“I’m not sure,” he replied honestly. He couldn’t put his finger on what caused his overwhelming feeling of dread. Except that ever since the accident, the feeling had been ever present. Haunting him at moments he least expected.
“Why did you want to attend this ball?”
“I need to speak with my father’s friends. To start inquiring about the time period surrounding his death. Previously, I was reluctant to voice my suspicions that his and Robert’s death was not a piece of bad luck. But the time for self-doubt is over. I can’t find the answers I need sitting at home.”
Lucy scrunched her nose. “I understand it must be hard to face the wolves when you’ve been gone so long.”
He closed his eyes. He didn’t give a damn about the wolves, or did he?
Now that his heart had settled back to its normal sedate rhythm, he felt foolish for his panic. “I’m frustrated with myself. It’s just the idea of everyone gawking, wanting to be the first to see how damaged I am. It makes me want to run.” He shook his head in disgust. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
Lucy scooted closer. Her hand slid up to cup his ravaged face. “Hart, these scars don’t change anything about who you are. You are the Duke of Hartwick. Intimidating, roguish, and far too charming for your own good.”
The light touch of her fingers sent a tremor through him. Unlike the earlier ones, this was an all too familiar shiver of awareness. Hart pulled her hand away and guided it gently back to her lap. He had no business receiving gentle touches and kind words from this lady. Her affections were engaged elsewhere, as they should be. He didn’t need or want to think about how good she smelled or how her soft touch left his skin heated. Or how having her near settled him like no glass of brandy ever could.
He scooted down the seat, putting a few extra inches between them. He glanced out the window into the dark night beyond. It wasn’t late, perhaps half eleven. This used to be the beginning of his evening out.
“Everything has changed.” He shook his head. How could he possibly explain? “The knowledge that someone killed my family, killed Galey for telling the truth about it, and almost killed me has been burning in my gut for the past year. Finding and punishing those who did it is the only thing that can stop this anger from eating me alive. It is the only thing that matters now.”
Lucy’s eyes widened, the deep blue almost midnight in the dim interior of the carriage. Her hand reached out to touch his arm. “Hart.”
He flinched. She needed to stop touching him.
Her hand paused, then retracted.
She stared forward for a long moment. “I had a thought about that symbol on the letters. Where did your father go to school? Perhaps it is a fraternity of sorts from his school days.”
“He went to Oxford. The place is famous for its secret societies. Thank you, Lucy. That is a brilliant idea.”
Robert would have known what their father was involved in, business and personal. He had been the golden child, his father’s confidant, his heir. It never bothered Hart much; after all he knew his place in the pecking order. And it had been impossible to be resentful when Robert had been such a good brother. Always taking an interest in his life, filling in the cracks caused by their father’s disinterest. Letting him tag along with the older boys at Eton. And when their mother died, Robert had been the one to comfort him, let him cry and rage as little boys would. Christ, he missed Robert. Why had it been him? Why would anyone want to snuff out the life of such a good man?
They rode the rest of the trip in silence. Lucy sat unusually quiet and still. The carriage pulled to a stop. He turned to apologize for being so morose, but the carriage door swung open, and instead, he alighted to the street. Hart held out a hand. Lucy hesitated before laying her hand in his and descending.
He forced a smile. “Let me walk you to the door.”
“That’s not necessary.” She pulled her hand from his the minute she stepped to the ground.
“Nevertheless.” He took hold of her elbow and escorted her to the door.
As they paused in front of the cheerful yellow door, Lucy turned to gaze up at him. Her head tilted. “Hart, I want you to be careful until we figure out the why of all these deaths. I don’t want you to become a victim.”
He couldn’t promise her that he would be safe. He had no way of knowing if the killer also wanted him dead or would once Hart started asking questions again. It was a risk he was willing to take to find out the truth. So, he simply raised an eyebrow and countered with his own question. “We?”
“You know very well you need my help. I am far cleverer than you.” She patted his lapel. The front door opened. “Goodnight, Lord Hartwick.” Lucy disappeared into the safety of her house.
He chuckled under his breath. She was right, of course. She had been the one to make all the conjunctures thus far. Not that he would ever admit it to her.
He walked back to the carriage, his dark mood lifted by Lucy’s teasing. “Thomas, I am feeling much improved. Take me to the club.”
Chapter Eight
He chose achair in the back—not to hide—just to observe others without being noticed. The walk inside and across the large room had fetched enough scrutiny to make him sweat. Heads had turned, and conversations stopped as men stared. Many gave him nods and greetings, but those were a blur as Hart focused on getting to the pair of leather armchairs in the back corner of the main room. Composing his features into a haughty mask of indifference was as natural as breathing. For once, Hart was grateful to his father for his strong, if distant, example of how the Duke of Hartwick should comport himself.
As he settled back into the chair, a servant appeared at his elbow, causing him to jolt embarrassingly.
“What can I get for you this evening?”
“Brandy, three fingers.” Why was he so damn jittery these days?
