The Daughter of an Earl (13 page)

Marsh eyed the card as if he feared it was something offered in a dream.

“Thank you for seeing us.” Brett bowed and turned away, silencing Emily's protest with a warning look.

“Wait.” They turned back, and Marsh gestured for them to continue on their walk with him. “You are right. The viscount deserves justice. And as the Good Book says, ‘
When justice is done, it is joy to the righteous but terror to the evildoers
.' It would be nice to evoke fear in the individual responsible for these slanderous lies. Were you aware of the viscount's mission?”

“Jason told me he had been directed to clean up some discrepancies found in the accounts tied to a factory house in Calcutta,” Emily said. “I thought that was his mission, but I learned recently that he was overseeing the company's opium trade to China.” She shared what they had learned from Little.

Marsh nodded. “He was doing both, but his true mission was investigating the discrepancies in the accounts. Lord Roberts hired the viscount. Roberts is one of the ministers of the crown overseeing the company, and he had learned of money missing from funds used to pay for the opium delivered to Calcutta. Despite opium being a contraband drug, our government sanctions its trade with China because we have a vested interest in its sale. Merchants selling the opium are making a fortune, and our Exchequer relies on the revenue that the tax on opium brings. Its income alone practically covers our expenses for the tea we purchase from China, so Parliament is not partial to anyone interfering with that enterprise. It was Jason's job to ferret out the culprit who had the audacity to do so.”

“I take it the viscount succeeded in his investigation?” Brett said.

Marsh hesitated, then gave a curt nod. “I believe he did, but after a series of suspicious accidents that nearly cost him his life, he began to fear for it. To safeguard what he had uncovered, he copied the incriminating information into a smaller ledger, which he kept locked in a leather portfolio along with his diaries and personal letters. He then secured these items in a false bottom of his trunk.”

Emily drew a sharp intake of breath, and Brett squeezed her arm, giving her a furtive shake of his head, again warning her to silence.

“The viscount had made arrangements to sail home when his valet discovered his body,” Marsh said, and nodded to Emily. “It became my greatest honor to escort both the trunk and the viscount's casket back to England. I directed his valet, Winfred, to deliver the trunk to you, where I believed it would be in safekeeping, or rather, where the East India Company would not think to look.”

Visibly shaken, Emily drooped at his words. Brett ached to slip his arm around her waist and give her his support, but he could not. He cleared his throat. “The identity of the man who was embezzling, did the viscount confide it to you?”

Marsh looked bleak. “That is the rub. He did not. I only know that it deeply disturbed him.”

“What of Lawrence Drummond, his colleague. Did he confide in him?” Brett pressed.

Marsh shook his head. “The viscount kept his own confidence. He said he was not to administer justice himself, but turn over his information to Lord Roberts. I do not believe Mr. Drummond knows any more than I. However, it was Drummond who convinced the viscount that his life was in danger. After the viscount was wounded in a skirmish with some disgruntled sepoys, Drummond urged him to return home.”

“Wounded?” she breathed.

Marsh waved his hand dismissively. “A discharged rifle winged him. It is a common occurrence in a volatile environment. It was not serious.”

“So Drummond did not know about the trunk's false bottom?” Brett said.

“Drummond? No, only myself, and of course, Winfred, as he had access to the viscount's trunk and his belongings.”

“I see,” Brett said, mulling over Drummond's role.

They stopped and Marsh splayed his hands. “You have my address, but that ledger should be enough to at least raise questions about the viscount's death. With them, Lord Roberts might give you the audience that was denied to me. I do believe he is suspicious over the viscount's death, but without evidence of foul play, there was nothing he could do. People
believe what they see, and an English surgeon verified he died from the opium.”

Emily gasped, her hand covering her mouth.

“All Lord Roberts could do for the viscount was to prevent the cause of death from becoming public outside the company. In deference to the family, he ensured the files referencing him were sealed. I was surprised to learn you had discovered the true manner of his death. I am sorry word of it reached you, and I can only hope it goes no further.”

Emily's chin jutted out. “It will not.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Marsh. You have been most helpful,” Brett said.

“No, the thanks are mine for your confidence in me. I will not forget it. I am sorry I do not have more information, but if I remember anything else, I will write to you. I do hope you can clear the viscount's legacy in the company. As I said, he was a good man, and he deserves better.”

Emily nodded.

Marsh bowed deeply, tipped his hat, and left them.

Brett gave Emily a moment to collect herself, glancing around for Jonathan. He located him a short distance ahead, his sword held aloft as he darted along the edge of the lake, his nurse and Agnes nearby.

“There is no other course of action,” Emily said, breaking the beat of silence.

He turned back to her and noted her fierce expression. Athena, his warrior, had returned.

“Jason's reputation is at stake, so we must act.”

