Rake's Guide to Pleasure. (18 page)

"Go and fetch Lady
Denmore
,
Stimp
."

The boy made sure to toss a scowl over his shoulder as he skulked toward her back door. Hart followed at a distance, keeping close to the damp brick wall. He heard
Stimp
walk down the steps, heard the door open.

"
Yer
mistress,"
Stimp
said. Footsteps rushed across a stone floor and the door opened again.

"Where have you been? I sent word hours ago. I need your help."

Hart swallowed the fury that rose at the sound of her voice. She'd abandoned him without a word. Like a rented mount.

Stimp
was making his excuses when she interrupted. "That man you claimed to have run off has returned. Had you noticed?"

"Aye."

Her impatience vibrated through the atmosphere. "Oh, you had? Because the very man I hired you to watch out for has likely broken into my home. You were supposed to be keeping an eye out, but you've only come around once in three days. Did he pay you off?"

"Who?"

"The man who broke into my home!"

"Well, I took his
ha'pence
that first day, but I already told you about that."

"
Stimp
, listen." She sounded frightened now. Desperate. "If you can't find out who he is and what he wants, I at least need him gone. This is important. Is there some way he can be gotten rid of?"

Hart blinked and stepped back, shocked at her vicious-
ness
.

"Well. . ."
Stimp
tapped his foot. "I'm sure I know one or two who might be willing to open the man's throat, but it'll cost more than—"

"No! Good God, what kind of child are you? I don't want the man murdered! I just need him run off. For good this time."

Hart felt muscles he'd never recognized relax at her words. The woman was wily and deceptive, but she'd never struck him as violent.

"What if I were to catch '
im
for you,"
Stimp
went on, seemingly unfazed by the exchange. "For, say, a half crown? Would that suit
yer
—"

"Enough," Hart said, and crossed the half-dozen feet to her stairway.

Emma yelped when she spied him, though she clapped a hand over her mouth to try to stop it. But she couldn't hide the fear that blazed to life in those hazel eyes. Stark alarm was followed quickly by bright, scrambling thoughts.

"What are you doing here?" she asked from behind her fingers, but then she lowered her hand and stepped out from the doorway. "I am not receiving visitors, Your Grace. Please send a note next time."

"First of all. . ." He had to unlock his jaw if he wanted to continue. His teeth were beginning to ache. He just felt so . . .
outraged.
Yes, outraged. Used, even. And expecting to be betrayed.

"First of all, if I sent a note, you would never admit to receiving visitors, correct? Second, I am not here to pay a social call, or not a pleasant one at any rate."

She clearly did not know what to think. Her eyes darted from him to
Stimp
, then back. "If this is about
Moulter's
. . ." She blushed. Actually blushed. "I apologize for not leaving word. I simply did not have time."

"Liar. You knew that night that you were leaving in the morning. Let's not pretend you were anything but dishonest."

Her eyes flicked to the boy again. "Regardless—"

"Yes," Hart sneered.
"Regardless.
It has nothing to do with that night except as it pertains to the news you received in that note."

"There was—" She broke off and studied him, trying to read his hand and not succeeding in the least. "There was a personal issue. Now if you will excuse me."

"Lark!" Hart shouted over his shoulder.

A lot of thumping and grunting preceded his driver's appearance, but Hart kept his eyes on Emma, measuring her smallest reaction. She looked worried and scared, but he didn't sense even a hint of recognition on her part. Then again, the woman was a consummate gambler, which meant she was a consummate liar.

"Your thief," he said simply when Lark dropped the man on the ground next to Hart.

"Is he . . .?" She swallowed. Hart watched hope and dismay, disgust and anxiety, shudder over her face. One emotion replaced the other in a dizzying show. "He's dead?" she finally asked.

"No, simply drunk. Do you recognize him?"

She stepped up two stairs and craned her neck. Her hands held her skirts in a death grip. "No."

"Well then, let's find out what he was looking for, shall we?"

Hart crouched beside the now snoring man. "Wait!" she cried, just as his palm cracked against the stubble-rough cheek. The man grunted and stirred, but nothing more.

"Wake up," Hart growled and slapped him again.

"Sir," Lark said as he appeared at Hart's side with a bucket filled with murky water.

"Perfect." Hart's murmur was overtaken by Emma's renewed command to wait. She flew up the stairs, close enough when Hart dumped the bucket that drops of dark water soaked into her gray skirts. She jumped back as the drunk finally sputtered to life. The man roared, spitting water, flinging it wide as he threw his arms out.

Hart resolved to take a bath within the hour as he dug his fingers into the man's dripping hair and yanked.

"What is your name?"

The man grunted and swung, earning himself a hard kick to the thigh. He yelped as Hart snarled, "Your name."

"
Arse
."

"Your name is
Arse
?"

"No, you're an
arse
. Now let me go before I tear your arm off, you rump eater."

Hart held up a hand to stop Lark's approach. He let go of the man's hair and smiled when his skull hit the ground with a meaty thump. The bastard was still reaching for his head when Hart carefully placed a boot over his throat and let some of his weight bear down.

