The need to prove a point forced him from the bed. He marched into the dressing room, yanked open the armoire and snatched the leather satchel.
He returned to his chamber, stood at the end of the bed and with a violent shake emptied the contents onto the coverlet. Banknotes, letters, bills and receipts tumbled out. He sorted through the pile, paused when he counted the notes.
Three thousand pounds’ worth of signed notes stared back at him.
Miss Darling had not taken a penny.
Rejection replaced anger. Was his money not good enough?
He continued this odd form of self-flagellation until fear crept up on him unawares. It wrapped its bony fingers around his heart and squeezed so hard he wanted to cast up his accounts.
How would she pay her debts?
Who the hell was Mr Thorncroft? And why in the devil’s name did she owe him money?
What if the blighter took advantage of her when she couldn’t pay?
He stared at the ceiling and yelled in frustration before dropping onto the bed to grieve, to wallow in morbid thoughts for another three hours.
The loud rap on the door—the fourth since he’d woken—no doubt brought another concerned member of staff, wondering when he wanted to break his fast. The soft, masculine burr of a French accent calling to him from the other side of the door forced him to sit up and pay attention.
“Enter.”
Dariell walked into the room. “Is it not a little late to lounge in bed?”
“Bugger off!” he imagined saying, but the love in his heart drew one important question from his lips. “Have you seen Miss Darling? She returned to Falaura Glen this morning. I trust she is safe and well.”
“Yes, she arrived safely. Fleet brought me back to town.” Dariell’s curious gaze fell to the papers and banknotes sprawled on the bed. “Ah, I see Miss Darling forgot to take her fee.”
“Her fee?” Lockhart almost spat the words. It undermined the true value of their connection.
“The money you were to pay her for pretending to be your wife.” Dariell sauntered over to the chair flanking the fire and dropped into the padded seat. “She tells me she did a remarkable job convincing your family that she loves you.”
“She is an exceptional actress.”
Dariell smiled. “And you lack her skill, my friend. If you’re going to use arrogance to hide your pain, you must learn to convey it in the eyes.”
“Of course, you’re as easy to read as an open book.”
Dariell shrugged. “Why complicate matters?”
“As a man who rarely speaks about his own feelings, I imagine that’s an easy feat.”
“I like to keep life simple.”
Lockhart snorted. Dariell might think differently if persecuted by murderous scoundrels. “So in simple terms, can you explain your interest in Emily Darling?”
“Of course,” Dariell said with an exaggerated wave of the hand. “I am in love with her and intend to marry her.”
Damnation. He did make it sound simple. But then Lockhart had been of a similar mind until Claudia Darling disrupted his plans. “And I trust the lady feels the same and welcomes your attentions.” Maybe she might find an excuse to whip his world from under his feet.
Dariell inclined his head. “She has accepted my proposal, professed that it is a sentiment shared. Simple.”
Blast.
“Well,” Dariell continued. “I have an urgent call to make in New Bond Street. You’re welcome to come if you can drag your weary body out of bed.”
“New Bond Street?” The mere mention of the name roused thoughts of Claudia, of the time spent together in his carriage. It felt like a lifetime ago. “I have no need of new gloves.”