The Daughter of an Earl (20 page)

Nonplussed, Brett mulled over Daniel's words. He wanted to take credit for Emily's transformation, but it belonged to
Jason. Emily was risking everything for him. The familiar prick of jealousy pierced Brett, and he hardened his jaw.

“Maybe having you snarling at her, rather than treating her like fragile heirloom china, as we all have been doing the past few years, has been medicinal. Perhaps, again with a heavy emphasis on the
perhaps
, having someone look at her as if she will not break and more so as an appealing woman, does not hurt her either.” His hand shot up to silence Brett. “Absolutely not. Not repeating that either.
Ever
.”

Something heavy slid off Brett's chest. Maybe Jason could not take all the credit for Emily's transformation. He remembered her response when he touched her, her abandon, and her passion. He beamed at Daniel.

“Wipe that smile off your face,” Daniel snapped. “This quest may have done her some good, but for God's sake, it is still dangerous. She is trying to prove embezzlement and potentially hang a man for a murder committed over four years ago without a lick of evidence. This is a tangled web you have woven. Do not lose sight of that.”

Brett cursed Daniel for tossing a cold dose of reality onto his euphoria.
Bastard.

“So what is Drummond's motive? What drove him to embezzle the money? And move from embezzlement to murder? The man must have been desperate,” Daniel said.

Brett blinked. He had not thought to ask these questions, and he wished they were rhetorical because once again, he had no answers. When Daniel was not being a bastard, he was useful.

“Embezzlement is about money,” Daniel continued. “The man must have been in dire straits to cheat the largest mercantile company in the world—and then, if Emily's accusations are confirmed, to kill a man to protect himself.”

“Maybe he is in debt? Is he a gambler?” Brett asked.

Daniel shook his head. “I do not know, but I will be sure to find out. To build a case against the man, it is wise to determine his motive. I can also assist you with another matter. An agriculture bill that I am supporting is coming
up for vote, and I am meeting with a few men to garner their support. Lord Roberts is one of those men.”

Daniel's words reinforced Brett's decision to confide in him.

“I take it you had a reason for inquiring about him the other day,” Daniel continued. “What is your true interest in the man? Do you think Jason wrote to Roberts, revealing his suspicious about Drummond?”

“I doubt Roberts is aware that Drummond may be the culprit in the embezzling,” Brett said. “But within the company, Marsh's reputation was blackened so well that his word became suspect when he sought to speak out to defend Jason. Roberts knows who lodged the allegations against Marsh and sullied his name. I want to link Drummond to Marsh's downfall.”

“And how exactly do you propose to accomplish that?” Daniel said, his brow furrowed.

“With your help, actually, now that you've offered.” Brett leaned forward. “I need you to ask Roberts about Jason's former clerk. Pose your interest under the guise of being concerned that your former partner has recently hired said clerk without any references. Mention that you had heard troublesome rumors about the man and wished to substantiate them because of your concern for me.”

Daniel smiled. “I can lament your American naïveté in believing in a man lacking pedigree and reference, but armed with will and gumption, can rise above any misfortune to make something of himself if given a chance.” He winked at Brett.

Brett shook his head. “It took more than will and gumption to toss off the British's yoke of tyranny—”

“And once again, we digress.” Daniel laughed and held up his hand. “I will speak to Roberts and look into Drummond's financials. In the meantime, what are you planning to do, besides keeping a chaste eye on Emily?” He gave him a pointed look.

As if that was an easy job. Brett explained about finding
Jason's former valet. “It is the next logical step. After that, I fear the trail grows thin.”

“If it does, let us hope Emily takes comfort in knowing she did all she could for Jason, and that his reputation outside the company has been safeguarded. Dare we hope that will be enough for her?”

“One can hope.” Brett shrugged, his expression reflecting Daniel's doubt.

On that bleak note, they both drank. Brett might not be able to stop Emily from pursuing her course, but with Daniel's support, the odds against Drummond tipped in their favor.

Brett's greater concern was Emily's reaction to his speaking to Daniel. He may not have broken his word to her, but he had taken a small sliver out of her trust. Brooding, he drank some more. He had done so to keep her fool head safe, but he doubted she would see it his way. Well, he would just have to make her do so.

An image of Emily's blazing blue eyes flashed through his mind. Perhaps it was the alcohol dulling his wits, but damned if he did not anticipate the challenge.

Sparring with Emily was almost as enjoyable as scheming with her, or best of all, making up and kissing her senseless and . . .

Daniel slammed his glass on the table. “Stop grinning like a besotted, daft idiot before I lose my drink!”

N
OOOOOO
!”

What in the world?
Emily quickened her pace in response to her brother's high-pitched shrieks.

Over the past few days, Jonathan had unleashed an onslaught of whining and begging to visit one of Brett's ships, so they had plans to visit the London Docks later that morning. Had her brother finally inflicted real damage with that wretched sword of his, thus forcing the excursion to be postponed? She furrowed her brow, surprised to find herself disappointed at the prospect.

She had agreed to join the excursion, ostensibly to save Brett from her sword-wielding brother, but truthfully, she had yearned to get another glimpse into Brett's world and had been looking forward to the venture. So when she rushed into the library, she was relieved to discover her brother in a precarious position, but otherwise unharmed.

“But I need my sword!” Jonathan cried. He was flapping like an upside-down fish against Brett, who had Jonathan's
legs imprisoned against his chest. “Fine, fine. I promise not to stab anyone again,” Jonathan grumbled.

“Good man. I will hold you to your word,” Brett said and lowered her brother to the ground.

