A Kiss Before Dawn (18 page)

Creditors?

As Emily rushed to reassure the elderly man, Peter found himself examining his surroundings with much more interest than he had before. Upon entering the room, he hadn't taken in the rather shabby state of the once expensive rug and furnishings, the lack of ornamentation and decorative knickknacks that most master suites in luxurious homes usually boasted. But he made note of it now with particular attention to detail.

Was it possible that the Marquis of Brimley and his son were in dun territory? He'd heard that the latter had quite a reputation in London for being a high-stakes gamester, but had the viscount actually managed to deplete the family coffers with his taste for the city's finer gambling establishments?

“Mr. Quick isn't a creditor, Lord Brimley,” Emily was explaining, sounding vaguely nonplussed. “He's a Bow Street Runner, and he is here to ask you about the thief who broke into the house last night.”

“Ah. The thief. Caught the blighter in the act, I did. Would have had him, too, if my old bones hadn't given out.”

Peter's heart gave a skip, and he couldn't resist finally entering the conversation. He took a step closer to the bed, drawing the marquis's attention back to him. “Did you get a look at him, my lord?”

“I did, as a matter of fact.” Brimley shook his head in a mournful manner. “He stole my Lavinia's brooch, you know.”

“We know, and I am most sorry for your loss.” Trying not to sound too impatient, Peter nevertheless couldn't help prodding the man a little. “But the thief, my lord. What did he look like?”

“It was too dark to make out much. He was a rather young fellow. Thin. He had a cap pulled low over his eyes, but I could see blond hair sticking out from under it.” The marquis rolled his head on the pillow to stare up at Emily. “Blond hair just like yours, my dear.”

Blond hair?

Peter hated himself for considering it, felt like a traitor that the thought even crossed his mind, but it hovered at the edges of his consciousness, tormenting him with the possibility.

Could Benji have been the one he'd been looking for after all?

He wanted to dismiss the idea out of hand, but somehow he couldn't seem to do so. The boy's behavior had been all too strange lately, and added to Lord Brimley's description of the thief…well, the matter boded further checking into.

“Yes.” The marquis was still talking, his gaze growing dreamy and unfocused as he continued to peer up at Emily. “Blond hair just like yours, Victoria. You know, Lavinia has missed you dreadfully since you and Ellington made the decision to reside in London year-round.” His eyes drifted shut, and his voice started to trail away. “She's kept…every one you…ever sent her…”

A frown marred Peter's face. Obviously, the elderly gent was rambling again and believed he was speaking to the late Countess of Ellington. He had no idea how to reply, and Emily appeared just as stumped and at a loss as he felt.

“Every one of what, my lord?” she asked, and Peter could hear the curiosity underlying her tone.

“The…letters.” Lord Brimley's words were slow in coming and barely audible, and his eyes remained closed.

“I'm afraid I don't know what letters you're speaking of.”

When the man said nothing further in response to Emily's statement, merely offered another unintelligible mutter, she reached out to touch his arm, her sudden urgency catching Peter by surprise. “Lord Brimley? What letters?”

“That's enough!”

The barked command came from the direction of the door, and Peter looked back over his shoulder to find Lord Moreland standing in the entrance to the room, arms crossed over his chest, as he took in the scene before him. Dr. Billings hovered at his elbow. Constable Jenkins was nowhere in sight.

Reacting without hesitation to the viscount's aggressive stance, Peter swung about and placed himself in front of Emily, leveling the man with a deliberately challenging stare. “Is there a problem, my lord?”

A muscle flexed in the man's jaw, and Peter took a grim satisfaction in knowing that he was capable of
piercing through that cool façade and pricking Moreland where it counted.

But before he had more than a second to bask in that knowledge, Emily got to her feet and moved forward to stand next to him, her swift action telling him more clearly than words that she was hoping to circumvent the confrontation that was brewing. “I'm sorry, Adam. I didn't mean to pry.”

Her eloquent apology did the trick. The viscount's face softened and he turned to her, dismissing Peter with one last frosty glare. “Please don't apologize. I'm sorry for reacting the way I did. But I'm afraid I'll have to call a halt to the questioning. After last night, I'm sure you can understand why Father needs his rest. And as you may have noticed, he's not quite himself. I can't see how he could be of much help.”

“Actually, my lord,” Peter interjected with particular relish, keeping his eyes fastened on the man's profile, carefully gauging his reaction. “Your father just provided us with a rather good description of the thief.”

“Really?” Blond eyebrows shot upward and the viscount subjected Peter to an enigmatic scrutiny before facing Emily again. “I'm glad to hear that he's been of help. But I believe it's time to let him sleep.”

