The Bluestocking and the Rake (Hearts in Hiding 2)

“Up there, third room on ya right.” The girl jabbed a thumb toward the stairs, and then disappeared at the sound of shrieking from the landlady while Miles obediently turned his steps for the upper story.

He’d knock; he’d no doubt apologize when the wrong woman opened the door, and then he’d go to bed.

He certainly felt no great anticipation that he was any closer to his goal as he waited for a response. It didn’t appear that the occupant was even in the room until he heard the sound of weeping.

That nearly had him turning on his heel, but feminine distress wasn’t something he should shy away from, especially if he’d been directed here.

He knocked again and then, boldly, for she hadn’t come to the door, slowly turned the knob and put his head through the crack.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” He was going to leave at the first opportunity, but he had to ensure she wasn’t injured, or if he could render some assistance. “I don’t wish to intrude but…”

He couldn’t believe his prayers had been answered nor the disappointment that seeped right into his bones. This was supposed to be a moment of joyful reunion. But seeing Jemima in this shabby room seemed confirmation that she had never loved him. How could she have if she’d neither confided in him nor returned to him for help?

The bitterness at the back of his throat was corrosive and emasculating. It was his brother who had rescued her and who’d earned Jemima’s love and gratitude.

Miles was nothing more to her than a man to whom she’d given herself to save her life.

Like she had Deveril.

And Graves.

Jemima put her hand to her throat, and Miles felt himself drown in the depth of her pain.

His brother was dead. Yes, Miles had failed her but he was here now. He drew back his shoulders and crossed the room in a few easy strides.

“ Do you know how far and wide I’ve searched for you?”

She sat back against her chair as if she were afraid when he leaned over her, her hands toying with the collar of her demure lawn collar.

“Lord Ruthcot.” She whispered his name and swayed slightly but did not try to escape the hand he rested on her shoulder.

“As I’ve searched high and low for you, Jemima, it’s occurred to me that I know nothing about you.” He cleared his throat. “I assumed many things, including that there was little point in quizzing you too deeply as you’d just tell me convenient lies.” Dropping his voice, he said softly, “And for that, I’m truly sorry.”

She stared at him but did not speak.

“So, now I want to ask you some questions that have arisen since I last saw you.”

She inclined her head.

“Did your father deal in antiquities?”

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She nodded.

“You said he was murdered. I gained the impression you were a child when this happened. I don’t know why. But did he die almost exactly a year ago?” John had acquainted him with her story almost exactly a year ago too, and yet he’d been too blind to see what was in front of his nose.

She nibbled her bottom lip, her eyes brimming. “He did.” Heaving in a breath, she muttered, “I knew at the time that i told you that you assumed it was a tale designed to win sympathy. No one believes a lightskirt, a prostitute. Every sad story is a ploy to win sympathy. You said it yourself.”

He took the second chair, moving it beside hers, wishing he could take her hands in his, and chafe warmth and love back into her expression but she seemed so cold and unyielding. There was no suggestion of pleasure at his company as she went on, “Are you here because you know about the clay tablet? That it’s the reason I’m traveling to Constantinople?”

“Is that your plan?” he asked softly. “Alone? Surely you know it’s madness!”

Sighing, she rose and went to the window. “All men think they can tell a woman what she can and can’t do.”

“I state only the truth because I fear for your safety.” He stood and began to follow her, halting in the middle of the wooden floor. “Tell me, did my brother plan to go with you all those months ago? To Constantinople? Were you going to return to Griffith House, together, for the clay tablet?”

“Your brother?” She looked at him uncomprehendingly. “Who is your brother? Are you suggesting my list of lovers is greater than it really is? I have no idea what you are talking about, Lord Ruthcot.”