The Duke's Perfect Wife(13)
“Yes.” The word was terse.
Eleanor opened her hands. “You see? This is exactly the sort of information I need. Mrs. Palmer might have left the collection to someone, or someone might have found them after her death. You really ought to let me into that house in High Holborn where she lived to look around.”
“No.” A loud, blunt, final syllable.
“But it’s not a bawdy house anymore, is it?” Eleanor asked. “Just a property you own. You sold the house to Mrs. Palmer, and she willed it back to you. I looked that up. Wills are public records, you know.”
Hart’s hand clenched around his glass. “El, you are not going to that house.”
“You ought to have put up my father and me there, you know. It would be much handier for the British Museum, and I could search it from top to bottom for more photographs.”
“Leave it alone, Eleanor.” His voice was rising, the fury unmistakable.
“But it’s just a house,” she said. “Nothing wrong with it now, and it might hold a vital clue.”
“You know good and well that it’s not just a house.” The anger climbed. “And stop giving me that innocent look. You’re not innocent at all. I know you.”
“Yes, I am afraid you know me a bit too well. Makes talking to you dashed difficult sometimes.”
Eleanor had a little smile on her face, making a joke of it, and Hart couldn’t breathe. She always did this, walked into a room and took the air out of it.
She stood primly before him in her blue dress that was out of fashion and simply made, her eyes ingenuous as she announced she should look through the house in High Holborn, the existence of which had wedged them apart.
No, not wedged. Batted Hart aside like a cricketer whacking one all the way into the tea tents.
Eleanor had been quite decorous about it after her initial outburst, she with all the right on her side. She could have sued Hart for taking her to his bed, for ruining her, for violating any of the numerous terms in their complicated betrothal contract.
Instead, she’d said good-bye and walked out of his life. Leaving a great, gaping hole in it that had never been filled.
Hart had forgotten all about the pictures until Eleanor turned up a few days ago to slide one across his desk to him.
“If this person is a blackmailer, El, I want you to have nothing more to do with it. Blackmailers are dangerous.”
Her brows rose. “You’ve had dealings with them before, have you?”
Too bloody many times. “Attempting to blackmail the Mackenzie family is a popular pastime,” Hart said.
“Hmm, yes, I can see that. I suppose there are those who believe you’ll pay to keep your secrets out of the newspapers or from being whispered into the wrong ears. You and your brothers have so many secrets.”
And Eleanor knew every single one of them. She knew things no one else in the world did.
“All these blackmailers have one thing in common,” Hart said. “They fail.”
“Good. Then if this is a blackmailer, we will see him off as well.”
“Not we,” he said firmly.
“Be reasonable, Hart. Someone sent the photos to me. Not to you, not to your enemies, not to your brothers, but to me. I think that has some significance. Besides, why send them at all, free and clear, with no demands for money?”
“To show you that they have them and make demands for the rest.”
She nibbled her lip. “Perhaps.”
Hart did not give a damn about the bloody photographs right now. Not with Eleanor rolling her red lip under her teeth and making Hart want to bite it for her.
“You are cruel, El.” His voice went quiet again.
Her brows drew together into a delicious little frown. “Cruel? Why on earth do you say that?”
“You haven’t spoken to me for years. Suddenly you gallop down to London declaring you’re here to save me like some benevolent angel. Did you turn around one day last week and decide that you’d forgiven me?” He could hope.
“Of course not. I began to forgive you years ago. After Sarah died. I felt so horrible for you, Hart.”
He stopped, cold working its way through the whiskey. “That was nearly eight years ago.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“I never noticed you forgiving me,” he said, his voice tight. “No letters, no visits, no telegrams, no declaration to my brothers or Isabella.”
“I said that’s when I began to forgive you. It took much longer than that to make all the anger go away. Besides, you were Duke of Kilmorgan by then, well ensconced behind ducal barriers, and quite on your way to wresting power from anyone who had it. You also returned to Mrs. Palmer—I may live in a backwater, but trust me, I am well informed of all you do. And the third reason I never made indication is because I had no idea whether you’d care for my forgiveness or not.”