“Of course.” Emily tucked her arm through Peter's before he could say a word and tugged him toward the door. “Come along, Mr. Quick. I'm sure we have other things we'll need to accomplish while we're here.”

Dr. Billings bustled by them to check on his patient, grumbling under his breath, and Peter cast one final
look back at the bed. Lord Brimley was already snoring, his thin chest rising and falling under the covers, as his son led them out into the hallway and shut the door.

Once in the silent corridor, Lord Moreland stopped and raked a hand through his hair before facing Emily, his gaze skating over Peter as if he weren't even there. “Emily, would you mind joining me downstairs in my study for a moment? There is something of a rather personal nature I wish to discuss with you.”

“I—I don't know.” Emily regarded Peter questioningly over her shoulder. “Perhaps Mr. Quick might need my help.”

To Peter's observant eye, the viscount's practiced smile seemed suddenly forced. “Nonsense. Mr. Quick is a Bow Street Runner, after all. I'm sure he can handle himself. Isn't that right, Mr. Quick?”

Moreland's query, posed to him in such an unexpected manner, caught Peter a bit off guard. So the man was actually going to acknowledge his existence, was he?

He met the viscount's stare with an arch one of his own. “Oh, I assure you, my lord, I can handle myself just fine. And there is little left to do but take a look at the late Lady Brimley's bedchamber and speak with the servants.” He raised an eyebrow. “If that could be arranged?”

“Of course. Mother's room is right next door to Father's.” Moreland gestured at the door to the right of Lord Brimley's. “Feel free to look around all you like, though the constable has already given it a thorough going-over. And on our way downstairs I'll have a word
with the butler and see if he can't gather the staff for your…interrogation.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Emily still looked uncertain as she examined Peter's features. There was something in her expression he couldn't quite read. Something almost pleading. But pleading with him for what? He had no way of knowing. “I still don't—”

The viscount interrupted her by putting a hand on her arm in supplication. “Please, Emily. I wouldn't ask if it weren't very important. It won't take long, and you'll be able to rejoin Mr. Quick shortly.”

Her gaze went back and forth between the two men, full of equal parts consternation and concern. But she finally gave a reluctant nod. “Very well. If Mr. Quick is certain he doesn't need me…?”

Now, how to answer that?

“I'm certain.” He fought to keep his face expressionless, and after a moment, Emily allowed the viscount to lead her away.

Peter felt his heart give a particularly brutal squeeze as he watched them start down the stairs, their heads bent close in conversation. He hated the mere thought of the two of them alone together, but he was well aware there was nothing he could do about it.

Emily was not his to dictate to. Not his to protect.

But convincing himself of that was another matter.

“I
beg your pardon?”

Stunned and more than a little overwhelmed, Emily gazed at Adam with her mouth agape, certain she must have misheard him.

“Come now, Emily, surely it can't come as that much of a shock.” The viscount gave a wry chuckle, but the humor didn't quite reach his hazel eyes. They were narrowed, watchful, as he stood before her, both of her hands captured in his. “You must know how I feel about you. I've been trying to propose to you for weeks now.”

It seemed her ears were in proper working order after all. Adam had asked her to marry him. She supposed she shouldn't have been so surprised. She'd suspected that things were leading in this direction, but she hadn't guessed that he would choose a moment like this to ask
her to be his bride, when his family was in the midst of so much chaos.

For some reason, his attitude hit her as being just a trifle insensitive.

The proposal had seemed to come out of the blue. After leading her to his study, Adam had spent a moment out in the hallway, speaking with his butler, before joining Emily. Then, seating her in an overstuffed chair in front of his desk, he had caught her off guard by clasping her hands in a firm grip and asking her quite seriously to marry him.

Perhaps sensing her disquiet, he leveled her with an earnest look. “I may have been a bit abrupt, and for that I apologize. But I've decided the time for subtlety is past. Every time I've tried to ease into asking you to become my wife, something has happened to interrupt me. It seemed better to just come out and say it. Do you forgive me?”

“Of course. But—” She paused and licked her dry lips before continuing. “I don't know what to say.”

“Say yes.”

She avoided his disconcerting stare and let her gaze trail around the room. It was only now, as she sought to distract herself, that she noticed something she should have noticed upon first entering. Many of the pieces of furniture she could remember from previous visits were conspicuously absent, and there were several bare spaces on the wall where she was certain expensive paintings had once hung.

Lord Brimley's comments regarding his son's creditors suddenly seemed to make sense. Was Adam's gam
bling more of a problem than she'd believed? Was it bad enough that he'd had to start selling off their household possessions?

There was no way she could broach the subject without offending the viscount, so she resisted the impulse to question him and instead returned to the matter at hand.

“I'm afraid I can't just say yes, Adam,” she ventured. “There is much to consider, and I can't help but feel this isn't the right time.”

