"Somerhart?"
Hart stood as Lancaster entered and he shook Lancaster's hand, though he rather felt like punching him. As far as he knew the man had done nothing wrong, but the thought of breaking his nose proved immensely satisfying. Hart shook off the temptation.
Lancaster raised one tawny eyebrow. "Is there something I can do for you?"
"Perhaps. You know that Lady Denmore left town rather abruptly."
The man's expression of helpful concern shut down to immediate blankness. "Yes, I'd heard that."
Hart held his gaze, and let his eyes go cold. "Did you speak with her before she left?"
"No."
"I ask because you two seemed to have developed an association of sorts."
Lancaster tilted his blond head in cautious acknowledgment. "A friendship. Nothing more."
"Yes, I know."
His eyes betrayed a moment of surprise, and Hart supposed that it was odd for a man to be so certain of a dishonest woman's virtue. Little did he know.
Lancaster shrugged. "Lady Denmore and I took the air together on a few occasions, but I know nothing of her personal life. I gathered that was your area of expertise, Somerhart. What is it you think I might know?"
"Don't be snide with me. I'm not as susceptible to your charm as others."
Their gazes clashed and held. Ten seconds passed before the lightness faded from Lancaster's face. His eyes flashed with something icy and his face turned much harder than Hart could ever have predicted. It seemed he was more than just a careless charmer.
"What do you want?" he finally asked
"I want to know where she is."
"I have no idea."
"Did you know she was planning to disappear?" No answer, which was answer enough. "Why?"
"It has nothing to do with you. None of it did."
Hart scowled. "What the hell do you mean?"
"I mean she was in London for a specific reason, Somerhart."
"What reason?"
The charming smile flashed momentarily back to life. "Why, filthy lucre, of course. I find it easy to recognize the signs." He gestured vaguely toward himself.
"She's not a thief," Hart said with more certainty than he felt.
"No, she was honest enough to work the tables for it. Though . . . I assume you've considered the possibility that the honesty ended there?"
Who else had determined that she was a fraud? Hell, it didn't matter. The Season was set to begin. Someone would arrive in London spouting the truth before long. Despite the letter he'd sent out that morning, he found he no longer needed to see the reply.
"She was not Lady Denmore," Hart muttered, and the words pierced deep into his heart. He had exposed his soul to her, whispered things he hadn't even dared to think for so long, and she'd been nothing more than a well-crafted illusion.
"I think it likely she was not."
His fury, never well hidden these days, flowed to the surface of his skin like welling blood. "Why was it easy for you to see all this?"
Lancaster shrugged. "It wasn't easy. It wasn't obvious. Emma was no gypsy girl masquerading as a lady."