The Daughter of an Earl (19 page)

“What? But that is not fair—” the feminine voice protested.

“It is. They arrived first. Come, my dear, we can do our literary plundering elsewhere. Pray tell me, have you visited Sutton's maze?”

A lilting laugh answered the suggestive tone and then, “Who is
Antigone
?”

Brett laughed, but mortified, Emily skittered out from behind the plant. “This is madness. We cannot hide in here. What was I thinking?”

“It is all right. He did not see you, only me.”

“And that makes it all better?” She shoved
Antigone
into his hands and frantically neatened her hair and her skirts. “How do I look?”

“Like a woman who has been thoroughly kissed.” At her
groan, he held up his hands and laughed again. “I am jesting. You look as beautiful, as serene, and as unattainable as you always do. But you need not worry, no one would dare accuse the daughter of an earl of impropriety behind a potted plant,” he teased.

She frowned at his choice of words.
Unattainable
. Is that how he saw her? After her breakdown, it was the portrait she had sought to paint of herself.

So why did Brett's words upset her?

Because she now knew his opinion on aristocratic Englishwomen. It should not matter, because she did not want him to look deeper or expect more from her. Of course not. Unattainable was more tolerable than shallow, broken, or worse—
mad
.

“We should leave.” Disturbed at the heaviness that settled over her like a wet blanket, she strode to the door. She did not wait for him to follow, but with his long-legged strides, he quickly fell into step beside her.

“We still have the advantage over Drummond,” he said.

“How so?” she said as they walked down the corridor leading away from the library. A wealth of oil paintings hung in multiple rows and plastered the towering walls. Her gaze drifted over them.

“While Drummond is
supposedly
playing hero to your damsel in distress, he is doing so under the mistaken belief that you will be waiting patiently to hear from him. Your being the well-bred daughter of an earl, he will expect you to do as you have been raised, that is to quietly attend to your embroidery or your social obligations.”

“You are mocking me. I happen to have a fine hand at embroidery.”

“I have no doubt you excel at everything you set your mind to, and
that
is Drummond's failing, or rather one of his many failings, considering he is a potential embezzler, traitor, and dirty, rotten—”

“I understand. But how does Drummond's ignorance of my gift with a needle and thread constitute a fault in his character?”

“Because he does not
know
you. He does not know that beneath your calm façade lurks a combination of Athena, the goddess of heroic endeavors, and Antigone, avenger of her fiancé's honor.”

The man was nothing if not well read, and he carried a little of Melody's dramatic flair. Still, she rather liked the comparison, and a responding flutter arose beneath her breasts. “What is your point?” she said.

“After a period of time passes, I predict that Drummond will apologize and look pained when he delivers the heartrending news that he has found nothing. Which is hardly surprising, of course, since Drummond is likely responsible for the files' disappearance in the first place.”

“Again, Drummond's inevitable failure helps us because . . . ?” Exasperation laced her words.

“It gives us time to search for the portfolio ourselves without Drummond hovering over your every movement. He will not watch over you if he thinks he is handling matters while you are occupied embroidering pillows or chairs or whatever you embroider.” He waved a hand airily.

“Chairs?” Her lips twitched. “Drummond has not been hovering over me.
You
have been doing that,” she teased.

“I have not.
I
have been trying to
protect
you, and—” He paused, blew out a breath, and started again. “Drummond
has
been following you. He visited the Bransons, where he inquired about you. He met up with you at Dayton's, and then appears at this house party where he knew Miss Branson had plans to meet with you.”

Disturbed at the idea, she curled her hands around her waist. “Will he stop now that he is pretending to assist me?”

“I do not know, but I think it is time for us to begin monitoring
his
movements. I have some men under my employ that I can hire to do this. I will speak to them.”

“I want to find Winfred, Jason's valet, but I did not have a chance to ask Patricia his new address. Drummond interrupted us. But now I am worried that Drummond might follow us to Winfred's place of employ. If so, he might threaten Winfred as he threatened Marsh.”

