Horrified, he straightened and did a slow circle. The row of liveried footmen lining the hall kept their gazes forward and stood firm and stiff and unmoving as the row of Hartwell armory on display, which led the way to the Hartwell Portrait Room.
His pulse drummed a sick, nervous beat in his veins as confusion and dread mingled inside himself.
Nothing was making sense anymore. Nothinghadsince he agreed to their friendship.
No, from even before that.
The pressure in his chest grew.
Back at Chilton’s auction, when the saucy minx commanded a monocle to look him in the eye, he’d been swimming upstream.
Hart dragged a shaky hand through his hair.
My God, this is what his father had warned of. High-spirited beauties that made a man forget himself. Lose himself.
“What are you doing here? You left during Lady Angela’s performance.”
And with that insolent question, Hart found the perfect source to vent his rage.
He watched Kilmartin’s bold, overly confident approach, the man walking as if he owned time, instead of answering to Hart.
With every step that brought the other man closer, Hart’s anger—and suspicions—grew.
She didn’t know the masked man’s name, but it could be Kilmartin. Despite his denial, could the gentleman be sure?
From the seeds of those dark suspicions, a horrifying possibility took root. And grew.
How many times had Hart found Kilmartin and Fleur meeting in the dark like secret lovers, stealing whatever time they could—last night and, now, this evening?
Hart knew the moment Fleur arrived and felt her presence, even when no one else looked back. Trapped in conversation with Lady Angela and her family, he stole a quick glance at Fleur. She didn’t see. Her focus was on the affable, classically handsome man in repose, shoulder to the doorjamb—Hart’s friend.
His features tightened.
Not a friend. As Fleur reminded him, Kilmartin was a paid employee first.
Damn Hart for forgetting that very important distinction and detail.
When Kilmartin reached him, all Hart wanted to do waskillKilmartin.
“I don’t pay you to be late.” He didn’t hide his fury. “Where exactly have you been?”
Kilmartin stiffened. The man was clever and would catch Hart’s emphasis on their status: employer and servant. Kilmartin’s wit was why Hart kept him, plus his loyalty to the Tremaine family.
At least, hehadbeen.
Kilmartin winged an insolent eyebrow. “Is there a problem, Hart?”
He studied his too-comfortable man-of-affairs. When had Kilmartin grown this confident? Another mistake. More weakness.
“I believe I’m the one who should be putting that question to you, Kilmartin.”
In the first inclination the other man had that he had overstepped a mark, Kilmartin drew his shoulders back and bent him a bow.
Fuck his bow.
“I asked you a question.” Hart’s jaw contracted. “I sent you to obtain a package and gather information. You return now, late for my private affair?”
“My apologies, Your Grace.”