Once, long ago, they’d been no more than a soldier going off to war and the woman he’d paid for comfort. If he transposed her with his memory of Ginny, which emotion would win his heart? Would his nostalgia be strong enough to smother his fury? His distaste for what she’d become?
And if it did, what would he expect of her once he knew? Sex? Love? Marriage? She wasn’t Ginny anymore. Her love could not be bought for twenty pounds.
Neither was she the desperate Imogen Pritchard. She hadn’t been for a long time. She was capable of showing him plenty of grace, of forgiveness and kindness and … maybe love. But what could he provide her other than the title of duchess? Which, if she was honest, meant absolutely nothing to her.
Assuming he even offered for her. That he didn’t destroy her in a fit of wrath.
He’d certainly made it clear that he couldn’t accept what she’d chosen to do with her life, and she wasn’t willing to let her purpose go. Not even for him.
So what was her next move? She could pray that Dorian Blackwell wasn’t as crafty and well connected as they seemed to think. But something told her it was only a matter of time. Once upon a time she would have fled England, and a selfish part of her wished that she could. But she couldn’t abandon the ladies and children already in her care and employ.
She needed to stay and fight. Fight for their safety and survival.
And, above all, fight that aching part of herself that yearned for him to come and claim her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Your Grace,
After careful inspection of the case file we discussed, I’ve come to the conclusion that the murder of a one Flora Latimer and that of Lady Broadmore have enough similarities to give the connection further consideration. I have decided to cast the net of investigation wider, and sent requests to the Scotland Yard branches of other boroughs for information on any such similar atrocities. According to a witness, the attacker was likely a man named Mr. Barton who has subsequently disappeared. As to your association with this “Ginny,” I have yet been unable to confirm her existence, let alone her connection to the victim, but I can tell you that it is notated that Flora Latimer used some sort of chemical dye to make her hair gold. However, the file clearly states she had naturally dark hair and green eyes.
I have found, however, that a Devina Rosa worked at the Bare Kitten at the time, and is now one of the infamous courtesans they call the horse-breakers of Hyde Park. Perhaps she remembers your Ginny. I hope this information helps you, though I fear it can confirm neither your fears nor your wishes.
My sincerest regrets,
Sir Carlton Morley
* * *
With a vicious curse, Cole had crumpled the letter in his hand and tossed it into the fire. He’d learned in his days in prison that hope could be wielded as a cruelty. Never had that been truer than this moment. He didn’t know whether to rejoice or grieve and that, in itself, was a certain kind of hell. Stalking to his study window, he’d whipped aside the drapes and glanced down to find a particular garden empty of a particular countess. The sun was high and warm today, the air still and tepid. Why the devil wasn’t she painting?
A frown weighed down his features as he rang for his jacket and hat and ordered his horse, cantering to Hyde Park to seek out this Devina creature, and the answers she might provide him.
Answers, it seemed, were to be as elusive as anything else he sought. Contentment, tranquility …
Sleep.
He dare not even reach for happiness.
After considerable time, charm, and expense, he gleaned that Devina had moved on, finding a rich protector whose name no one knew, and was installed comfortably somewhere out of his reach. Upon learning this, Cole had turned his horse’s head toward Rotten Row, the long raceway at the east of Hyde Park, and galloped until they were both panting, hot, and exhausted. Still, it didn’t quell the burn of helpless fury whipping through his chest as uncontrollably as a wildfire.
He’d find this Devina, if he had to tear London apart stone by ancient stone.
The rare sunlight did little to help his dark mood, though the exertion did quiet the violent urges. Somewhat.
Ignoring the hails of sycophantic lesser nobles, the calls of desperate mothers with eligible daughters, and others of the ton who crowded into Hyde Park during the season for no other reason than to see and be seen, Cole trotted toward the Mayfair park entrance. Perhaps he’d go into the Home Office and find out what he could about Devina. She was a Spanish migrant, this he knew, and there would have to be some record of her—
A rather violent shade of purple skirt fluttered in his periphery, interrupting his thoughts and turning his head. Only one woman he knew wore such unapologetically vibrant colors. And there sat the countess Anstruther in profile, perched forward on a long stone bench. Though, rather than applying the paintbrush in her hand to the canvas in front of her, she stared at some mysterious point in the distance.
Violet satin ribbons fluttered from her hat in the same errant breeze that caught red-gold tendrils escaping her intricate coiffure. The rest of her remained as still as the statue of Achilles she regarded with more morose perturbation than artistic appreciation.
Cole deliberated for a moment before deciding he should definitely leave.
He slid from the saddle, planting his boots in the soft grass.
He should avoid Countess Anstruther and her compelling presence, he admonished himself while simultaneously tossing his reins to an awaiting stable hand, along with a few coins.
As his long stride brought him nearer to her, he noticed a pinch between her brows and new shadows beneath her eyes that hadn’t previously been there. It wouldn’t be prudent to interrupt her, especially in such a public venue. Cheever, the old goat, lounged behind her in a lawn chair with a paper, so it wasn’t as though she was left unattended.
She appeared tired, Cole noted. Tired and a little gloomy. Well, he certainly wasn’t a harbinger of cheer, and shouldn’t even consider getting any closer …
She glanced up at him the moment his shadow crossed her canvas. Her eyes crinkled in that way that made him sure she was pleased, though he couldn’t imagine why she would be.
“Cole.”
His heart tripped at the sound of his name on her lips, and he managed a curt nod.
“What an agreeable surprise.” Scooping extra skirts beneath her, she made space for him on the bench.
“Is it?” It discomfited him just how much he wanted the radiance in her eyes to be genuine. Because when she looked at him, the shadows he’d just noted were replaced by a warm light. He found it extraordinary. Confounding, but extraordinary nonetheless.
“How striking you look,” she remarked, and didn’t give him a moment to process the abrupt spurt of pleasure at the words before she turned to Cheever. “Would you very much mind procuring the three of us some lemonade from the stand at the entry? His Grace seems uncomfortably hot.”
Cheever folded the paper just so, setting it on his seat before bowing to them both. “Of course, my lady. Your Grace.” His stride was that of a much younger man as he left them.
“Do sit,” she invited. “The shade here is excellent.”
“I really should be going,” he excused, and then somehow they were nearly at eye level as the sun-warmed stone of the bench caught him when he sat. What was it about her that drew him like this? It was as though he was a ship tossed about in a storm, and she a siren luring him to his fate. In her presence, his body was consistently at odds with his mind, and refused to obey him in any regard.