“All the more reason to monitor Drummond's movements. And Emily, should Drummond seek to meet with you again, I need your promise that you will not meet with the man alone. I cannot be with you because he does not trust me, but the lack of trust between us is mutual.”

“Of course,” she said, furrowing her brow. “I did not think this would become so cloak-and-dagger.”

“Well, let us hope we have better luck than this poor fellow.” Brett tipped his head toward a still life of a skull perched on a pile of books. Its hollow-eyed black sockets stared ominously back at them. At her indrawn breath, he laughed. “I was jesting. Do not worry, we will prevail. How can we not, with Athena leading the charge?”

“With her protector at her side.”

When he smiled, she managed to return it. They would trounce Drummond at whatever game he played. After all, the odds were against him.

B
RETT
slid his gaze past Miss Patricia Branson to narrow it on Drummond, who stood beside her on the opposite side of the dance floor. The snake was known to be the craftiest of all the beasts, so he and Emily needed to stay one step ahead of him.

He gritted his teeth, Drummond's offer irking him. No doubt the bastard imagined himself the hero to Emily's distressed damsel. He snorted. His Emily was a charging bull and woe to the misbegotten matador who blocked her path. He almost felt sorry for the ignorant whoreson.
Almost
, but not quite.

His attention shifted to Emily, who stood beside Julia and a few yards down from him. Her hair was tucked up in a neat chignon, threaded with violet flowers, and small ringlets framed her face. She was lovely. As if aware of his eyes on her, her gaze met his. He should look away, rather than stand staring like a lovesick fool, but he could not bring himself to do so, not when she moistened her lips and drew an unsteady breath.

He wished everyone in the ballroom would magically disappear. He needed them gone, because the dance he yearned to perform with Emily was not a quadrille. It was intimate, scandalous, and involved minimal to no clothing.

He dipped his eyes to the lace edging the neckline of Emily's emerald gown. Its plunging décolletage teased him with the rise and fall of the creamy swells of her breasts, and his pulse raced. He imagined pressing his face there and breathing in the lavender scent that she dabbed in the valley between her breasts. She must have read his intent, because a rose-colored blush suffused her fair skin and she abruptly whirled away—but not before she tossed him a narrow-eyed
behave yourself
warning.

He chuckled softly. Needing a distraction to douse the flare of desire, he searched for his sisters—then froze. A frigid green-eyed gaze met his, spearing him in place.

Daniel
.

Well then.
He did not need his sisters after all. The blast from his friend's glare was akin to jumping into a frozen lake. He swallowed.

“The card room. Now.”

Without a by-your-leave to his startled wife, Daniel turned on his heel and stormed off. Like the parting of the Red Sea, couples scurried from his path lest they be plowed down.

Julia studied Brett. After a beat, her eyes widened. “Oh, dear. Who is she?”

Devil take her, and Daniel, too!

They deserved each other. Both were like bloodhounds keen on a scent and right now he reeked.
Of lust. And need. And thwarted desire.
He nodded curtly to Julia and fled before he lost more than his dignity.

He had barely stepped through the doors to the card room when a tight-lipped Daniel accosted him. Daniel tipped his head in the direction of the back corner, away from the card tables, prying eyes, and sharp ears. Rumbles of masculine voices and barks of laughter filled the crowded room. Surely Daniel would not kill him before an audience of so many?

Daniel was pacing. When Brett joined him, Daniel whirled and caught Brett by the lapels of his jacket and shoved him against the back wall. “What the devil are you up to? And do not repeat Melody's blather about Patricia Branson, because you looked straight through the woman. Not so with Emily.” He stepped back and folded his arms across his chest.

Patricia Branson?
What mischief was Melody brewing now?
Brett dismissed the query. He had far more pressing problems to address. He straightened his jacket and opened his mouth to respond, but Daniel spoke over him.

