The Duke’s Perfect Wife

Chapter 9

Inside the coach, Eleanor sank onto the seat opposite the two gentlemen already there—David Fleming and an unconscious, white-faced Englishman Eleanor had never seen before.

“Who is that?” she asked. The footman started handing in her parcels, and Eleanor leaned to tuck them beneath David’s seat. “Excuse me. Could you just push that under? Be careful; it’s breakable.”

David obeyed, regarding Eleanor with bloodshot eyes. He was in evening dress and smelled strongly of cigar smoke, brandy, perfume, and something else it took Eleanor a moment to identify. It had been a very long time since she’d encountered such a scent, but she soon realized what it was—that of a man who has been with a woman.

David saw Eleanor’s assessment, grew red in the face, jerked out his flask, and took a long drink.

“Hart, don’t sit on that,” Eleanor said as Hart hauled himself into the carriage. “It’s for Beth. Could you, please…?”

Hart growled, took the parcel, and shoved it onto the shelf above the seat. “Couldn’t you have put these in the back?”

“Good heavens, no. Some of the things are fragile, and I don’t want to give a lucky thief the chance to relieve me of them. Thieves climb onto the backboards and rifle the baggage, you know.”

“No one robs this coach,” Hart said.

“There’s always a first time. I spent my week’s wages on these gifts.”

The carriage jerked forward, David still staring in shock. “Mackenzie, what are you doing? This is Eleanor.”

“Mr. Fleming is awake,” Eleanor said. “He can recognize ladies he’s known for years.” She studied the other man, who snored against the wall. “Who is he?”

David kept staring at Hart and didn’t answer. “That is Mr. Neely,” Hart said.

“Ah,” Eleanor said, understanding. “I see. You sent him to Mrs. Whitaker in return for whatever he promised you.”

“I need his backing and that of his friends when we go after Gladstone,” Hart said.

“Hart.” David was anguished.

“I keep no secrets from Eleanor.”

No?

“There is no point,” Hart went on. “As you can see.”

“Well, if you had let Wilfred tell me why you sent her a thousand guineas, I would not have had to try to find out for myself,” Eleanor said. “Although I did need to do the shopping.”

“A thousand?” David glanced down at the sleeping man. Mr. Neely looked innocuous, like a clerk or a banker, with well-kept hands. “Then again, he was a lot of trouble.”

“I assumed he would be,” Hart said.

“What did he do?” Eleanor asked, her curiosity rising.

David shot Hart a worried look. “You brought her into the coach to make me look a dissipate rake in front of her, didn’t you?”

“I already know you are a dissipate rake, Mr. Fleming,” Eleanor said. “You’ve never made a secret of it. He seems very small and fragile. What on earth sort of trouble could he cause?”

“He refused to leave,” Hart said. “So I was told. How did you finally manage it?” he asked David.

“The liberal application of whiskey. On top of what he’d already had. Whenever the puritanical decide to indulge themselves, it’s a sight to behold. I doubt he’ll remember much of it.”

“Good,” Hart said. “I do not need him to have a day of remorse that sends him running back to my rivals. You’ll take care of him?”

“Yes, yes. Sober him up, lessen the agony as much as I can, tell him he thoroughly enjoyed himself.”

Eleanor studied Mr. Neely, childlike in his sleep. “You bribed him with a courtesan to obtain his vote,” she said.

David winced. “Bribe is such an unkind word.”

“No, she is right,” Hart said. “It was a bribe, El, pure and simple. But I need him, and his friends.”

He met her gaze without blinking. Hart knew exactly what he’d done and how bad such an action made him, and he’d weighed the consequences of it before he’d done it. The balance had come out on the side of bringing Neely into his fold. Hart had known how to play the man, and he’d played him.

“You are awful,” Eleanor said.

“Yes.”

He was ruthless, driven, and determined to win no matter what it took. The look in his eyes told her that.

Eleanor glanced at Mr. Neely again. “I suppose his support is terribly important?”

“It’s twenty more seats behind me.”

“And you need as many backsides as possible, do you?” Eleanor asked.

David barked a laugh. Hart kept his gaze on Eleanor, never wavering. He was not asking for her understanding or forgiveness. He was simply showing her what he did and what he was.

“I do,” he said.

Eleanor let out her breath. “Well, then. Let us hope the thousand guineas was worth it.”

Hart descended at Grosvenor Square, telling David to continue to Neely’s home and get the man to bed—and resisted the urge to drag Eleanor into the house. He did tell her he wanted to speak to her in his study, but it took a long time for her to extricate herself and all her parcels from the carriage. David helped her with a look of idiotic surrender. The man was still in love with her.