Lord Moreland's face flushed a deep red and he dropped her hands, crossing his arms in an almost defensive posture. “What is there to consider? And when would be the right time?”

“Adam, your father has just suffered an attack and is bedridden upstairs after coming face-to-face with the thief who stole your mother's prized possession! I should think you would have more pressing matters to concern yourself with.”

Pivoting, he strode across the room to stand before the window, staring out at the sunny day beyond the glass. His back was stiff, his shoulders held rigidly, and just when she was beginning to think he wasn't going to speak again, he exhaled a breath of air and looked back at her over his shoulder. “You're right, of course. But you must understand how anxious I am about this. I've thought of little else for the past several weeks, and with Father in such poor health…well, to be honest, I could use someone to lean on.”

Emily felt her heart give a tug of sympathy and she got to her feet, moving to stand next to him. “Adam, you know I will always be here for you. We're friends, after
all, and that is what friends do for each other. And I will be glad to aid you and your father in any way I can.”

He reached up to lay a hand on her cheek. His touch was so unexpected—and unnerving—that Emily had to fight the urge to put some distance between them. “I appreciate that, Emily. I truly do. And I know my father does, as well. He's always been fond of you, you know, and he'd be delighted to see us wed.”

A shard of guilt pierced her as she recalled the marquis's pale face, the labored heave of his breathing. This was all her fault. And having the elderly man mistake her for her mother, hearing him talk about Victoria's friendship with his deceased wife, had made her feel twice as ashamed. She couldn't believe she'd been callous enough to continue to try to prod information from him even after he'd obviously had enough, but his mention of her mother's letters had made her wonder if perhaps some tie to the late Lady Ellington's past still existed. If so, then there might be a chance to prove whether or not Jack Barlow's claims were true.

But no. There could be no excuse for badgering someone in such a state, no matter her reasons. All she had succeeded in doing was arousing Peter's curiosity and tiring a poor old man.

The least Adam deserved from her was to be let down gently.

“Please, Emily,” the viscount was saying, coming a step closer to her. “You must see how important this is to me. I've put off my usual departure to London for the Season, wanting to get this sorted out before I go.” His palm fell away from her cheek and he reached for her
hand once again. “As a matter of fact, I was hoping to persuade you and your family to come with me, so we can announce our betrothal. I care for you a great deal, and as we've been friends for so long, I feel that we would suit rather well. Surely you must agree?”

For the sake of the friendship she'd shared with Adam in the past, she forced herself to reply as cautiously as possible. “I don't know. Marriage is a rather large step and—”

“It appears I'm interrupting something important again.”

The voice brought Emily's head jerking in the direction of the door to find Peter lounging in the entranceway, arms crossed, his countenance cool and unreadable.

She'd never been so happy to see anyone in her life.

It was apparently a sentiment Lord Moreland didn't share. A scowl marred his handsome face as he glowered at Peter. “Are you already finished questioning the staff, Mr. Quick? I didn't expect you to be done so soon.”

Peter shrugged, his perceptive gaze skimming over Emily's features in a way that led her to believe that every one of her confusing emotions must show on her face. “There wasn't much they could add to the story, I'm afraid. None of them saw the thief. It seems by the time they came upon Lord Brimley collapsed in the hallway, the man was long gone.”

Emily tugged her hand free from Adam's grasp and sidled a step or two away from him, not realizing she'd been holding her breath until clean, fresh air raced into her lungs with her sharp inhalation.

“And you've examined Lady Brimley's chamber?” she asked. Though she was relieved by Peter's timely arrival, her interest in his answer wasn't feigned. She truly wished to know what he had discovered.

After all, keeping her double identity a secret could depend upon it.

“Thoroughly. The dust had been disturbed in a few places, as if in a hasty search. And the window was left open. There is no trellis or tree to climb, but some bushes close to the side of the house look as if something large was dragged through them recently. It appears our thief jumped to make his escape.”

And had the bruises to prove it. Emily had to restrain the urge to rub her aching posterior.

“Well, I suppose that means our work is done here,” she said brightly, starting toward Peter and the door. “We should most likely be off now. I know you had several things you needed to do with regard to the investigation, Mr. Quick, and I—”

“Emily, wait.”

Drat and blast! She should have known Adam wouldn't let her escape that easily.

She stopped and turned with great reluctance, watching as the viscount approached her. As if sensing her trepidation, Peter moved up behind her, and she found herself grateful for his solid, warm presence looming at her back.

It was only Adam. She shouldn't feel this threatened.

But she did.

Nearing her side, the viscount caught her elbow in a firm grip and stared into her eyes, as if willing her to
concede. “I hope you will promise me you will at least consider what I have proposed. I think we would make an excellent match, and if you will give it some thought, I'm sure you will agree.”