“Do not deny it! I saw the look you gave Emily. Have you no decency? Can you at least leave her clothed in public?” His eyes raked the room, and seeing curious gazes turned their way, he lowered his voice to a furious hiss. “It was bad enough when you two were snapping at each other like rabid dogs. I thought I would have to rescue one of you. Now what am I to do? She is my sister-in-law, do you understand that?”

“Yes, I do, and I can explain—”

“You best hope so. More important, those explanations better involve a marriage proposal.”

“Listen to me . . .
What
?” Brett staggered back.

“You heard me. What did you think would come of this? She is not one of your doxies, but gently bred. If your future plans do not entail begging on hands and knees before Taunton, you are a bloody cur, a scurrilous blackguard, a debaucher of innocents, a sodding—”

“Oh, for God's sake, it is
not
like that,” Brett snapped. “You have it all wrong.
She
sought out
my
help and that is what I am doing, assisting her with a matter that she is investigating.” It was the partial truth, but the best he could offer.

Daniel arched a brow. “My pardon, but that look you gave her is assistance she does not need. You cannot deny that something passed between you. My jacket is still smoldering from the sparks of—”

“That is enough!” he snarled, fist clenched. “You have made your point in reminding me that Lady Emily is gently bred and lest we forget, sister-in-law to an arrogant arse of
a duke. She deserves to be spoken of with the respect you believe, and I
know
, she bloody well deserves.”

Daniel closed his mouth, and his eyes narrowed. After a moment, he uncrossed his arms and the scowl contorting his features eased. “So it is like that, is it? I knew it! Like a pair of damn magnets, were the two of you. Just facing the wrong way. In my book, that makes you the bigger arse.”

Brett blinked. Daniel never did hold his temper for long, but this abrupt face in the opposite direction had Brett struggling to keep abreast of him. “What the deuces are you talking about? What the devil has this got to do with magnets?”

“It is basic physics,” Daniel said, waving a hand. “Like poles repel each other, opposites do not. Once the magnets are correctly aligned, they fit together—so to speak.”

“So to speak,” Brett repeated and stepped away from Daniel. Turning his back on him, he swiped his hand through his hair. Hell. Daniel's innuendo unwittingly forced Brett to face the one truth he could no longer ignore.

There could never be a consummation to this dangerous dance in which he and Emily were engaged. He could not make love to Emily as he yearned to do, nor cradle her in his arms the whole night through, or roll over and kiss her awake in the morning. Something tightened in his chest.

Daniel's reference to magnets was apt. Inherent in the principle of attraction between two magnets is that they be polar opposites. And there it was. The inescapable truth. It always circled back to who she was and who he was not. No matter what they felt for each other, or what forces pulled them together, neither could change who they were.

“But explanations are still needed,” Daniel said, and waited until Brett turned back to him. “What is this investigation of which you speak? And what are your intentions in regard to Emily?”

Brett blew out a breath. “I need a drink.” He waved a footman over, grabbed a tumbler of whiskey, and drained it neat. He returned it to the tray, snatched another, and sipped more slowly. He ignored Daniel's arched brow as he struggled with his response.

In speaking to Daniel, he was not betraying his word to Emily. He had warned Emily that if confronted directly, he would not lie. And he would not. He could fob him off, but Daniel was his oldest friend, and he trusted him implicitly. More important, he could use his help. As a duke, there were resources and people that Daniel had access to that Brett did not. He could only hope that Emily understood.

“As I have told you, Emily has been through a difficult time. I will not stand by and see her hurt again,” Daniel added.

Brett's eyes shot to Daniel's. He wanted to growl that he cared about Emily's heart, too. If he did not care for her and who she was, he would not willingly let her go.

Conflicting emotions roiled through him, and he struggled to put them into words. “I have a care for her, too. Do not think I do not. I promise you, I would never hurt her. She may be family to you, but she means something to me, too. But things are complicated. I cannot ask you to understand, but I do ask you to trust me. I promise to protect her even if it is at the expense of
my
heart.”

