things I doubt he’ll ever relate, who
has sacrificed his childhood and much of his adulthood, who has struggled to give so much, saying he does not know what the word
love
means. You know what I think?” Beryl leaned forward confidingly.

Mercy managed to shake her head.

“I think Hart knows quite well how to love. I don’t think Hart knows how to
be
loved.” She sat back, smiling as though quite pleased with her assessment, as though it were no more than a curiosity that had plagued her and now was settled, as though what she’d said did not mean more to Mercy than any few words she’d heard in her life.

“I mean,” Beryl went on, chattering as though they were discussing a play or a book and not a living, breathing man, “when do you suppose was the last time Hart heard the words
I love you?
I wonder if he ever has.…” She screwed her mouth up. “Mother was always so involved with Father: adoring him, hating him, berating him, and later mourning him. We girls had each other to bolster. But Hart …” She shook her head. “He was the eldest and a male. He was sent to school when he was eight and then he went to war. He wasn’t more than a boy when he enlisted, but he was a man when he came back.

“As far as I know, there has never been a paramour or even a mistress who would have said those words. A shame. But then, knowing Hart, I’d imagine that purchased words would have repelled him. You know, I don’t believe Hart would
know
how
to ask for love. I don’t believe it would ever even occur to him
to
ask.”

Please
, Mercy thought,
please, let that be the reason he didn’t ask me about my feelings: He was afraid of my answer
. For a man like Hart to have let down his guard so far he’d lost control over his emotions, his subsequent actions would have been horrifying.
That
could be why he hadn’t said anything to her in the library, in his bed, in her room. He’d assumed she was as appalled by his loss of control as he.

If only she was right. The thought, having found root, took hold. If only Hart wanted her love as much as she wanted his.

“But I’ve bored you long enough. Please, allow a fond sister to indulge her doting brother. He wants to protect you, my dear. Is it too much to ask that I be granted your company now and again? It isn’t that much of a sacrifice, is it?”

“No,” Mercy mumbled, shaken.

“You’ll doubtless soon find
your
brother and be off.” She smiled her sweet, sad smile. “I’ve just rediscovered mine. I’d like to please him in some small way, if just for a while.”

Hart waited in the dark interior of a hired hack and watched the front door of the brothel. It was in a very respectable, middle-class area of town, one hardly to be suspected of housing a high-priced
bordello. But then, that was the greater part of its appeal.

Already Hart had seen a judge, an alderman, and two conservative lords make use of its plain front door. He didn’t give a damn for them. He was waiting for another, the man he’d seen leaving Browne’s Hotel and had followed out of an idle curiosity that had turned into a cold anger. He settled back in the seat.

It must be nearing midnight, he noted, his thoughts turning unerringly to Mercy. He hadn’t yet been able to keep his promise to her. Try as he had, hire as many private detectives as he had, he’d yet to find her brother. Until he did he wouldn’t be able to rest, knowing that somehow Mercy’s brother and Mercy’s accidents were connected.