Had Peter just growled in her ear? It wouldn't surprise her. She would have to be blind not to know that he didn't care for Lord Moreland, and the antipathy appeared to be mutual. Eager to flee Adam's unsettling presence and wanting to get Peter away before the two men came to blows, she gave a hasty nod. “Very well. I promise I will think about it.”

With that, she pulled her arm free, whirled, and left the room with Peter at her heels.

But she couldn't help wondering as she made her escape what Adam would think if he knew he had just proposed marriage to the very woman who had stolen his mother's brooch and caused his father's attack.

 

Once in the carriage and on their way back to Knighthaven, Peter found himself unable to keep from studying Emily, trying to discern what she was feeling from the look on her face. But her expression was closed, leaving her eyes strangely blank as she stared off into space.

Lord Moreland had proposed to her.

Peter clenched his jaw against the anger that flared through him whenever he imagined her as the wife of the condescending viscount. Though he knew he would never be able to have Emily for his own, he still had a vested interest in her future happiness, and he
found it hard to believe she could ever be happy with Moreland.

Not to mention the fact that the mere thought of the man touching, kissing, caressing her the way he himself had done was enough to madden him beyond reason.

“Well, Mr. Quick. Do you have any theories?”

So caught up was he in the troubling vision of Emily being made love to by Lord Moreland that it took Peter a moment to realize she was addressing him. Jerking himself from his disturbing thoughts, he faced her, hoping his countenance betrayed none of his roiling emotions. “I beg your pardon?”

“Theories, Mr. Quick. I was interested in whether you had any new ones regarding the Oxfordshire Thief now that you've spoken with Lord Brimley and had a chance to look over the scene of the crime.”

As a matter of fact, he did. “Only one, I'm afraid. Is the marquis a frequent contributor to Willow Park?”

“I believe so. At least, he has been in the past. Why?”

“It occurred to me as I was examining Lady Brimley's old bedchamber that each of the victims of the thief has made some sort of monetary donation to the upkeep of the Park at one time or another. It's the only thing that ties the cases together that I've been able to pinpoint.”

Emily's face whitened. “Oh, my God, that's true! I never even made the connection, but you're right.” She appeared stunned by the revelation.

“It wouldn't be too out of line to assume that the culprit is someone who is associated with either Willow
Park or your family and holds a grudge. Can you think of anyone who fits that description?”

A frown marred her brow and she avoided his gaze. “It isn't a secret that most of Little Haverton would like to see Willow Park closed. But I can't think of anyone who could hate us so much that they would do such a thing, go to such lengths.” She sighed and bowed her head. “Do you still plan on visiting the local pawnbrokers?”

Peter nodded. Something in her demeanor troubled him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. “While I'm doing that, you might try questioning your brother to see if he can think of anyone who has a personal vendetta against him or the Park.”

“Of course. Anything I can do to help.”

She didn't sound particularly enthusiastic, and he found himself perusing her visage, searching for some sign of what she might be hiding.

Was she bothered by what he had told her about the thief and the connection to Willow Park? Or was she thinking about Lord Moreland?

The possibility pricked at him, and he couldn't have called the words back that spilled from his lips if he had tried.

“You deserve better than Moreland, you know.”

Obviously surprised by the change in subject, Emily's head flew up, her lashes fluttering as she focused on him with an intensity that pierced him. “Excuse me?”

He'd come this far. There was no use backing down
now. He took a deep breath and plunged onward. “Lord Moreland. He proposed to you, I assume?”

“If it's any business of yours, yes, he did.”

“He isn't good enough for you, Em. You deserve someone who will love you and set you free to be yourself. Moreland would smother you inside of a week.”

“And you're so concerned for my welfare and what sort of man I deserve? I'm certain I can't see why you should care.” Her tone was haughty, leaving him in no doubt that she didn't appreciate his observation.

“I will always be concerned for your welfare, Emily. I will always care.”

At that, some of the starch seemed to seep out of her. “I thank you for your concern. But I haven't exactly told him yes. I only said I would think about it.”

Which meant she was considering it. Bloody hell.

Reaching out, Peter caught Emily by her elbow and pulled her toward him until only an inch of space separated them. “Do you love him?”

Her eyes widened and locked with his for a small eternity. Her hands fluttered up to rest against his chest, the warmth of her palms scorching him, even through the material of his shirt. “What?” she choked out.

“It's a simple question. Do. You. Love. Him.”

Her chin went up at a mutinous angle and she tightened her mouth into a thin line, refusing to answer.

It was all the provocation Peter's temper needed. With a stifled curse, he hauled her onto his lap and kissed her with savage need.