“His reputation within the company, that is. Thankfully, they were able to ensure the viscount's name was not tarnished outside of its hallowed walls.”

“Lord Roberts safeguarded Jason's name, the Honourable East India Company did not,” Emily corrected fiercely. She applied the same derisive sneer to the company's name as Marsh. “In addition to the ledger, we now know that Jason kept a diary. No doubt, he would document his investigation and confide all he had learned. It is imperative that we acquire that portfolio and all its contents.”

“I take it you have a new plan?”

“I do.” She lifted her chin. “We must steal the trunk from Drummond.”

A fit of coughing gripped him, and he struggled to tamp down the string of curses that rose to his lips.

Oblivious to his struggle, she continued, Athena in full battle. “We will bribe one of his servants or hire someone to break in.” She waved a hand airily. “What about that boy, the mudlark? You said he tried to steal from you?”

“And got caught doing it,” Brett said, incredulous.

“Fine, but he could find someone willing to do the job. We will have to figure out the particulars, but we need that trunk. And I intend to get it.”

“Listen to me, there will be no stealing of anything.”

She ignored his words and began to pace. “Perhaps I could cry prettily and tell Drummond that the trunk had sentimental value to me, that it was in my family for generations, and—”

“Now you are sounding ridiculous. A trunk is not a family heirloom, nor does this trunk even belong to your family. Even you with your talent for weaving tales cannot spin that one without arousing suspicions.”

She stopped, looking crestfallen. “You may be right.”

“Surprising as it is, I am sometimes,” he said with strained patience. He rubbed his hands over his face, and sighed. “Let us discuss this more thoroughly and rationally, after you have time to absorb everything Marsh has confided. It must be upsetting to you to hear that Jason knew he was in danger, that he escaped a series of accidents. I am sorry, Emily. He sounds like a brave and honorable man.”

She blinked her eyes, looking away. “Yes. Yes, he was.”

“We are not retreating, but reassessing matters in light of this new information and taking the time to determine a rational course of action. That is, a path that will not land us in Newgate for theft.”

“You are right again,” she sighed. “Landing in gaol will not help Jason.”

He caught the slight twitch to her lips, her amusement
belying her tone of resignation. That was his Athena. “Nor would your father be pleased.”

She winced, and they lapsed into a companionable silence as they continued walking, both lost to their thoughts. No doubt Emily to her scheming, while he wondered if Burke had posted his letter. He hoped to reclaim the missive. He had changed his mind. He did not need witnesses to his demise.

He had told Jonathan it was not wise to fight a battle on two fronts, yet here he was, struggling to fight off Emily's advances and his own attraction to her. In addition, he needed to assist her in clearing Jason's name. And do so before whoever embezzled from the East India Company, murdered the viscount, and destroyed the reputation of the one man who could have spoken on the viscount's behalf, discovered what he and Emily were up to. Add to that, he also had to stop Emily from committing theft and landing in Newgate. Lastly, all this had to be done before the Earl of Taunton discovered what they were up to and murdered him.

He could not win all these battles, and he did not need Daniel here to call him a bloody fool for agreeing to assist Emily in opening Pandora's box.

Hell, his being a fool was the only thing of which he was certain.

E
MILY
peered down the corridor leading to the guest quarters. The passage was cloaked in darkness, which was good because it meant no one was afoot. It was also bad, because she was walking nearly blind with the thin glow of moonlight her only guide. She wished her father had retired earlier, cursed him for keeping Brett in his office so late. Her father had probably been nattering on about some business issue on which he sought Brett's advice.

She had her own matters to discuss with Brett and did not appreciate his avoiding her over the last three days. She sidestepped a table, tugged Agnes's mobcap low over her hair, and counted the doors to Brett's room.

Over a year ago, while a guest of theirs, Brett had cajoled her into reading to him while he was briefly bedridden after his carriage accident. During that time, Agnes had sat nearby sewing, and the door had remained open. This visit would be different. Heart pounding, she braced herself to breach all levels of propriety and enter a gentleman's bedroom.
Should she be caught, she
would
be signing her name to a betrothal contract neither of them wanted.

Well then.
She would have to ensure they did not get caught.

After knocking quietly, she held her breath. A clock chimed in the distance, but time crawled, inexorably slow, as she awaited an answer.

The door finally swung open and Brett stood framed in the candlelight. “What the . . . ?” He peered down the corridor, and then unceremoniously yanked her into the room, closing the door behind her. “What is it? What are you doing here? Are you mad? We need to get you back to your room before anyone sees you.”

He started toward the door, but she broke free and stepped beyond his reach. “Most Englishmen would be pleased to have a woman visit their bedchamber.”

