He shook his head. He never drank alcohol. Instead, he took a seat in the chair opposite to the gentleman. “He came to see my place today. He and a fine lady. They were interested in the symbol etched in the stone above the door. The Knot of Isis, they called it.”
“Hmmm, I wonder why.” The older man’s gaze lowered to his lap.
Seaton’s gaze flitted over to the wall where the very same symbol carved in cherry hung beside the fireplace. “He has been visiting the others. Lavensham and Rawlings so far.”
“Do you think he found the journal somewhere among his father’s things?” The gentleman’s brow furrowed.
“I honestly think he doesn’t know much of anything. He would be plotting his revenge, not running around asking questions still. Just my opinion.”
The gentleman nodded. “Well, do your job and keep him safe. There is no telling what the others will do when they feel backed into a corner.”
He nodded and left the way he’d come in, melting easily into the well-dressed patrons walking around Bedford Square.
Chapter Fourteen
Hart entered thecool interior of his carriage. “Harris Street, number two,” he told Thomas.
The door closed, and he leaned back against the squabs with a sigh. That woman was going to be the death of him. The kiss they’d shared last night shook him to the core. Perhaps he had always known deep down there would be no turning back if he gave into temptation and tasted her sweetness. No, not sweetness. Lucy was like a tart summer berry. The sharp flavor hit his tongue delicious and potent, with just a hint of sweet left behind after he finished.
She’d called him a rogue. And he was, for all the reasons he had told her. He was too old, too damaged, too bloody moody. But damn it, he wanted her. He’d never wanted any woman more. The urge to seduce her away from her Mr. Murdoch was strong. She wasn’t some toy to steal then play with. Besides, his skills in seduction had always been based on his good looks. These days… he ran a hand down over his cheek; he wasn’t a catch on any level. No, Lucy wasn’t for him.
Hart glanced out the window. The carriage rolled through the neat squares and wide avenues of Mayfair. His next stop would be an ambush of sorts. The Earl of Blackpool had ignored all of his invitations to meet. It was time to pin the man down. Hart wanted to know what Blackpool knew of the time around his father’s death. Someone among his father’s cohorts must have known something if his father was receiving threats. The fact that Blackpool had been dodging his summons, in addition to the new information that he also had the Egyptian symbol hanging in his office, made Hart all the more suspicious.
He arrived a few minutes later. When he was greeted by the earl’s staff, Hart handed over his card, and the butler disappeared up the stairs. The Blackpool’s townhome was well appointed. Hart glanced up at the large crystal chandelier. It matched the crystal-laden sconces along the walls. The light grey marble floors were polished and pretty. The delicately carved cherry table to his left held a patterned blue vase full of fresh pink roses, giving the home a decidedly feminine feel, which was no surprise as the man was married with four daughters.
“This way, please, Your Grace,” the butler intoned.
As Hart entered the man’s study, the Earl of Blackpool rose to his feet.
“Well, it isn’t often that a duke drops by unannounced to see me. Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
“Blackpool.” Hart nodded curtly. “I was nearby on another errand and thought since you had not responded to my invitations, I would corner you at home.”
The earl had the grace to look chagrined. “Yes, sorry, been very busy recently. Please have a seat. What can I do for you, my boy?”
Hart tried not to roll his eyes at the older man’s attempt to assert his authority. “Lord Blackpool, I will get straight to the point. I hoped to speak with you candidly about the time around my father’s death. I remember that you and he were close friends.”
The earl’s jaw visibly clenched. “Yes, Henry and I were friends since we were boys at Eton. What do you want to know?”
“Do you know of any business dealings that my father was involved in that had soured? Did he ever complain about receiving threats over a bad business deal?”
“No. I don’t remember him mentioning anything about threats. But I don’t suppose he would even if it was happening. Henry kept things close to the chest.”
“Someone was making threats the week leading up to his death.” Hart leaned forward to place his arms on his knees. “I have never accepted that their deaths were an accident of fate.”
Blackpool’s dark eyes turned flinty. “Son, you must accept the truth. It was a terrible incident, but crime in the city, especially in that part of town, is common.”
Hart wanted to yell and rage at the platitude that his father’s friends had said to him over the last fortnight. Rawlings, the Duke of Lavensham—both had looked at him with fatherly concern and told him it had just been a terrible tragedy.
In his frustration with the wall of denial his father’s friends had erected, Hart almost voiced to Blackpool how Lord Galey hadn’t believed it to be a robbery, that he had known who murdered them. But recalling Galey’s words from that night stopped Hart from blurting it out. Galey had said that the culprits had ears everywhere. Could he trust what little he knew with the Earl of Blackpool?
Hart reached into his pocket and withdrew the small gold stamp. Moderating his tone so that Blackpool wouldn’t see his frustration, he asked, “Sir, do you recognize this symbol? I found it in my father’s correspondence kit. I noticed the symbol stamped on many letters that my father received from you and other friends of his.”
Blackpool took the stamp. He stilled for a moment as he stared down at it. Then he passed it back to Hart with a smile—one that did not reach his eyes.
“It was the insignia for a club we had at Eton. It means to protect each other from one’s enemies. Egyptian? I think. He used the stamp to mark all his letters. Henry always had a flair for the dramatic.” Blackpool stared blankly across the room. “That was back when we all had a certain idealism about friendship and what the future held.”
Hart pocketed the stamp. He debated whether to ask his next question. But he must find out where the earl fell in his list of suspects. “What happened between you and my father? I used to see you at gatherings all the time when I was younger. And then you and he seemed to never speak, even at social events.”
