The Complete Regency Bestsellers And One Winters Collection. Rebecca WintersЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘My mother is ill and she has sent men to collect some money from me…for a nurse.’
‘And Delsarte knows this?’
Politics balanced on the fine edge of intimacy. His question unsteadied her and she knew exactly why Stephen Hawkhurst had been sent to Europe on the government’s business. Purpose and resolution defined him, a man of smoke and mirrors, and clever beyond any other she had met.
‘Mama lives in Paris and Delsarte intimated that she may be harmed if I do not co-operate.’
‘Co-operate? How?’
‘Sell my business to him cheaply just as it is beginning to realise profit.’
‘And why would you do that? What hold has Frederick Delsarte over you to even consider doing such a thing?’
Aurelia hesitated. The cracks between them would widen with the truth, but there was little that she could do to change that. ‘In order to make a living my mother turned to the life of a courtesan and as she got older the clients were less willing to pay quite as much. Sylvienne chose a name that was not her own, but I had visited her and…’ She couldn’t go on. It was her fault that any of this had happened, after all, and to add injury to insult Freddy Delsarte had become one of her mother’s lovers, too. He had told her so at the Hawkhurst ball, implying that he wished to know of her daughter’s charms, as well. The very thought of it made her sick.
Webs wove their way around families and the unprotected were left wide open to all sorts of slander. The anger in her surfaced with the shame.
‘She is dying of syphilis. I could see it in her face then and now I know it in her words.’
She had never told another soul any of this, but the confession poured out of her, the relief of sharing her darkest fear all encompassing. How often had she kept things bottled up inside and brewing with worry?
It was his strength and his certainty that had brought out such a revelation, a man whose opinions she valued and whose advice she might follow. Years of dealing with each and every problem by herself made her voice shake.
‘Shavvon thinks it is you who is implicated in the intelligence sent to France. If we could catch Delsarte and Kerslake instead, you would be freed of it.’
The horror of his revelations had her sitting and Hawkhurst crossed the room, returning with a large glass of brandy.
‘Here, drink this. It will help.’
She did as he suggested, the liquor burning at the back of her throat.
Tonight he wore all black, the clothes emphasising the darkness of his hair and the gold in his eyes. The British Service held her name and the address of her family, her sisters and papa. The images of gallows and dark prisons rose in her mind, the rotting flesh of dissidents and murderers in small dank spaces of despair.
She hated the way she was shaking, all the dreams she had fostered disappearing in the comprehension of a reality that held no mind for hope or love. Yet when his arms came around her, drawing her up into his warmth, the cold of the night lessened and business and politics was pushed to one side—just them against the world, the lies and the truths, the good and the bad. Here, for this little time there was a void in judgement, his breath mingling with hers, his fingers tracing patterns on the thin silk of her gown.
‘Shhhh, sweetheart, it will be fine, I promise.’
Another troth. Another way that she had made things difficult for him. Did he ever tire of such neediness and how was she to manage if he did?
Her eyes flew open. She could not depend on him like this, not surrender all of her fierceness in a moment of exhaustion. Stephen Hawkhurst had never intimated that their relationship could become permanent, nor did he seek a more public display of affection. She came to him in the dark and she left before the dawn, secrecy clouding all contact.
Tonight, with her cheek aching, Aurelia just wanted to be home. She did not have the defences in place that she had once found simple. No, the barriers she had built for years were shifting as passion refused to be tethered any longer, tumbling through sense and responsibility, tearing away duty and replacing it all with a pure and tantalising desire.
Tears pooled at the back of her eyes and the dull throb on her cheek made everything a hundred times worse, though when he leant down and kissed the edges of the hurt she could not help but smile, feather-light kisses of quiet ease and a great deal of concern.
‘If Delsarte touches you again, I will kill him.’
‘And spend the rest of your life in prison?’
He laughed at that, but the heat that had begun to grow took away any thought of further conversation and when he brought her down to the woollen rug laid before a glowing fire she could see in his eyes twin reflections of flame.
Stephen watched from his window as the cabriolet drove down the road, taking Aurelia away from him, and he fisted his hands against his thigh, wishing that he might have been travelling home with her, seeing her safe.
Caring for her.
He could barely remember what that felt like any more and had not known for a long time, though the deadened anger that had held him immobile since the death of his brother wound its way into his throat, quickened, and he swallowed back thickness.
Aurelia. Even her name was beautiful.
If you did not love, you never lost. If you held people at a distance and took only what was needed, you could survive.
Flashes of their nights together held him still, his head tilted towards something he had missed.
Love. It was not always words that said it.
Love came in the smiles between them and in the soft honesty at midnight; he Could no longer be blind and deaf to all the things Aurelia was saying when she did not speak. Could he love her back in the way she needed? Could he risk a try?
He was glad his hands shook when he looked down because it showed he still had a damn heart inside him. And he knew he would not sleep.
‘There is someone here to see you, my lord.’ Wilson deposited a card on the bedside table and stood back as Hawk looked at the time on the clock in the corner. Half past ten. He had caught some sleep after all and whatever it was Shavvon wanted it must be important.
‘Send him in.’
Alexander Shavvon looked harried and tired and he was barely in the room before he spoke. ‘Freddy Delsarte, Henry Kerslake and Mrs St Harlow have gone north. They left an hour ago.’
The whole world slowed around Hawk, a gut-wrenching jerk making his world spin.
‘She went willingly?’
‘Her servant was found with a lump the size of Africa on his head and he said she did not.’
Shock held Stephen still.
‘They have taken the Great North Road and my guess is they are headed to a manor house Delsarte inherited a year or so ago after winning a game of cards against the Earl of Kendrick. I want to see what Delsarte wants with Mrs St Harlow and what he does. When you know where they are, call in the local constabulary and have Delsarte and Kerslake thrown into gaol and then search the place. Take whomever you want with you.’
Hawk shook his head. ‘I’ll go alone, sir. It will be easier to remain hidden.’
‘Very well. A carriage will be readied. I have already sent people to go into the warehouse to see just what might be discovered there. The family of Mrs St Harlow will need to be told of our concerns, though we will put that off for as long as possible as I do not wish for society to be gossiping about the downfall of suspects we have not yet apprehended.’
Hawk dressed and gathered his coat and hat after Shavvon left and called for his own horse to be brought around. If Delsarte or Kerslake had laid even a finger on Aurelia…
‘Focus,’