Then Eleanor had to instruct Maigdlin and Franklin to take her parcels to her room, told them to split the seedcake she’d bought from the vendor, and at last headed up the stairs.

Even with all that, Eleanor made it to Hart’s study before he did, because Wilfred waylaid him to sign things. Hart entered to find Eleanor standing in front of the polished Queen Anne cabinet, both doors open, as she gazed at the painting inside.

Hart came up behind her and closed the doors, shutting out the face of his father. “I locked that.”

“I know. I found the key in your desk.”

Hart locked the cabinet again, strode to the desk, and put the key back into its place. “I keep the key here because I don’t want anyone opening the cabinet.”

She shrugged. “I was curious.”

“You are avoiding my true question. What possessed you to take a hansom to Portman Square and stand outside Mrs. Whitaker’s?”

“Why do you keep it?”

Eleanor had removed her pillbox hat with its veil, and he got the full force of her blue eyes. “Keep what?” he growled.

“The portrait of your horrible father. Why not put it on the fire?”

“Édouard Manet painted it. It’s valuable.”

“Monsieur Manet was one of Mac’s teachers, was he not?”

Hart had told Eleanor the story long ago. When the old duke had condescended to have his portrait painted while in Paris, Mac had met Manet, and ran away to take lessons with him.

“Mac can paint something else equally as valuable for you,” Eleanor said. “Get rid of the thing.”

Hart loved Eleanor’s clear-eyed way of looking at the world. The portrait of his father grated on him, but for some reason Hart kept it, perhaps believing that through it his father would see that Hart had grown beyond the scared youth he’d been. Hart wanted the old duke to see that he’d surpassed him, had become something more than a rakehell and a bully. You beat me until I couldn’t stand, but I’ve beaten you, you bastard.

Eleanor, on the other hand, simply looked at the picture and said, Get rid of the thing.

“I keep it locked inside the cabinet so I don’t have to look at it,” Hart said. “My great-grandchildren can sell it for a profit.”

“I hate to think of it in there, haunting you.”

“It isn’t haunting me. Stop changing the subject and tell me why you went to Mrs. Whitaker’s.”

Eleanor came to the desk, rested her hands on it, and looked across it at Hart. “Because I thought she might have something to do with the photographs, of course. I thought you might be paying her blackmail money—a thousand is a fortune. I had to find out why.”

Hart saw nothing but inquisitiveness in Eleanor’s eyes. No anger, no jealousy. But then, the greatest part of Eleanor’s anger when she’d learned about Mrs. Palmer had not come from jealousy.

“I sent Neely to Mrs. Whitaker, because I knew she could manage someone like him.”

Her brow puckered. “What do you mean someone like him? Like him in what way?”

“I mean an unworldly man pretending to be worldly. They are the most unruly when they finally let themselves off the lead.”

“And apparently he had to be carried out again by Mr. Fleming. Mrs. Whitaker did not mind doing you this favor?”

“I paid her a thousand guineas. Of course she did not mind.”

“Was Mrs. Whitaker educated? Finished, I mean?”

Hart’s patience thinned. “I have no bloody idea.”

“I ask because the notes are badly spelled, which points more to a servant. However, if Mrs. Whitaker came from a poor background, she might still not write well, despite her big house and her furs. Have you asked her about them?”

“No!”

“Goodness, you do like to shout. I am trying to solve your problem, Hart, but a little assistance would be welcome. Mrs. Whitaker might have known Mrs. Palmer—Mrs. Palmer might have given her some of the photographs. Were Mrs. Whitaker and Mrs. Palmer friends?”

“Friends? God, no. Angelina had no friends.”

“That sounds lonely. You should ask Mrs. Whitaker anyway, though if she truly has no knowledge of the photographs, you will have to ask discreetly so she does not find out about them. Difficult, but I think you can do it.”

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed in thought, and she touched her finger to her lip, unconsciously rubbing it over the little bruise Hart had made. His entire body went hot and hard.

It would be so easy to go around the desk to her, to unbutton the ugly gown she wore, to strip her to her corset. He’d nip her neck as he unfastened her, leaving a love bite while he drank her in.

Eleanor drew a breath, her breasts lifting under her primly buttoned bodice. “Perhaps if I…”

“No,” Hart said abruptly.

Eleanor’s eyes widened. “You do not even know what I was about to suggest.”

“No, you will not go back to Mrs. Whitaker’s or try to speak to her yourself. And you will not return to the house in High Holborn.”

She gave him a look of exasperation, which told him he’d guessed correctly about the last part. “Be reasonable, Hart. I never finished searching the house, because, as you recall, you removed me—forcibly. I do not expect to find the photographs there, but there might be some clue as to where they’ve gone. If you are worried for my safety, I’ll have one of your pugilists accompany me.”

