Free A Dangerous Man by Connie Brockway

shall we say?—in other people’s lives?”
    For an instant unhappiness clouded Beryl’s bright eyes, but then she shook her head and smiled with renewed vivacity. “Of course. He likeshis information just as much as I like mine. And, let me tell you”—she tapped him playfully on the cheek—“my … fact-gathering capabilities, shall we say?—have been quite useful to Henley’s career.” She preened. There was no other word for it. “It’s quite an asset for a politician’s wife.”
    “No,” Hart said. “Your deportment, your diplomacy, these are the qualities that make you—”
    “Dear Hart.” She smiled at him. “Such a lamb. Yes, yes. It’s all very useful, knowing how deep a curtsy each member of the House warrants. But it’s only stage dressing. A well-trained poodle could manage as much. I have more to offer Henley’s career than a wrist strong enough to pour out tea for fifty. It’s what happens after the tea is poured that is significant.” She nodded, her eyes flickering over the assembly. “Look. There’s Miss Coltrane now. Come along, Hart. I am determined to befriend her.”
    “For God’s sake, why?”
    “It will add considerably to my cachet,” she answered, claiming his arm and tugging him forward. “She’s becoming quite sought after.”
    In the center of the small group Beryl towed him toward stood Mercy Coltrane. She was dressed in a plain tan skirt and white shirtwaist, an old battered Stetson shading her eyes and hiding her glorious red hair. The cool air had kissed color to her full lips. A few rare strands of gleaming auburn hair rippled against the open collar of her shirt. She was smiling again.
    Always smiles and animation. Even for himthere had been smiles. He’d never met anyone like her before. And she was, whatever her shortcomings, so very pretty.
    Her head was angled attentively toward Acton and another man, a sleek blond gentleman with a rifle perched casually on his shoulder. Beside her, the picture of modest repose in a minty-colored dress tiered with lace, was Annabelle.
    “Ah, Mrs. Wrexhall, Perth,” Acton hailed upon spying them. “Delightful of you to join our little shooting exhibition. Do you know Nathan Hillard?” He stepped back, indicating the man at Mercy’s side.
    “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Hillard murmured, bowing over Beryl’s hand and nodding to Hart. Hart assessed him as Acton made the necessary introductions.
    Expensively attired in a tweed shooting jacket, middling height, closer to forty than thirty, fair. Interesting face. As a whole he was handsome, but taken apart his features belied each other. His chin was blunt, yet his nose was aesthetically pinched. His lips were full and gentle; his eyes, unusually bright. His high forehead beneath the thick blond hair was unlined, yet deep furrows were etched on either side of a wide mouth.
    “Will your husband be joining us, Mrs. Wrexhall?” Acton asked.
    “No,” she said softly. “Henley is not particularly fond of shooting and such. He’s gone to London for the afternoon. A political appointment.”
    “I see,” Acton said. “Well, then, we will simplywait for your brother-in-law to arrive before we commence.”
    “Richard?” Beryl asked. “Richard doesn’t shoot.”
    “Oh.” The single utterance, coupled with Acton’s befuddled expression, held a gentle reproof. Annabelle darted a quick beseeching glance in their direction.
    “But Hart here is simply rabid on firearms,” Beryl hurriedly said as though visualizing Acton checking off a demerit against Annabelle’s name. “Aren’t you, Hart?”
    “No.” If Annabelle’s qualifications as a duchess rested solely on whether the males in her family shot things, Acton could go to blazes and good riddance.
    Acton flushed at his curtness. “Well, then,” he said, turning to Mercy, “shall we start?”
    Hart’s gaze jumped to Mercy. Start what? Good Lord, the woman isn’t going to make a spectacle