The Problem with Seduction - By Emma Locke Page 0,102

this helping? Is it bringing back your child? What about Constantine? Should we just let him rot because you aren’t strong enough to help him?”

“I can’t help him,” she whispered. The words were wrapped in her grief, barely intelligible even to her ears.

“That remains to be seen. Now, get up. Tell me what has happened.”

She turned her head toward the voice. Her eyes didn’t open. They were too heavy. And they burned. “I can’t.”

“Elizabeth, if you don’t get up and get a hold of yourself, I’m going to pry you off of the floor myself. I want answers. I want the truth.”

Who was this man? She wanted to open her eyes, but they felt swollen shut. Slowly, painfully, she forced one open, then the other. A very tall man towered over her. Though the room was lit by a single candle and the bright hallway cast him in silhouette, she discerned his hair was dark brown and loosely curling. Not Roman, then.

But of course, she would have recognized Roman’s voice.

“Lord Bartholomew Alexander,” he clipped out, “barrister. This will go much faster if you’ll tell me the truth. Leave nothing out.”

Her limbs felt like bags of sand. She was so tired. The thought of sitting up exhausted her, but she didn’t like being prostrate before this man. “Help me,” she murmured. Then she remembered Oliver was gone. This time, there would be no getting him back. Tears leaked from her eyes and she sagged against the carpet again.

Footfalls vibrated the floor. Strong hands worked their way beneath her shoulders and knees and suddenly she was hefted into the air and nestled against a large, warm chest. Not Constantine’s. Lord Bartholomew smelled different, and he held her like a duty he must bear. But the human contact made her feel less alone, and by the time he’d moved her to sit on a settee, she had mostly seized control of her tears.

There was a bed and a lounge in the room, she noticed dully, yet he’d placed her upright on a firm couch. She watched as he crossed the room and fetched the candle, then efficiently lighted two sconces and a candelabrum until the room’s shadows were banished. He was tall, as she’d surmised, and broad-shouldered. Though his hair wasn’t blond like his brothers’, he had the same piercing eyes. Most striking, however, was his attire. Simple, drab garments that had likely never been in style, in any decade. She glanced down at his feet, for shoes often revealed more about a person than all their clothing combined. His were no exception; he did have one indulgence, at least. Shiny, impossibly black Hessians molded to calves no barrister could have earned solely in his line of work.

He returned and sat beside her on the settee, but far enough away that he didn’t intrude into her space. “Start at the beginning.”

She swiped at her eyes without looking at him. “You’re not very comforting.”

“My brother is rotting in prison. Forgive me if I’ve skipped the pleasantries.”

She had nothing smart to say to that. The silence stretched on as she worried a frill on her skirt between her fingers. What could she say to him? Not the truth. Con would never want his family to know the truth.

“I’m going to get him out,” Lord Bartholomew said. “It’s not a question of if, but when. Before I do, I want to know what I’m up against.”

“What are the charges?” she whispered.

“Child stealing and fraud. A felony and a misdemeanor, respectively.”

Child stealing. She could only stare at her hands. Nevertheless, she felt Lord Bartholomew’s unyielding gaze burning the side of her face. “Why wasn’t I charged?” Her next words were a mere murmur. “They wouldn’t let me go with him.”

“You haven’t committed a crime.”

“I haven’t?” Her relief was short-lived. Con was in a cell.

It should have been her.

Lord Bartholomew gave no indication he was aware of her anguish. “The law specifically exempts a mother from stealing her offspring. No one questions that you’re the child’s mother. What is important here is that a man who claims to be a child’s father, even if that child is illegitimate, is also exempted. Therefore, someone must have convinced the constabulary that Con is not the child’s father, at least to the degree that Constantine will have to prove he is.” He paused. “That’s the most obvious answer. If you recall,” he drawled, “this is all new to me.”

She didn’t appreciate his acerbity. She couldn’t meet his eyes but she could