Brett was certain of only one thing—he was not ready to sever this magnetic force that drew Emily and him inexorably toward each other. It had been there from the very beginning. He feared it always would be. He hoped when he had to break it, he survived being alone again.

“I trust you. That is, until you bloody well muck things up. And if you do—”

“I understand. It will not be pleasant.”

“As long as we understand each other,” Daniel said. “Now then, about this other matter. What, pray tell, is Emily investigating? And does Taunton or Julia know about it? More important, why the devil did Emily turn to you and not me for assistance?”

More questions without answers.

Daniel collected his own drink from a passing footman. He moved to a nearby table and drew out one of its chairs. Sitting, he leaned back, and settled in to wait Brett out.

Brett cursed his friend, who never had any patience, but chose this particular moment to find some. Before he confided in Daniel, he had one stipulation. “I need your word that what I tell you stays between us. Emily has a right to share her story when she so chooses—without pressure from you. Understood?”

Daniel paused, but then nodded. “You have my word, but if there is a body that needs burying, you best explain quickly before it putrefies.”

Brett's lips twitched. “Ah, it has not come to that quite yet. And this might take some time.”

“Fortunately, I happen to have some to spare,” Daniel said, all vestiges of humor gone.

Brett slid back another chair and dropped into it with an air of resignation. “Shortly after the twins' christening, I ran into Lady Emily at Lakeview Manor.” The tale unfolded slowly, interrupted with Daniel's inevitable curses and rants.

“Devil take you! Lady Emily is two times a fool, and you no better. You almost got killed the last time we tried to capture a murderer. Have you forgotten that? Have you gone daft?”

“Should I have left Lady Emily to pursue her course on her own? Or allowed her to seek assistance from the very man whom she is trying to implicate?” Brett rejoined and waited until Daniel snapped his mouth shut and glowered into his drink.

He was having second thoughts about confiding in his friend. In the past, Daniel's support had been unfailing ever since he had rescued Brett from one too many beatings at Dunbar Academy. Daniel had been the only English boy to befriend the lone American. But when Daniel launched into a tirade about Brett and Emily opening Pandora's bloody box, Brett had had enough.
This
was help he did not need. He slammed his drink on the table and opened his mouth to tell Daniel to sod off, when suddenly Daniel fell silent and emitted a long, suffering sigh.

“Fine. What do you need from me? How can I help?” At Brett's expression, which was nothing short of jaw-gaping
surprise, Daniel shrugged. “I know Emily, too. She is a dog with a bone when she sets her teeth into something, and there is no talking her out of it. As you say, she would have proceeded alone and could have become more entangled with this Drummond bastard. You may have been right to assist her, but wrong to not confide in me. I—”

“I had no choice. That was her stipulation before she confided in me.”

Daniel grunted. “I still cannot believe she did not turn to me, regardless of her concern for Julia and the twins. It does rankle.” He tipped his glass toward Brett. “You must be dispensable.”

“No doubt,” Brett said, taking no umbrage at the comment. Daniel only echoed his own thoughts when Emily had first approached him. “But I could use your assistance, and I am glad that I can rely on it.”

“Of course. Julia will have my head if she discovers what Emily is up to and learns that I did not try to stop her—or failing that, did not assist her. Besides, another thought crossed my mind. Perhaps, just
perhaps
, mind you, this quest of Emily's has not been detrimental. In fact, it might be beneficial. That is, now that both of us are looking out to see that she is safe.”

Blinking, Brett froze in the act of lifting his drink to tug at his ear. “Pardon?”

Daniel laughed. “Emily has changed. Just look at her.” He waved his hand in the direction of the ballroom. “She is participating in the Season, dancing,
and
reconnecting with old friends like Patricia Branson. My wife is damn near giddy. Taunton walks with a ridiculous new spring in his step, and even Jonathan senses the good moods and is behaving himself. No, I take that back. Wishful thinking on my part. He stabbed one of the footman the other day.” He frowned, but then continued. “Maybe having a quest or a purpose is the impetus Emily needed to step back into her life. And that is not all bad.”