“Those Englishmen have nothing better to do than flaunt their titles and gamble away their estates, so they can afford to lose their frivolous, debt-ridden lives,” he snapped back. “I happen to—”

“Yes, yes. So you keep reminding me. You value your life, have a company to run, responsibilities, et cetera, et cetera,” she finished with a sigh. At his scowl, she shrugged. “So you best lower your voice before someone hears you talking to yourself and comes to investigate. Then you will be the one deemed mad, not I.”

He glowered, but spoke more quietly. “You cannot be here. Whatever you have to say, it can wait until the light of day. I will—”

“No, it cannot,” she said, dodging his advance and holding up her hands. “We have things to discuss, and you have been avoiding doing so.” She kept her eyes on his face, but his state of dress, or rather undress, was distracting. He had removed his boots, cravat, jacket, and waistcoat. The top buttons of his white dress shirt were undone, the tails untucked and hanging loose. She fought, admittedly not very hard, to keep her gaze averted from the teasing strip
of skin along the column of his throat and the V opening to reveal his bare chest.

“It is difficult to ignore your father, Jonathan, and my sisters when we are guests in your household,” he said defensively. “Besides,
you
invited the girls to Bess's Bonnets and . . . whatever that blasted shop was. I assure you, I had no interest in them purchasing more accessories, and I have no need of a bonnet.”

“I thought while they were trying on items, we could speak privately, but you chose to escape.”

“I did not
choose to
escape. I had an appointment to speak to someone about a painting. Lest you forget, your part of our arrangement was for you to entertain my sisters so I could attend to some of my own business.”

That quieted her. “Was it in reference to the A. W. Grant painting in which your cousin was interested?”

He nodded, eyeing her warily as she moved deeper into the room. “Do come in. Ignore all my warnings, and make yourself comfortable,” he said dryly.

“Oh, please, it is not as if you have never had a woman in your room before. I am sure that I am not the first and—”

“But you will be the last if we are caught,” he snarled, but hastened to amend his words. “Not that I am admitting to entertaining any women in my room—” Swearing beneath his breath, he began again with strained patience. “We will not discuss this. Or rather,
I
refuse to discuss this.”

She simply laughed. He was adorable, rumple haired and bad-tempered. A half-filled glass with a decanter beside it caught her eye. She strolled over to the table on which they sat and picked up the crystal tumbler. “Why don't you finish your drink? It might relax you. You know, it is usually the other way around, with the woman needing her nerves to be calmed.” When he refused to rise to her bait, she shrugged and took a sip. It was port. “There are other means to relax a man—”

“Devil take you!” He stalked over to her, grabbed her by the upper arms and yanked her close, his face but inches from hers. “You are a wolf in sheep's clothing. But you
forget, you are in a lion's den now, and you'd best be careful or . . .” He released her as if her skin had burned and staggered back, his expression appalled.

“Or what?” Intrigued, she sidled closer to him, laughter bubbling up within her.

“Never mind,” he bit out between clenched teeth. He snatched the drink from her, drained it, and then strode to the hearth—across the room from her. “If you have something to discuss, I suggest you do so before—”

“I know, I know. Before we are discovered and my father shoots you.” With a sigh, she slipped off the ridiculous mobcap, plopped into the large easy chair beside the table, and curled her legs beneath her.

This seduction business was proving more difficult than the murder investigation. It was ironic that when she had lowered her defenses, he had shored up his, complete with his own moat. His contained a snapping male dragon. A boat
and
a battering ram might be necessary if she wanted to approach him. Her eyes drifted to the tantalizing strip of bare skin, and she swallowed. And she did want to . . . get closer.
Much closer
.

He narrowed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. “Do not get comfortable. You are not staying.”

His voice sounded husky to her ears, which was progress—of a sort. “Pity.” Her gaze strayed toward the large four-poster feather bed.

“Emily!” he barked.

“Fine, fine.” Perhaps she had gone too far. At least he had used the intimacy of her name, rather than the more formal address of
Lady
Emily—despite its being barked in exasperation. It was still progress of a sort. “Are you sure you do not want another drink . . . ?”

That drew a reluctant grin from him. “It would take a lot more than two drinks to get me drunk.”

“Alas, I will not be able to take advantage of you. You could always take—”

“Yes, you have made that clear.” A laugh escaped him, and he shook his head. “And I have made it clear that I want
to live, so we are at an impasse. Now as to other matters, I suggest you begin before my patience ends.”

“What patience?” she muttered.

“Emily!”

“I told you to keep your voice down. I want to know how we are going to acquire the trunk from Drummond. If you are opposed to having someone steal it, how else do you suggest we obtain it?”

“We do not need to steal it because as I was mulling it over, I realized that Drummond probably does not have it.”