The brown eyes began to bulge almost immediately. The hands flew from his bruised head to Hart's ankle, but Hart pressed harder. "Remove your hands from my person or I'll be sure to lose my balance and crush your worthless throat."

The hands shook, but they rose an inch above the shiny black leather of Hart's boot. Hart eased up and let the man wheeze out a few breaths.

"Now I'm sure you are lying there thinking that in this enlightened age, in this modern city, a man cannot simply kill you in an alley in broad daylight and get away with it. But let me introduce myself, Mr.
Arse
. I am His Grace, the eighth Duke of
Somerhart
. I could kill you in front of the House of Lords and they would all swear they'd seen nothing. And if they didn't, I could buy the judge presiding over the case and walk away a free man. So do not doubt that if you don't give me what I want, I will kill you and never spare your sorry life another thought.

"If you refuse to cooperate, Lark here"— the man's eyes rolled toward the driver—"will drop your body in the Thames while I attend the theatre this evening. Am I making myself clear?"

The man's face had faded to white, but it quickly began to turn a dull green. He stretched up his chin so that he could nod past Hart's boot.

Thinking of the wounded attitude his valet would assume at having to clean vomit from his master's boots, Hart slowly slid his foot down to the ground.

"And watch your language. There is a lady present."

Hart was thankful when the man's color returned to a more normal shade of unhealthy white. Then the brown eyes rolled again, and his gaze caught on Emma who had retreated to the bottom of the stairs. The white face tensed, and Hart could trace the rush of his blood as a flush rose up to the man's greasy hairline. His mouth twisted in a sneer of hatred as he pointed a finger at Emma.

"You," he spat, malice rolling off him in gin-scented waves.

Emma backed farther away, but she was caught like a cornered fox by the closed back door. "No," she whispered, and Hart felt betrayal looming close.

"Whore," the man spat, but worse than his vitriol was Hart's gaze. He studied her like a falcon would study a mouse. Emma had not imagined her unmasking would happen in front of him, had never planned for it. How was she to vanish if a sharp-eyed bird of prey stood between her and freedom?

"Whore,"
the man repeated, his hatred pushing her heart to an even higher gallop. Hart kicked him without looking away from her.

"You do not know him?" he repeated, and Emma shook her head.

He finally turned away from her and, in the same motion, swooped down to slap the man's square face. Emma's ears rang with the startling sound.

"I told you to watch your tongue. Now what is your name?"

"Burl." The man's lip curled in rebellion. "Burl what?"

"Burl
Smythe
."

"And what is your interest in Lady
Denmore
?"

Smythe's
mouth grimaced, his eyes darkened with violence.
"Lady?
Is that what she calls herself?"

Hart kicked his thigh again and muttered a few curses under his breath. She could tell he was reminding the man to curb his tongue, but Emma couldn't quite hear it. She was waiting, waiting. She probably should have run. If she could make it past the carriage, they might lose track of her, spend precious time figuring out which direction she'd turned. But then what? She wouldn't have even the money she'd brought to London with her. She'd be destitute. Ruined.

So Emma just stared at this stranger who was about to destroy the world she'd worked so hard to weave together.

"She's a jezebel,"
Smythe
was saying. "A whore leading other women down the path of evil. She's a deceiver. Satan masquerading as a highborn lady."

Some part of her brain insisted that this made no sense. Why would this hired spy hold such contempt for her? Why was he so angry? But the rest of her mind was buzzing, buzzing, drowning out everything but his hateful words and the incessant pounding of her panicked heart.

Emma breathed in deep and heard herself moan as she exhaled.

"She says she doesn't know you, Mr.
Smythe
."

"Lies! Lies on top of lies!"

Hart's eagle eyes swung toward her and paused there for a moment. His gaze narrowed. "You know what he speaks of."

"I don't," she whispered, pressing harder against the door. Maybe she could go through the door and escape out the front, maybe she could grab her winnings from
Moulter's
as she fled.

Hart aimed that piercing gaze back at
Smythe
. He said, "Perhaps you could be more clear in your grievances," and then the world opened up behind Emma.

The solid door vanished and she was falling into fear and uncertainty and wondering if she'd fainted. But her flailing hand caught smooth wood and her back bumped against something warm. "Ma'am?" Bess murmured close to her ear. She helped Emma right herself just as
Smythe
began to roar with fury.

"
Lizzy
," he shouted. "
Lizzy
!"

The solidness that had been Bess trembled against Emma's back, turning into something weaker. "Oh," Bess sobbed. "Oh, no. Oh, God above, save me."

"
Lizzy
!" he roared again and lurched to his feet. He lunged toward them, throwing himself down the stairs. Both Hart and the driver sprang forward to catch him. He hitched back, but then his jacket slid from his shoulders and he pulled his arms free, leaving the two men to stumble back, hands clutching brown wool.

"Burl, no.
Please,"
Bess cried out, but her words pushed fire into his eyes.

"Faithless whore," he growled.

Stimp
flew at him and was brushed aside as easily as a fly.

The man loomed huge, fists rising. Bess backed away, retreating into the house, and Emma fell to the floor, landing hard. She didn't have time to register the pain that shot up her back; an angry bull was charging straight for her.