What the Hart Wants - Fiona Davenport Page 0,62
chamber. Only then did she yield to her despair.
He had believed her to be honest, had placed her on a pedestal, praising her integrity.
And she had betrayed him.
She reached inside her reticule and gave a cry of frustration. Her precious poems! She’d left them at his house.
But what did it matter anymore? Those poems had been written from the heart—a heart that was now broken. They had been written for the man she loved.
A man who hated her.
*
Rather than the relief he’d been expecting, Fraser felt only regret as she disappeared inside. Her hair in disarray, it was only too clear what they had been doing.
Dorothea Hart watched him, her eyes sparkling with intelligence and insight. Were their circumstances different, she might have been an interesting conversationalist. But now was not the time to engage in small talk. He took a step back.
“Not so fast, young man!”
Young man? She couldn’t be much older than him. But an unmarried woman approaching thirty had little to recommend herself to a suitor and would have resigned herself to spinsterhood. Most likely, Dorothea considered herself the family matriarch. Her voice reminded him of his old nanny who could render him weak and trembling with a single glance.
Damn her! It was not for him to feel guilty.
“I’m busy,” he said, his tone as sulky as it used to be when defying his nanny.
“I don’t care,” she said. “I insist you come inside and explain yourself.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Her lips thinned into a hard line.
“You may have the manners of the savage,” she said, “but you’ll find I am not at such a loss.”
Her brow furrowed into a frown, and a determined expression glittered in her eyes, which gave him a jolt of recognition. He’d seen that expression before when Delilah had persuaded him to volunteer at Mrs. Forbes’s.
With a sigh, he followed her inside, and she led him into the morning room.
She took a seat and gestured to him to do likewise. She did not offer tea. Instead, she stared at him and lifted an eyebrow, waiting for him to explain himself.
He was not to be intimidated.
“What do you want?” he asked.
She huffed through her nose and glanced upward in irritation before resuming her gaze on him.
“I want to know what you’ve done to my sister.”
“I suggest you ask her.”
“I’m asking you,” she said. “Or perhaps I should instruct my brother to meet you at dawn? He’s an excellent shot.”
“I’ve not got time for this,” Fraser said, rising. “I have a business to tend to.”
“Sit back down, you cad!” she cried. “My sister is more important than your damned business!”
He flinched at the unladylike curse. Fire blazed from her eyes, and she rose to her feet.
“Your sister has destroyed my business, madam,” he said, “and right now, my only concern is to try to ascertain the extent of the damage before it’s too late.”
She shook her head. “Don’t be foolish. Delilah has neither the means nor the inclination to do such a thing.”
“You don’t know,” he said, “do you?”
“Don’t know what?”
“Have you heard of Jeremiah Smith?” he asked. “The bastard who’s been writing those damned articles in the City Chronicle about my ancestry?”
“I’ve read one,” she said. “Rather inflammatory, but considering the political leanings of the Chronicle, not unsurprising. But I don’t see what some second-rate hack writer has to do with Delilah.”
Fraser let out a laugh. “You really have no idea, do you?”
“What’s he done?”
“Mr. Smith has been distributing pamphlets among the taverns of London, inciting mobs to riot.”
“Good God!” she exclaimed.
“The Almighty had no hand in this, madam,” he said. “Not one hour ago, I was informed of a riot which has all but destroyed Clayton House.”
“And that’s destroyed your business?”
“Given my cashflow position, yes,” he said. “My creditors are already calling at my door in anticipation of my ruination.”
“Then you’re a fool for not better managing your business risks,” she said. “I only hope my brother has not been so foolish as to have lent you money.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Then I salute him,” she said. “Can you seek recourse?”
“Who from?”
“Mr. Smith, of course!”
“Precisely.”
Her eyes clouded with confusion. “Does Delilah know him?” she asked. “Is that why she’s so distressed?”
“No, madam,” Fraser said. “Your sister doesn’t know Mr. Smith. She is Mr. Smith.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She’s been writing under a pseudonym and selling her blasphemy to the City Chronicle.”
“Delilah would never do such a thing.”
“She confessed it already.”
“And was this before or after you defiled her?”
“Your sister spread her legs for me, Miss Hart. She must