The Duke's Perfect Wife

“Mac can paint something else equally as valuable for you,” Eleanor said. “Get rid of the thing.”

Hart loved Eleanor’s clear-eyed way of looking at the world. The portrait of his father grated on him, but for some reason Hart kept it, perhaps believing that through it his father would see that Hart had grown beyond the scared youth he’d been. Hart wanted the old duke to see that he’d surpassed him, had become something more than a rakehell and a bully. You beat me until I couldn’t stand, but I’ve beaten you, you bastard.

Eleanor, on the other hand, simply looked at the picture and said, Get rid of the thing.

“I keep it locked inside the cabinet so I don’t have to look at it,” Hart said. “My great-grandchildren can sell it for a profit.”

“I hate to think of it in there, haunting you.”

“It isn’t haunting me. Stop changing the subject and tell me why you went to Mrs. Whitaker’s.”

Eleanor came to the desk, rested her hands on it, and looked across it at Hart. “Because I thought she might have something to do with the photographs, of course. I thought you might be paying her blackmail money—a thousand is a fortune. I had to find out why.”

Hart saw nothing but inquisitiveness in Eleanor’s eyes. No anger, no jealousy. But then, the greatest part of Eleanor’s anger when she’d learned about Mrs. Palmer had not come from jealousy.

“I sent Neely to Mrs. Whitaker, because I knew she could manage someone like him.”

Her brow puckered. “What do you mean someone like him? Like him in what way?”

“I mean an unworldly man pretending to be worldly. They are the most unruly when they finally let themselves off the lead.”

“And apparently he had to be carried out again by Mr. Fleming. Mrs. Whitaker did not mind doing you this favor?”

“I paid her a thousand guineas. Of course she did not mind.”

“Was Mrs. Whitaker educated? Finished, I mean?”

Hart’s patience thinned. “I have no bloody idea.”

“I ask because the notes are badly spelled, which points more to a servant. However, if Mrs. Whitaker came from a poor background, she might still not write well, despite her big house and her furs. Have you asked her about them?”

“No!”

“Goodness, you do like to shout. I am trying to solve your problem, Hart, but a little assistance would be welcome. Mrs. Whitaker might have known Mrs. Palmer—Mrs. Palmer might have given her some of the photographs. Were Mrs. Whitaker and Mrs. Palmer friends?”

“Friends? God, no. Angelina had no friends.”

“That sounds lonely. You should ask Mrs. Whitaker anyway, though if she truly has no knowledge of the photographs, you will have to ask discreetly so she does not find out about them. Difficult, but I think you can do it.”

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed in thought, and she touched her finger to her lip, unconsciously rubbing it over the little bruise Hart had made. His entire body went hot and hard.

It would be so easy to go around the desk to her, to unbutton the ugly gown she wore, to strip her to her corset. He’d nip her neck as he unfastened her, leaving a love bite while he drank her in.

Eleanor drew a breath, her br**sts lifting under her primly buttoned bodice. “Perhaps if I…”

“No,” Hart said abruptly.

Eleanor’s eyes widened. “You do not even know what I was about to suggest.”

“No, you will not go back to Mrs. Whitaker’s or try to speak to her yourself. And you will not return to the house in High Holborn.”

She gave him a look of exasperation, which told him he’d guessed correctly about the last part. “Be reasonable, Hart. I never finished searching the house, because, as you recall, you removed me—forcibly. I do not expect to find the photographs there, but there might be some clue as to where they’ve gone. If you are worried for my safety, I’ll have one of your pugilists accompany me.”

His impatience became full-blown anger. “No. And don’t you dare cajole Ian into taking you back there.” Hart thought of Ian standing in the room in which the woman had been killed, gaze fixed on the ceiling, and he let out his breath. “It upsets him.”

“I know. He told me, but he also said he ought to see the place once more himself. To allay the ghosts, as it were.”

Ghosts. That whole house was full of ghosts. Hart wanted to burn the place to the ground.

“Ian can’t take me anyway,” Eleanor tripped on. “He’s not here. He left this morning.”

Hart stopped. “Left? What do you mean, he left? Where the devil did he go?”

“To Berkshire. He was missing Beth, and I told him to go to her. She’s already on her way to Berkshire, to help Ainsley prepare, so off he went. They won’t mind Ian arriving early.”

“When did this happen? He never said a word to me.” Not a word. Not a good-bye. But that wasn’t unusual for Ian. When Ian decided to do a thing, there was no stopping him.

“You were off playing your political games,” Eleanor said. “Ian said good-bye to me, but he did not want to wait about for your return.”

When had Hart lost control in his own house? The last time he’d seen Ian, his brother had been quietly reading the paper in the dining room at breakfast. As far as Hart knew, Ian hadn’t had any plans to rush off to Berkshire within the hour.

Hart thought of the congealing eggs and greasy sausage on his plate this morning, and his fists tightened. “Eleanor, what did you do with my cook?”