“Yes. Yes, I am. No one attacks my friends.” Lucy’s eyes blazed with anger. “Get away from him.”
Hart finally managed to find his voice. “For Christ’s sake, Lucy. What are you doing here?”
“I was just taking a walk and saw this man attacking you.”
“He wasn’t attacking me. Well, not yet. Here, pass me back my walking stick, please.”
She gave Seaton a wary once-over before lowering Hart’s cane and handing it back to him. Hart looked over her shoulder and saw her maid cowering by the bushes about twenty feet away. Poor girl. How did she keep up with her mistress?
Seaton smoothed out the lapels of his black jacket. “Perhaps you don’t need me after all with this hell cat at your side.”
“Don’t call her that.” Hart growled.
He glanced around. The park was blessedly empty. The last thing they needed was to create a scene. What had he been thinking to lose his composure like that in a public place? He needed to get Lucy away from here. He would deal with Seaton later.
“Walk me home?” He asked Lucy, winging out his elbow.
Lucy put her arm through his, and he led her away from Seaton. “Who is that?” she whispered.
“Mr. Seaton.”
“After you calm down,” Seaton called out from behind them. “Find me if you want answers. Blood is thicker and all that.”
Hart twisted around to throw out his own rejoinder, but the man was gone. Disappeared like mist.
“That was Mr. Seaton? Did he tell you about the building?” Lucy said.
Hart just shook his head. “Can we just walk?”
She nodded. They fell into an easy stride as they exited the park. The quiet of the trees bleeding away to sounds of carriages and people as they reached Pall Mall Avenue. Muscle memory had Hart making his way to the right corner of St. James Square where Hartwick House lay. He needed to be home. A gentleman would have escorted Lucy and her maid home first, but right now, he was reluctant to let go of the anchor she provided. Her familiar scent of orange blossoms and the strong grip of her hand on his arm soothed the incessant hammering of his thoughts. He would have a carriage take them home. As they entered the house, the cool, quiet interior hit his soul like a balm.Home.Hart drew in a deep breath.
Townson hurried over to take their things. Had the man said something? Hart couldn’t focus. He felt rooted to the spot as he stared up at an ugly painting of a pack of hounds running through a bucolic scene that hung on the wall above the first landing. Lucy was right; the decor was so bland. There wasn’t a single thing that indicated the house belonged to him. Everything was just as it had been when he was a lad. It was a house full of ghosts. Ghosts, which apparently, he’d known hardly at all. He scrubbed a hand down over his face. God, what a day.
“Townson, a bottle of my best brandy, to the study,” he said.
“A tea tray, Townson,” Lucy contradicted. “Perhaps a splash of brandy in his grace’s cup.” She gripped his elbow. “Come on, Hart, it’s time to tell me all about your day.”
He stared down at her hand. The hell if he wanted to talk about his day over tea. “Townson, have the carriage take Miss Middleton and her maid home. And bring the brandy to my study.” As Hart strode down the corridor, he could hear the clicking of her shoes on the marble floor behind him.
“Hart, wait.”
Ignoring her, he strode into his study. Stopping midway across the room, he looked around. Stuffed animal heads and oil paintings depicting men on horseback following packs of hunting dogs hung along the walls. Hart preferred holidays at the sea to weeks spent hunting in the country. He spun slowly in a circle. A large wooden model of his father’s yacht, Hart’s yacht now, sat atop the mantle. He always got sick aboard that damn boat. Everything in this room was a reflection of his father. Why hadn’t he changed anything in the last five years?
His eye caught sight of a porcelain dog that sat on top of the curio cabinet across from the desk. It was a hideous piece. The dog sat on its haunches with its paws in the air. It was dressed in a sailor uniform, a jaunty hat perched crookedly on its head. Two oversized eyes seemed to stare into his soul. His father had thought it hilarious, but Hart had always hated it. Why was it still there, staring at him day after day? He crossed, snatched up the offending object, and tossed it into the fireplace. The porcelain shattered against the cold brick interior.
“Hart!” Lucy exclaimed. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing.” He turned to face her.
She was so fresh and pretty, always glowing with some inner fire. The antithesis of how he felt most days. Hart wished to reach for her, if only to be near that sense of surety and optimism she wore so naturally.
She stood with one hip resting against the side of his desk, her arms crossed across her chest. “I’m not leaving until you tell me what happened in the park with Mr. Seaton. It certainly didn’t appear that nothing was wrong.”
He couldn’t possibly explain to her all that he had found out today. He hadn’t even had time to let the shift in his reality sink in. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Why was she always pressing him? Why did she even care about a temperamental bastard like him?
He crossed to her. “I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to explain my foul mood. Go away, Lucy.”
Her eyes went wide, but she shook her head. “No, I won’t leave you to get drunk and sulk.”