She furrowed her brow. “But Tristan said that—”

“He gave the
contents
to Drummond—the ledgers, correspondence, and business items. Tristan said he was keeping all personal property belonging to his deceased brother, and I am assuming that would include the trunk itself.”

She smiled. “You may be right. He would do that. So we will rob the Bransons?”

He snorted. “There will be no robbing of anyone. Tristan mentioned his sister. Are you close with her? If you are, and she has not come to town yet, you can write to her before she does so and inquire about the trunk. You can spin her one of your yarns, something about Jason having hidden your letters in a portfolio secured in this false bottom, and you wish to reclaim them. That should at least determine if they still have the trunk.”

“That is brilliant,” she said, excitement lacing her tone. “And she is still in the country, because her mother mentioned during my visit that they planned to come to town at the end of the month. I am sure Patricia will assist me, and more important, she is discreet.” Patricia Branson had chaperoned many of her and Jason's trysts. Like Agnes, she deliberately got “
distracted”
or “
lost
” for short periods of time.

“I will mention Jason's diary is in the portfolio as well,” she added. “She will understand that I have a vested interest in safeguarding any intimate confidences he might have disclosed in regard to our relations. I am sure she will turn the portfolio over to me, and as it is locked, she cannot
tamper with it—even though I trust her not to do so. Once we reclaim the items, we can deliver the incriminating ledger to Lord Roberts.”

“Before we do so, we need to speak to Jason's former valet. We need to find out if he has any additional information and if he, too, has been threatened. Jason's ledger might prove embezzlement and hopefully identify the guilty man, but we need more if we want to accuse this man of murdering Jason.”

Unconsciously, she drew in a sharp breath.

“I am sorry, Emily. I spoke harshly—”

“No, it is all right. The truth of his death still pricks, but it no longer draws blood.”

“So this Winfred?” he prodded, gentling his tone. “Do you know his address or his new position of employ?”

She shook her head. “Tristan's sister will, because the family would have given him a reference. Winfred was devoted to Jason, was with him for years. He taught Winfred to read. The poor boy thought he was incapable of learning, but Jason taught him otherwise. I will ask Patricia when I inquire about the letters.”

To shake the memories of Jason and Winfred, she stood and restlessly strolled the room. Brett had made use of the secretary desk, and its surface was buried in scattered papers. Always the businessman.

“While you contact Tristan's sister, I will see what I can learn of Lord Roberts,” Brett said. “More important, I will try to determine who was responsible for ruining Marsh, branding him a thief and a liar.”

Surprised, she glanced up. She had not thought of that. Brett was better at this strategizing than she, but his words reminded her of something else Marsh had shared. “Do you still believe Lawrence Drummond is involved? Marsh said Drummond urged Jason to leave. Drummond's real failure was in not convincing Jason to flee sooner.”

“Was he urging Jason to leave to protect Jason—or himself?” Brett countered. “If Drummond is guilty of embezzling the funds and feared the viscount implicating him, it
would be in his best interest to get rid of Jason, as well as to collect any incriminating evidence, hence his taking possession of Jason's papers.”

“You may be right,” she said, but remained dubious. Brett had understandably taken a disliking to the man, but she could not fathom the fashionable dandy killing his friend.

“So we have a plan that will keep us out of Newgate,” Brett said. “Discussion over. Let me ensure the corridor is empty before we are discovered and end up in deeper trouble than we are already in.”

“I suppose I have done enough to upset my father once our investigation comes to light.” She laughed at Brett's grimace. Unable to resist, like a predator on the prowl, she advanced toward him, amused to see him retreat a step. “Do not worry. I will protect you, I will vouch for your behaving like the perfect gentleman—despite my wishing otherwise.”

“Emily,” he said softly. He did not bark her name this time, and it sounded like a whispered caress on his lips.

Delighted, she paused but inches from him, so close she could see the rise and fall of his chest, hear his shallow breathing. He was not immune to her. It was further progress, but more important, he could not retreat further—or he would land in the fire. She smiled. She had him just where she wanted him.

Trapped.

Now she needed him to surrender. “But it does beg one more question,” she said softly.

He swallowed. “Oh? What is that?” His voice sounded as if it were scraped over sandpaper.

“If we are already in deep trouble, what harm can come from stealing a few moments together? A fleeting interlude of pleasure?”

His eyes fell to her mouth.

“You forget, I was engaged. I am not a young girl or an innocent. I am very, very mature,” she practically purred the words in her most seductive murmur.

He laughed uneasily. “Ah, that has not escaped my notice.”

She smiled. “Good. I like an observant man.” Unable to resist, she swept her finger down the strong column of his bare throat, watching his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. “So I promise you, I know exactly what I want and how I want it.” She grasped his open shirt, ignoring his fingers that closed over her wrists. He blinked at her, looking a little dazed.