A Dangerous Man (30 page)

“Don’t fool yourself, Mercy. English and American society grow closer each year. We trade money, merchandise, and
aristocrats
. You will eventually feel the consequences of last night. Or your family will.”

“My
family now.” It was all too much. She did not know what to think anymore. With each reasonable statement he pressed her toward marrying him. His rationale was honorable and clear sighted and well thought out. “How droll,” she murmured.

“Mercy?”

“Here I am being offered a coronet and the only person who would find that gratifying is dead. She might finally have been proud of me.”

Abruptly, he ceased brushing her hair. She felt his hand hover an instant and then he bent over her, deliberately placing the brush beside its mate. “I would hate to disappoint you—and your dear, departed mother—but I’m afraid there may be no coronet.”

Chapter 25

“W
hat do you mean?”

He turned and stood in profile to her, his strong-boned face and bold nose, the clean, sharp angle of his jaw and sensual lower lip, backlit against the window.

“I returned from Africa shortly after my mother had died,” he said offhandedly.

So much control. What sort of tyranny did he exercise over his emotions that he could speak so calmly of his mother’s death?

“Some months before I’d received word that my father had perished in a yachting accident off the coast of New Guinea. I cannot claim to have been overly affected by either loss. He was a libertine and a wastrel. And after he abandoned her, my mother stopped caring. About anything.”

“Hart …”

“I wouldn’t bore you with this, Mercy,” he
said, “but since you must at least consider marrying me, even if under duress, you need to know.

“My homecoming was greeted with a mountain of papers from lawyers and tradesmen and my relatives’ creditors and—” He stopped. “Forgive the histrionics. It was all rather overwhelming and I was not feeling very well at the time.” He slanted a sardonic smile at her. “But then, you’ve seen the manifestations of my indisposition. Suffice it to say that at that time they were worse.”

She saw his nearly indiscernible flinch as he looked away.
Worse?
The thought that he’d had to endure so much, so young, wounded her. When he’d returned home had anyone held him when he shivered? Had any voice called him back from the haunted landscape of his imagination? No. There’d only been more responsibilities, more demands.

“The only thing of any value I was bequeathed was my great-uncle’s title. His estate was in ruin, as was the sordid little rubble pile my sisters had been reduced to living in. They’d been raised to think of themselves as ladies and I hadn’t the wherewithal even to buy them shoes. I didn’t know what to do.”

He turned his palm upward in a gesture of unconscious apology. She raised her hand to take his. He stared at her bleakly. His fingers curled into a fist and dropped to his side.

“I developed one skill during my tenure with the army. I learned that I was a very, very good shot. I’d heard from some of my comrades that a marksman—one without too much conscience or
too much curiosity—could find lucrative work in the more lawless territories of your country. I had nothing to lose and I certainly met the criteria. And before you ask, no, the thought of killing men didn’t bother me. I’d killed plenty in the war … and they weren’t even men. If I could shoot a boy,”—his teeth clenched around the word—“why not a thief? Or murderer?”

“I
didn’t
ask,” she said. “But it sounds as though you have asked yourself that question. Scores of times.”

“Damn your pretty eyes,” he said dispassionately.

“Go on.”

“You know that part of the story. I was more than good. I was the best. I commanded an exorbitant wage for my services. Later, I became a partner in a few cattle operations. I grew rich. More than rich. I’ve thrice the wealth of your father, Mercy. So, if you agree to marry me, you won’t lack for material things.”

It did not entice her in the least. She flew to the point that did interest her. “What is the ‘other part’ of the story?”

He nodded as though something had been confirmed. “When I returned to England, I set about arranging my sisters’ entries into society. I was determined they would have every advantage my father’s desertion had ripped from them. Every family heirloom he’d pawned, I bought back. Every piece of my mother’s jewelry he’d sold, I found and purchased. Every bank account he’d drained, I
filled ten times over. Every social chasm he’d created with his pandering and licentiousness, I spanned with my title and my wealth and my blameless reputation.”

“And then …?”

“And then, about a year after I returned, he wrote me a letter.”

“Your father.” The words fell between them and Hart nodded.

“Do you want to hear something amusing? He’d never even been on the damned yacht. He’d been in Africa and had only just learned of my inheritance and wasn’t it a grand joke, me having assumed a title that he had inherited?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t, but
I
did. Too bad, he wrote, that I had assumed the privileges as well as the title. I would doubtless be loath to give them up. But he was the legal heir to the title. I was the Earl of Perth only if he was dead.

“And as for my sisters!
Think
of the scandal! But then, they’d have their father back soon to guide them through society.” Hart’s words came too quickly, slurring over each other as though he could not expel them fast enough.

“My God.”

“Of course, perhaps it would be best if he just stayed in Africa. He was ill, you see, having contracted some tropical disease, and it would be very hard for him to travel. If he just had enough cash he’d just as soon put off his reappearance in society.” His tone was unemotional. “I sent him ten
thousand pounds. Four months later I received a similar letter. Once more I sent money. I kept receiving letters and I kept paying him off until finally I grew so sick of his taunts and complaints and threats that I had an account set up. I wrote him, telling him that I would make a yearly deposit and nothing more. I have done so for the past four years.”

“And what does he say now?” Mercy asked.