His impatience became full-blown anger. “No. And don’t you dare cajole Ian into taking you back there.” Hart thought of Ian standing in the room in which the woman had been killed, gaze fixed on the ceiling, and he let out his breath. “It upsets him.”

“I know. He told me, but he also said he ought to see the place once more himself. To allay the ghosts, as it were.”

Ghosts. That whole house was full of ghosts. Hart wanted to burn the place to the ground.

“Ian can’t take me anyway,” Eleanor tripped on. “He’s not here. He left this morning.”

Hart stopped. “Left? What do you mean, he left? Where the devil did he go?”

“To Berkshire. He was missing Beth, and I told him to go to her. She’s already on her way to Berkshire, to help Ainsley prepare, so off he went. They won’t mind Ian arriving early.”

“When did this happen? He never said a word to me.” Not a word. Not a good-bye. But that wasn’t unusual for Ian. When Ian decided to do a thing, there was no stopping him.

“You were off playing your political games,” Eleanor said. “Ian said good-bye to me, but he did not want to wait about for your return.”

When had Hart lost control in his own house? The last time he’d seen Ian, his brother had been quietly reading the paper in the dining room at breakfast. As far as Hart knew, Ian hadn’t had any plans to rush off to Berkshire within the hour.

Hart thought of the congealing eggs and greasy sausage on his plate this morning, and his fists tightened. “Eleanor, what did you do with my cook?”

“Hmm?” Her brows rose. “Oh, Mrs. Thomas. She got word that her sister was ill, and I told her she should take a week and visit her. She’s in Kent. The sister, I mean, although by now, Mrs. Thomas will be there too, of course. There wasn’t time to find a replacement before this morning, but I imagine one will be here by tonight. Mrs. Mayhew is seeing to it.”

When had he lost control? The day Eleanor Ramsay had lurked in a crowd of journalists in St. James’s and Hart had been foolish enough to scoop her up and bring her home.

Only this morning he’d thought himself clever for keeping her close, drawing her into his life, netting her until she would think that staying was her own idea.

He had to be insane. Not only was Eleanor turning his house upside down, he couldn’t stop his visions of her, ones that continued what he’d started with her last night. He looked across the desk and wanted her—now. He could unwind his cravat and use it to gently tie her wrists. Or maybe to blindfold her so that she wouldn’t know where he was, or what pleasure he intended for her, until he touched her skin, kissed her neck, nipped the skin of her shoulder…

He wanted to strip everything from her—gown, corset, combinations, lift her to the desk, spread her across it, and lick from her throat to the glory between her legs. Her hair was golden red there, he remembered.

He wanted to wrap her hands, perhaps in a pair of soft, silk stockings, to hold her thus while he feasted on her. She’d wriggle in joy, and he’d murmur, Eleanor, do you trust me?

Yes, she’d whisper.

He’d bring her to pleasure again and again, and when she was warm and smiling, he’d climb onto her and inside her. He’d have her in this room, and banish his ghosts.

The vision gave him hard, aching pleasure. Hart knew he was standing in the study, the desk between himself and Eleanor, she fully dressed, but he could feel every touch, every kiss, every breath.

“Hart?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

The tug of concern in her voice undid him. Hart stood up and removed his fists from the desk. It hurt, his whole body hurt to leave while Eleanor watched with worry in her blue eyes, but he knew he had to get out of this room.

Hart made himself go to the door, open it, and walk out, without stopping to look back at her. He walked around the landing, sidestepping Ben in the middle of it. He continued to his own bedroom, entering it by nearly ripping open the door.

Marcel, who was brushing one of Hart’s coats, looked up in surprise.

“Draw me a bath, Marcel,” Hart growled as he tore off his cravat and opened his shirt. “Make it a cold one.”

Hart managed to keep himself away from Eleanor for three days. He rose and left the house before she awakened and returned when he was certain she’d be in bed.

Hart filled his days with meetings and debates, arguments and committees. He tried to plunge himself into the troubles of the country and the empire, to wipe away any thought of his domestic life. It worked when he was in a shouting match with his opposition, when he tried to persuade yet another MP to lean to his side, and when he adjourned with Fleming to their club or a gaming hell to continue the battle for political domination there.

But as soon as Hart descended at his doorstep in Grosvenor Square, knowing Eleanor was in the room above, her body damp with sleep, the visions of her returned and would not be banished.

He spent more and more time away from home, staying very late at meetings and creating meetings so that he could stay late. It was after one very late evening that the assassination attempt was made.