Page 13 of When Hearts Are Wylde
“And here I thought you didn’t like me, Randford,” he drawled, one brow lifting in deliberate mockery. “You’ve come to my house to indulge in one of my little parties and now you’re joining me—uninvited, I might add—for dinner at the club. One might even think we’ve become friends. Except we know better, don’t we? There are events that have transpired that wouldpreclude us from ever being friends. So, issue your challenge and be done with it.”
Phinneas’s expression didn’t flicker. “I’m not here to challenge you. I’m here, much as it may pain me, to ask for your assistance.”
Hartley barked a short, humorless laugh, leaning back in his chair. “Then hell truly has frozen over.”
“Someone is blackmailing Hermione… someone who knows the details of your involvement with her. They know details that are both pertinent and quite damning. In short, you must have told someone, and I need to know who.”
The easy slouch in his shoulders, his normal posture of indifference gave way to something much more stiff and tense, his shoulders straightened with subdued fury. He set his glass down with a controlled force that made the crystal ring against the table—an unspoken warning. If she’d told her brother, then the matter was dire indeed. Hermione was terrified of making misstep in his eyes. “Make no mistake, Randford: I’m not a gentleman. I have never claimed to be, but that does not mean I am without feeling or that I am completely amoral. I have never given anyone a confirmation nor a denial of my relationship with her. If someone has details about those events, they did not hear them from me.”
But even as he spoke, he felt the familiar irritation stir beneath the indignation that he was not truly entitled to —a resentment at being judged, yet also a faint, unbidden curiosity about who had breached that most private history. His parties, his house were supposed to be bastions of discretion—a place where people could indulge vices and hidden desires with little fear of repercussion. And that very environment was being threatened. Strangely, that bothered him far less than Hermione’s obvious distress.
Phinneas’s tone remained even. “I searched your study the other night. If I slipped away from your party so easily, someone else could have as well. The letters exchanged between you and Hermione, where were they kept?”
Hartley’s jaw tightened. He could still picture the locked drawer, the packet of folded pages tied with ribbon—words he had not looked at in months, but which he couldn’t, despite his protest to the contrary, quite bring himself to destroy. “They were in my study. You should have found them.”
“But I did not. Which means that someone else found them before I did and that someone is the blackmailer. One of your guests, Hartley, is using your orgies as a place to gather ammunition for their scheme,” Phinneas said. “If word of that were to get out, I’d imagine your guests would begin to find one excuse after another to decline your entertainments. After all, one of the things you offer them is discretion, is it not?”
The point was well made, though Hartley would be damned before he admitted as much aloud. His fingers drummed slowly against the table’s polished surface, each tap a measured beat. “What sort of assistance is it that you require of me?”
“Since this person is using your parties to discover information they can use against others, we’re going to give them some. It will be quite false, naturally, and carefully planted. There will be different tales, and you will impart them to different people. Whichever one is brought back to us by the blackmailer will reveal their identity.”
Hartley tilted his head, considering the stratagem. “It isn’t foolproof. After all, gossip is currency in society. Someone may share that tidbit.”
“Gossip is currency. Gossip is also always greatly exaggerated. So the purity of the information that is used in the blackmailer’s threats will help us determine if they received that information first hand or second.”
That earned Phinneas the faintest curve of Hartley’s mouth—a grin without kindness, a wolf showing teeth. “I always thought you were a stodgy bastard. Had I known you were so diabolical, Randford, I might have tried to further our acquaintance.”
“Or you might have had the wisdom not to seduce my half-sister and leave her utterly ruined,” Phinneas bit out.
Hartley felt the words strike like a blow, though he let no reaction show. Instead, he looked away, reached for the decanter, and poured more brandy with unhurried precision. “I’m afraid wisdom of that sort would never be mine. Some things, Randford, are simply inevitable. Like a boulder rolling down a hill. You know it will crash. It’s simply a matter of where.”
The pause that followed was heavy, the air between them charged with old grudges and unspoken truths. Then Phinneas’s voice came, quieter now. “You care for her. Despite everything, you do care for her?”
Hartley’s hand stilled on the decanter for the briefest instant before he resumed pouring. He didn’t look up. “Did you ever think, Randford, that I refused her not because I didn’t care but because I do? After all, what—beyond scandal and heartache—could I ever give her?”
When he finally raised his gaze, Phinneas was already standing, his expression unreadable. “Send me word when you have the date and the guest list for your next event. I may have some strategic additions for it.”
Hartley inclined his head in silent assent. It was all he could manage. He didn’t watch the man leave. Instead, he drank—deeply, greedily—until the warmth of the brandy burned all the way down. But it did nothing to quiet the thought that had been gnawing at him since the moment Phinneas sat down: she deserved better. Better than Baxter and certainly better than him.
Chapter Seven
Candelabra s were ablaze with beeswax candles by the hundred, their flames glinting off the crystal chandeliers that hung throughout the space. A golden glow enveloped the interior of the the opera house. The light glittered off certain surfaces in such a way that it highlighted the gilt and crystal, but camouflaged the worn velvet and silk—both of the opera house and many of its attendees. Dimly lit theaters were far more forgiving, after all, than brightly lit ballrooms or, heaven forbid, a promenade along Rotten Row.
The flickering lights coupled with the cloying scents of bodies and warring perfumes until the whole of it it overwhelmed the senses. It left Hermione wishing she were anywhere else. Of course, that likely had more to do with the man prattling on beside her as the opera house and the entertainment it offered.
Still, she sat there, her posture rigid, her hands folded primly in her lap as he droned on and on about how he’d rather be hunting. It was endless. When she could take no more, Hermione’s hands dropped to her side.
“Forgive me, Joseph, I fear I am overcome by the heat. Give me a moment to collect myself, would you?”
“Shall I take you home?” He asked. It was clear from his expression that he had no wish to leave. He was enjoying seeing and being seen by one and all.
And if she did go home, then she’d have to face her mother’s knowing look. She would endure, but she needed a moment’s peace to buouy up her flagging spirits. “No. I just need a moment in the retiring room. A bit of cool water and some air will set me to rights.”
Baxter nodded, already leaning back in his chair to stretch his legs, and she took her chance, slipping out of the box into the relative quiet of the corridor.
She had gone only a few steps before a tall figure stepped out from the shadows ahead, blocking her path.
Hartley.
