When Pinter didn’t deny the accusation, Oliver wanted to throttle him. Wasn’t he allowed to have one person see him for what he was, without having it colored by a thousand versions of his past? Every time he thought the gossip was dead, it reared its ugly head again.
And to think that Pinter had suggested that his family should have “learned” from the “tragedy”! Damned arse had no idea what he was talking about.
He probably should have marched in to stop Pinter when he first heard him from the outer office. But if he hadn’t stood there listening, he wouldn’t have heard Maria defending him and his siblings so sweetly.
Have you no compassion?
The very words pried at the lid of the strongbox he kept so tightly closed. No one had ever defended him for anything, and certainly not with such deep conviction.
Then Pinter had gone and destroyed any sympathy she might have had by telling her “the worst of it.” Maria now wore a look of such horror, it made Oliver want to howl.
“Surely you can’t really believe that his lordship had a part in his parents’ tragic deaths,” she charged Mr. Pinter.
Her sharp tone arrested him. Could she actually be questioning the rumors?
“For if you do, then you’re clearly basing your opinions on gossip,” she went on hotly. “If that’s the case, I’m not sure I want to hire you.”
A lump caught in Oliver’s throat. She was standing with him, not with the gossipmongers. But why? Only his handful of friends had ever done so, and that was only because they’d known him long before that horrible night at Halstead Hall.
“I deal in facts, Miss Butterfield,” Pinter said firmly. “I told you nothing but the truth.”
Much as Oliver hated to admit it, that was accurate. Oliver had indeed lived a life of debauchery and let Halstead Hall fall to rack and ruin. There really had been speculation about his presence at the scene. It wasn’t the facts that bothered him. It was Pinter’s need to tell them to her that rankled.
“Yes,” she countered, “but when you make conclusions based on so few facts, how can I even trust you to do your job properly?”
“Enough, Maria,” Oliver put in.
He might not like Pinter or his urge to poison Maria against him, but he understood the man. And Pinter was considered a first-rate investigator. For Maria’s sake, Oliver had to be practical and put his dislike of the runner aside.
Besides, every other investigator would know the rumors, too. They just wouldn’t be so forthright about them. Pinter could have attempted to twist the meaning of what Oliver had overheard, but he hadn’t. And Oliver preferred a man of conviction to a sycophant any day.
“Like most gentlemen,” Oliver went on, “Mr. Pinter wishes to save the damsel in distress from a known rakehell and rumored murderer. That’s no reason to refrain from hiring him. Indeed, it means he’ll probably do a more thorough job of finding Mr. Hyatt than the average fellow.” He shifted his gaze to the Bow Street runner. “Am I right in assuming that you’ll take the case?”
“You’re right indeed, my lord.” His gaze locked with Oliver’s. “But I won’t take your money for it. If I find Mr. Hyatt, he can pay me. If not, then I’ll take no fee. I would prefer that Miss Butterfield not be obligated to you for it.”
“You don’t understand—” Maria began.
“Nonsense. Let the man be a hero,” Oliver bit out to prevent her from explaining the nature of their bargain. He had to get her out of here before she revealed too much. If Pinter was ready to save her now, only think what he’d be like once he heard how Oliver was using her to thwart Gran.
Oliver held out his arm. “Come, sweetheart, we have shopping to do. And Mr. Pinter will want to get started on the search right away.”
Pinter bristled at the thinly veiled command, but at least he nodded his assent. “Good day, my lord.” The man’s gaze softened as he glanced to Maria. “I’ll give you my report as soon as I learn something, Miss Butterfield. And if you should need anything—”
“Thank you,” she said with an upturned nose and ill grace. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. You can reach me at Halstead Hall. I’m staying with his lordship’s family.”
God only knew what Pinter would make of that.
She took Oliver’s arm and they walked to the door, but when they reached it Oliver paused, unable to resist one last word.
“You do realize, Mr. Pinter, that waiving your fee means that Miss Butterfield will now be obligated to you. Which begs the question—what price will she end up paying for your help?”
Without waiting for a response, he led her through the door.
“Deuced prig,” Oliver muttered under his breath as they headed to the stairs.
“We didn’t have to hire him.”
“Of course we did. By all accounts, he’s the best at what he does.”
She clung to his arm as they descended the stairs. “But he said such . . . cruel things about you. I don’t know how much you heard—”
“I heard enough,” he clipped out, keeping his gaze averted, afraid he might see speculation in her eyes. Just because she’d defended him to Pinter didn’t mean she wouldn’t rethink her opinion later. Though he was used to shrugging off looks of morbid curiosity or outright disapproval, he couldn’t bear to see hers. Not after all her sweet words.
“I’m sorry about your parents,” she murmured.
The soft sympathy in her voice nearly shattered his control. “Why?” He kept his voice calm and unmoved, though it took every ounce of his will. “You had nothing to do with it.”
“Neither did you, of course. I hope you don’t think I believed his insinuation.”
“Believe what you wish. It doesn’t matter,” he lied.
They’d reached the entrance to the building. As he held the door open for her, she paused to stare at him, forcing him to meet her gaze. “It matters. He shouldn’t have said it.”
For a moment, he couldn’t look away. There was so much compassion in her eyes that he wanted to drown in it.
Then he wanted to run.
It wouldn’t last. How could it?
Snapping his gaze from hers, he led her down the front steps. “Trust me, Maria, that’s only a fraction of what he could have insinuated. He could have related the entirety of the rumor—that I shot Father so I could inherit, and then Mother when she tried to wrest the gun away from me.”
