A Rakes Guide to Pleasure (Somerhart 2)

The black carriage seemed an enormous beast lounging in front of his father's home. The gold crest shone in the sun, glinting danger and decadence. Matthew didn't bother studying it; he was a simple man of God. He knew nothing of great names or family crests. He only knew this man must have something to do with Emily.

He rushed through the door, letting it slam into the far wall. Three faces turned toward him from the parlor. His father, his sister, and some man who looked like Satan in his most beautiful disguise. That face was like a sculpture of a Greek god. Perfect and cold and frighteningly confident.

Matthew shivered.

"Matthew," his father said as the stranger rose from his seat. "This man is the Duke of Somerhart. He is here about Emily."

Emily, Emily. His mind spun, sending all his thoughts into useless disarray. "Where is she?" he finally managed to croak.

His cow of a sister gasped his name and his father paled, but Matthew only stared at them in confusion. What did they want from him? "Where is she? Shall I fetch her home? This is her home, you know. We are to be married. There's no time to waste. I—"

His father took a step forward. "Matthew, show your re­spect."

Propriety? This was what worried them? Matthew waved an impatient hand, but when he looked to the visitor, he re­alized his terrible mistake. Their worry had nothing to do with propriety and everything to do with the menacing power in those impossibly pale eyes.

Matthew dropped into a deep bow. "Your Grace," he rasped, picturing that devil gaze, wondering if he would be haunted by it in his dreams. The man looked perfectly capa­ble of murder.

"As I was saying . . ." The duke's voice had turned away, so Matthew felt it safe to rise from the bow. They had all seated themselves, though his sister fanned herself and shot terrified glances in Matthew's direction. He limped over to join the discussion.

The duke's smooth voice held little emotion. "I do not know where she is, but I have something I wish to return to her. I am hoping you can assist."

"You mean to find her?" Matthew blurted, then swal­lowed his breath when the man glanced at him.

His question was ignored, but Matthew had found his miracle. This man, this duke with all the power of England behind him, he would find Emily. And he would deliver her right into her rightful husband's arms.

Hart wanted to leave this place, jump into his carriage and move on. He'd passed her uncle's home at the edge of town. The wreckage had never been razed, the pristine white "Jensen" sign at the gate stood in morbid contrast to the piles of bricks and ruined wood.

She was only nineteen, the solicitor had said. Eighteen when her uncle died and alone in the world with only a pit­tance for income. Eighteen when she had first arrived in London.

The ninth Baron Denmore had run the entailed estate into the ground and sold off all unattached lands. He'd killed his only heir and so the title had rescinded to his uncle, but there had been no income to funnel to maintenance, no money to pay servants. Her great-uncle had inherited an im­poverished title and crumbling estate. He'd wisely chosen to stay in his own home.

Hart had felt already overwhelmed with the story of the Denmores, and now these people, the Bromley family, sit­ting pale and frightened before him, and the young man, Matthew. Hart gritted his teeth.

Emma had claimed to be afraid of him, and Hart believed it now. The boy was pale and far too thin, his blond hair lank and in need of washing. Sickly as he seemed, his eyes burned with life. Hate and lust and conviction. The sister seemed afraid, the father resigned. And by the solicitor's account, Emma had lived here for months after her uncle's death.

"I understand that you took her in after the fire."

"We did!" the sister, Catherine, blurted. "She had no one else and we thought . . ." She glanced toward Matthew. "Well, we thought perhaps she would remain with us."

"We were to be married," Matthew said firmly.

Hart raised an eyebrow. "There was a betrothal?"

"Ye—"

"Not a formal one," the father interrupted, "no. But Emma was like family to us."

Hart stiffened at the sound of her name. He'd thought that a lie too. All the documents had named her Emily. "Emma?" he heard himself say. "I understood her given name was Emily."

The sister nodded. "Yes, but she preferred Emma. Matthew was the only one who called her Emily."

"It is her given name," Matthew insisted, his tone making clear he had argued this point many times. "To use it is to honor her mother and father."

A weight lifted from Hart's shoulders. It made no sense, changed nothing, and yet it did. Her name was Emma, just as she'd said. Hart felt pitiful in his relief, but so much lighter as he pressed on. "But she had plans to go to London?"

"No," Matthew barked. "She had plans to marry me." "And yet she did not."

"She was quite upset after her uncle's death. She lost her way, that is all. She only needs leading back."