Hart took another sip of his beer. “I simply want to know what happened to my father and brother. I am working to piece together the events of that night.”
“I did not see your father the night he was killed. I’m sorry to say I don’t know what they were doing in that part of town.”
“Do you know of any business deals that my father was involved in at the time of his death? Anything that he complained about? Had received threats over?”
Griffen shook his head. “No, not that he told me. Your father had more money than Midas; he was a consummate man of leisure. Rawlings was always trying to get us to invest in one thing or another, but your father was not much interested in business ventures.” He flipped a card back and forth between his hands. “Their deaths were a terrible tragedy. They were at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I never believed that their deaths were a random act of street violence.” Hart had received that same prevarication from all the men he talked to. Perhaps it was time to show some of his cards. “The night Galey and I were attacked in his carriage has only reinforced this belief. He knew that their deaths were no random act.”
Griffen’s expression darkened. “What are you playing at, boy? What did that fool Galey fill your head with? It was simply bad luck. Your father probably fucked over the wrong woman, and she cursed the Hartwick line.”
His father’s friends certainly knew more of his father’s weaknesses than Hart ever had. Had it been about a woman? Had Robert tried to help and gotten mixed up in some sordid scenario? A jealous husband? A mistress unhappy with being discarded? Hart studied Griffen’s face. The man’s angry expression had cleared. The placid look he’d worn during the game was back in place. Hart’s gut was telling him the man knew something more, but Griffen had no tells which showed Hart he was lying.
Griffen set down the deck of cards on the table with a slap. “Listen, it’s tough luck what happened to your family. But you are still alive. You should be focused on the future, not the past.”
Hart scowled at the advice that he had heard over and over. Nobody seemed to understand he was stuck. Mired in the sins of the past. He couldn’t even fathom what his future could look like right now. This was his purpose. He had to know the truth before he could find a way forward.
He rose and collected his winnings. “Thank you for speaking with me, Lord Griffen. Good night.”
Chapter Nineteen
Hart swallowed hardas he approached the front of the receiving line. There were too many people crammed into the Bartleby’s front foyer. Under his evening jacket, a line of sweat rolled down his back. The tight-fitting style of the evening wear rubbed against the scars on his shoulders every time he moved his arm, irritating the sensitive skin. The cravat that had taken his valet more than fifteen blasted minutes to tie was strangling him. Why had he accepted the Bartleby’s invitation?
Trudy’s hand squeezed his forearm, and he glanced down at her. She winked saucily. They were the reason he was here. He owed Lucy an opportunity to refute the rumors that he was some damaged beast luring her into ruin. And after his lack of control the other day, he needed to prove it to Lucy as well. He looked over his shoulder where Lucy stood behind them chatting with Lord Blakely’s daughter. Her eyes flitted to his, and a small smile played across her pink lips. She looked stunning tonight in a dress of icy blue silk.
The line moved, and they stepped in front of their hosts.
“Good evening, Your Grace. We are so pleased that you have chosen to attend our little soiree,” said Lady Bartleby.
“Thank you so much for inviting us,” he replied automatically.
“When we saw you at the theatre, and your aunt mentioned you wanted to support Miss Middleton’s season, we knew our ball would be the perfect opportunity for you to be seen.”
“Seen doing what?” he replied with a frown.
“Why supporting her in her season, of course. There will be many eligible gentlemen here tonight. My parties are famous for attracting the younger set.” Lady Bartleby gave a wide smile. “Enjoy your evening.”
A growl of displeasure rose in his chest at the thought of Lucy dancing or even talking with anyeligiblemen.
“Thank you, dear.” Trudy dipped her head elegantly. “I’m sure we will. You throw the best fêtes.” Then she grasped his arm and tugged him away, Lucy joining them on Trudy’s other side.
“No scowling, young man. Our task tonight, my dears, is to continue to refute the rumors that your interest in Lucy is anything but magnanimous. You must be perfectly behaved.” She glanced pointedly at Lucy. “And Hartwick, you must mingle and speak with people. Let us dispel that nonsense about you being a monstrous recluse luring hapless maidens to their ruin.”
Lucy looked across at him and raised one finely arched eyebrow. He rolled his eyes in return. Surely, one tiny tidbit in a scandal rag from more than a week ago couldn’t be all that dramatic. They slowly ascended the marble staircase that led to the first-floor ballroom. Hart had to concentrate in order not to miss a step with his right foot and end up stumbling like some damn fool. The irony was that in the past, his stumbling would have been chalked up too much drink and dismissed. But now, he couldn’t bear to see pity in people’s eyes if he were to miss a step and bump into someone.
When they entered the ballroom, it was appalling how hot the packed room felt. His sense of being trapped was immediate as they waded into the crowd. Going to the theater had been tolerable because of the private box, but this crush made his pulse race and sweat break out across his brow.
Trudy turned to face him and Lucy. “Why don’t you two dance?”
Hart grimaced. “I simply cannot.” He motioned to his eye.
“Oh yes, of course. Then how about you take her on a stroll about the room? I need to go speak with some friends.” She glanced to the side at three matrons who stood nearby. The ladies’ fans flapped wildly as they stared in their direction. “You two go walk around, smile, and be polite. Go on.” She shooed them with her hands.
Lucy looked up at him and shrugged. He offered his elbow. Lucy laid her hand lightly on his arm, and they walked away.
They strolled down the side of the long, narrow ballroom. Along one side, gilt-edged floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflected candlelight from the row of chandeliers that hung from the ornately painted ceiling. He and Lucy skirted dancers and passed guests seated on green damask settees along the edges of the room. The further along they walked, the more the tightness in his throat increased. In an effort to distract himself from the growing panic clawing at his chest, he caught Lucy’s eye. “The lady you were speaking with in line, is she a friend of yours?”
“Yes, that was my good friend, Lady Violet Blakely. Why do you ask?”