Though her hand tightened painfully on his arm, he didn’t relent. She might as well know the full extent of what was said about him and his family, if she meant to do such a foolish thing as go around defending them. “Then there’s the rumors that Father was meeting a woman and that’s why Mother shot him. Or that Gran paid to have Father killed because Mother had asked it of her, but something went wrong when it was done. Every one of those theories has been whispered about my family during the past nineteen years.”
“That isn’t right!” she protested.
“It’s human nature,” he said wearily. “If the truth is too boring, people create more interesting versions. No one knows what really happened that night, even me. As best Gran could tell, Mother mistook Father for an intruder and shot him, then shot herself in a moment of grief when she realized what she’d done.”
“So their deaths were just a tragic accident.”
“Yes.”
It wasn’t a lie. That was what Gran thought. But he knew perfectly well that it wasn’t the truth, either. He just couldn’t stand having Maria know the truth—that although he hadn’t pulled the trigger, the result was the same. Because of him, his parents were dead. And nothing he could do would change that. Certainly, no amount of sympathy from an American chit with a soft heart would.
The carriage pulled up before him and the footman put down the step. But even as he handed her up into it, she asked, “Where’s Freddy?”
God, he’d forgotten all about her cousin. “I took him round the corner to my club,” he said as he climbed in after her. “I didn’t want him giving away our subterfuge to Pinter, and he said he didn’t want to shop with us anyway.” It was true . . . except that he’d rid himself of her cousin because he had wanted to have her to himself for a while.
The minute he’d left Freddy, he’d known it was madness. She already got under his skin too damned much; time alone with her would only make it worse. He’d scarcely been able to sleep last night for his erotic dreams of having her beneath him in his bed, driving away the dark night with her tender mouth and soft sighs and brilliant smiles.
Ah, what a pleasure it would be to lose himself in the warm embrace of her body, to lay her down in the overgrown gardens surrounding Halstead Hall and make love to her as if she were a forest nymph and he a Greek god. Perhaps that would banish the curse on the place at last.
He ground his teeth together. Even if she would allow it, taking her to bed would only give her license to poke at his secrets, like a child digging out the currants in a plum pudding. And when she’d lined them up and seen how black they were, she would recoil from him. She would leave him naked and alone. Always alone.
Why the devil did he care if she left him alone? Damn her for tempting him so innocently. And damn him for being tempted.
He unbuttoned his cloak. It was suddenly very hot in the carriage, even without his coat and gloves. “We’ll pick up Freddy after we finish with the secondhand shops. He can’t do much harm at the club—”
“Are you serious? Freddy has the loosest tongue of any man in creation. By now, he’s probably revealed the whole tale of our pretend engagement to every member of your club.”
“Ah, but I took care of that. I told him he could order whatever he wished from the club’s chef as long as he kept silent about our activities. Surely he can’t say much with his mouth stuffed full of beefsteak.”
“You’d be surprised. Freddy is adept at all the wrong things.” She slanted a pretty glance at him. “You do realize that bribing him with food might end up costing you a fortune.”
“What do I care? I’m saving money on Pinter’s fee.”
When her face fell, he cursed his quick tongue. The last thing he wanted was to remind her of Pinter.
“It’s not Freddy you have to worry about, anyway,” she said in a low voice. “Thanks to something I said, Mr. Pinter guessed that our engagement is a sham. I’m sorry.”
He’d already surmised as much from Pinter’s demeanor. “No need to apologize. It would have been better if he hadn’t figured it out, but Pinter is clever—he knows perfectly well what my reputation is. He was bound to be suspicious. I’m sure you didn’t mean to give it away.”
“I truly didn’t. But he started insinuating things about you and me, and then me and Nathan and—”
“He manipulated you into revealing the truth. It’s all right. That’s what he does. It makes him a good investigator.” He softened his voice. “And you aren’t as practiced at playing a role as I am. It’s not in your nature.”
“No, but I promised you I’d keep the secret.”
He shrugged. “He’ll be discreet, now that he’s determined to ‘protect’ you. As long as Gran doesn’t get wind of it, we’ll be fine.”
The carriage slowed, momentarily snarled in some welter of carts and coaches, and he found himself grateful for any extra time it gave him alone with her.
“What did he say about his chances of finding Hyatt?” Oliver asked.
“Not much. But at least I’m closer to that than I was before, thanks to you.”
He didn’t want her thanks. As far as he was concerned, Nathan Hyatt could rot in hell. Oliver had probed Freddy for information on the way to the club. The more he heard, the more he despised the man. Hyatt clearly wanted her for practical reasons that had nothing to do with her generous heart and her fierce loyalty. It was like watching her repeat Mother’s mistake. It could come to no good.
He had to make her see that. “Has it occurred to you that Hyatt might not want to be found?”
With a hard swallow, she stared out the window at the clamoring crowds. “Yes.”
“And if that’s the case? What will you do then?”
“I don’t know.” Her gaze shifted to his. “Why? Are you offering to marry me in his place?” When Oliver stiffened, she added hastily, “I’m joking, you fool. Can’t you tell when a woman is teasing?”
No. Women rarely joked with him about matrimony. Worse yet, the idea wasn’t as repulsive to him as it should be. Just the thought of having her in his bed to talk to on nights when he couldn’t block out the memories . . .
“It’s a shame you’re so deplorably virginal,” he quipped, trying to match her light tone so she wouldn’t see how she’d unsettled him. “Otherwise, I’d make you a proposal of a less savory kind.”
A teasing smile touched her lips. “Oh? Would you offer to ravish me?”
As soon as the words left her mouth, the air between them crackled. And suddenly he couldn’t joke about it anymore. “Actually, no.” He waited until her gaze met his. “I’d offer to make you my mistress.”