The Duke's Perfect Wife
Page 32“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.”
“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.”
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!”
“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 br**sts 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.”