Hart shrugged. “That was the last contact I’ve had with him. I don’t even know if he’s still alive or how or even if he uses the money I send. I don’t give a damn. So you see, Mercy, any day he may appear and demand his title, his estate, and his daughters. There may be no coronet.”

It suddenly made horrible sense. “That’s why you said you’d seen the like before.”

“Excuse me?”

“The letter from Will. You said that you’d seen its kind many times. You were speaking of your father. You thought Will was doing to me what your father had done to you. Extortion.”

He frowned at her and she could not ignore the pity she saw in his expression. “That’s what your Will
is
doing, Mercy.”

“No.” She stood up, needing to tell him he was wrong. She plucked at his arm. “Will isn’t like that.”

“He’s an opium addict, Mercy.” His tone was harsh.

“No,” she said, and hearing the frantic quality in her denial, she forced her voice to a more normal
level. “He’s just experimenting. You said so yourself. Young men like to kick over—”

He grasped her shoulders in his big hands, gave her a little shake. His blue eyes were stark in his face. “That’s before I knew where he was going. Before I knew what he was doing.
He’s an opium eater, Mercy
. The Peacock’s Tail is an opium den.”

“No!” She gasped. “Will isn’t like that. He’s not much more than a boy. He’s gotten in with a bad lot, but as soon as I—”

“Can’t you see?
You
can’t do anything,” he cut in. “You never could. You aren’t to blame for your brother’s actions. Now or ever.”

“Yes, I am.” Her head bobbed in jerks. “I wanted Will and my father to be at odds. I didn’t want them to like each other. It’s all my fault and I have to make it right.”

“Mercy,” he whispered, brushing his knuckles against her cheek, “you were a little girl looking for approval. You give yourself too much credit. You can’t fix what you didn’t break.”

“Oh, God, that’s rich coming from you. You’ve spent a decade trying to make reparations for your father! Trying to make it right for your sisters!”

He didn’t recoil from the accusation. “Then we’re both wrong. Let him go, Mercy. Before you get hurt.”

“I’m not going to get hurt.” She tried to jerk away, but his hold was too firm.

“Will isn’t the same boy you knew, Mercy. You don’t know what he’s capable of now.”

“You’re talking nonsense,” she said, fright making her voice strident.

“An addict doesn’t have a conscience, he only has an insatiable animal that lives where his soul used to be. When it gets hungry, the addict can’t control it, he can only feed it, by whatever means necessary.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying.” She wanted to plug her ears, to shut her eyes, but his voice went on, cruel in its sympathy.

“Will needs money, Mercy. Opium is expensive and the amount it takes to satisfy the animal is always growing.”

“What the hell are you saying?” she demanded shrilly.

“If you die, who inherits your father’s money?”

She stared into his eyes. She could see her own face mirrored in his black irises, her mouth twisted with anguish, her lips chalky.

He’d taken everything, her peace of mind, her body … damn him, even her heart, and he hadn’t left anything to fill the emptiness … except his sense of obligation and his bloody coronet.

And now he was taking Will.

She slapped him hard across the face. He didn’t even blink; he just held her with his hard, implacable gaze as she stared in horror at the red imprint of her hand on his cheek.

“You can strike me as many times as you like. It isn’t going to make it any less true. I wish it would.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know Will.” She panted, her back stiff, her eyes glittering. “You’re lying.”

He shook his head. “No. You’ve been shot at. You narrowly escaped a serious, perhaps even fatal, injury when your gun exploded.”

“Accidents!” The word rang out too fast, betraying the fact that she, too, had questioned those incidents. That somewhere in some dark corner of her mind, Will’s name had risen in connection with them. Pain clouded her vision. She nearly hated him for making her admit it to herself.

“You’ve been here ten days, Mercy,” he went on. “Ten days and two ‘accidents.’ There is no one who would benefit from your death besides your brother.”

“Annabelle,” she whispered. “Lady Acton. Either of them would do anything to protect their precious Duke from me.”

“Mercy, you don’t believe that,” he answered.

“Don’t I? Why is that so much harder to accept than your assertion that my brother is a coldblooded, heartless fiend?”

“Because Will is an addict.”

She raked her hand through her hair, turning away from him. “I won’t believe that. I won’t believe anything you say. You’ll see. When I find him—”

“No!” he shouted.

“Yes!” Then the tears began, spilling from her eyes and blinding her.

“Mercy.” He caught her damp chin between
his fingers and forced it up. “Don’t try to find him.” She tried to twist away but he wouldn’t let her. His voice was low, urgent. “I’ll look. No, wait. Listen to me. I swear I’ll find him for you, bring him to you. Just do not risk yourself. Promise me. Promise!” he demanded.

“Why should it matter to you?” she flung out.

“Because if you are hurt, Mercy, I …” He closed his eyes and his mouth shut for an instant, barring her from seeing what his gaze held.

“Because
you’re
the only one allowed to hurt me?”

His eyes snapped open. He stared down at her, through her, and when he spoke, it was with a deadly calm. “Yes. I’m the only one,” he said, and spinning around, left as though chased by devils.

Chapter 26

“M
y heavens, Hart,” Beryl exclaimed as he pulled her into an anteroom and closed the door; “whatever is going on? I just left Annabelle. She is working herself into a conniption fit.”