Jonathan scrambled to his feet, his hair tousled, shirt askew. “So can I have my sword back?”

“You may, but remember a sword is a weapon. As such, it should be used with proper respect and wielded only in fair combat,” Brett said. He retrieved the item from where he had tucked it into his trousers behind him and returned it to Jonathan. “A man's word is his solemn vow, so if I learn that you have broken yours, your sword will be confiscated and fed to the Queen's Pipe at the docks. Do you understand?”

Jonathan scrunched up his face. “No. The Queen's Pipe?”

Brett smiled. “It is the name for the kiln in the Queen's Warehouse. Goods that are spoiled, damaged, or that the customs officials have confiscated are burned in this furnace. It runs night and day, and its ashes are sold for manure. That is, after they have sifted out the nails and other pieces of iron, as well as any valuables.”

“What do they do with the nails and iron?” Emily found herself asking.

“They melt them down and use them to make other items, like gun barrels.”

“Gun barrels? Cor, then they can shoot the thieving pirates!” Jonathan shouted.

“Ah, we are more civilized these days. Thieves and other miscreants go before the customs officials, who . . .” At Jonathan's crestfallen expression, Brett's voice trailed off. With a wink at Emily, he bent close to Jonathan's ear and spoke sotto voce. “Actually, I heard there might be a secret ship upon which they force the no-good, rotten blackguards to walk the plank at sword point. They call the ship
the Skull and Crossbones
.”

“
The Skull and Crossbones
?” Jonathan breathed. A beaming smile split his face. “I knew it! The British Navy will not let any no-good thieving blackguards get away with
anything.” He lifted his sword and jabbed it in sharp thrusts toward a foe only he could see.

Emily rolled her eyes.

Brett simply laughed. Straightening, he ruffled Jonathan's hair.

At the affectionate gesture, something constricted in her chest. He was good with her brother. He had rescheduled a meeting with Owen Jenkins to accommodate Jonathan's pleas to see the ships.

He would make a wonderful father—and he deserved to be one. When their strange, wonderful interlude wound to a close, she had to let him go. To free him to find another woman who could give him the life she could not. And she would.

Just not yet.

Her brother dashed from the room, and she cleared her throat. “
The Skull and Crossbones
is a fine touch. His grisly imagination will feast on it for some time.”

He laughed. “I thought so. He is a brave lad. Your father must be proud.”

“My father believes that like Job, he is being tested. Then he makes me promise to have only daughters.” She pressed her hand to her stomach, covering another stab of pain. She changed the subject. “I am looking forward to visiting your ship. What is this one importing?”

He smiled. “The
Waveny
delivered a shipment of timber. Our imports are predominately timber, cotton, and tobacco.”

“Why only those?”

“Those are the products England coveted during the war. Your British Navy blockaded our ports stretching the length of the eastern coast. Unable to export these goods, it opened a market for them here when the war ended. During the blockade, Daniel and I cultivated relationships with mill owners, southern plantations, and logging companies, enabling us to fill the demand for these products.”

“Very clever.” She smiled, and was unable to resist questioning him further. “I was curious. How did you acquire
the capital to finance your venture? To purchase the fleet of ships? If you do not mind my asking.”

Business matters, particularly money or finance, were not discussed in polite company, nor were they a proper conversation topic for a young woman, but curiosity overrode etiquette. Besides, Brett was an American, and often gave little heed to stodgy etiquette. He was different.
Like her.
The unbidden thought crossed her mind, closely followed by another—she was beginning to prefer different. Very much.

“My father is a partner in a prominent Boston law firm, so he assisted us with legal matters and provided us a loan of capital. We then courted private investors, both English and American.” He shrugged. “The war had ended, and nationality is irrelevant when one is begging on bended knee for their livelihood, so to speak.”

“
So to speak.
It must have been difficult to set aside your opinions of our pampered, haughty aristocrats.” She cocked her head to the side, amused.

“What opinions?” Brett rejoined.

“It appears business trumps prejudices,” she said, smiling at the teasing gleam in his eyes. “And now you are expanding into Bristol and hoping to move toward steam. It is an impressive success. Admirable. You should be very proud.”

Brett gave her a sharp look, and she marveled at the flush that stole over his features before he glanced away.

Interesting. The man must not be used to compliments, at least not from her. It was something to ponder. After all, he was good at so many things. She thought of his kisses and the interlude in the maze and—

“My pardon, sir, but this message was delivered for you. I was advised that it was important.” Burke entered the library and handed Brett an envelope.

Flushing, she watched Burke depart, cursing her train of thought. “Anything amiss?” she asked Brett, who was reading the note.

“It is from Jenkins,” Brett said, and then cursed, his expression thunderous. “Devil take it! Bertram Marsh was viciously attacked on his way to work.”

She gasped. “No! Is he all right? What happened?”

“Jenkins says he is bruised and battered, but the surgeon he sent for assured Jenkins that Marsh will make a full recovery.”

“Thank goodness,” she breathed. “How did Jenkins learn of it?”

“Baines and his mates stumbled upon two ruffians assaulting Marsh on Ring Street. The boys chased them off, Baines retrieved Jenkins, and he then helped Marsh into a hackney and escorted him home. Marsh has requested to speak to me. Jenkins says he was quite insistent on the matter.” He handed the letter to her, his face grim. “Apparently Marsh's rooms were ransacked. The only fortunate news is that his aunt was not home at the time, because she was paying a call on an ill friend.”

“We must go to him,” she said, skimming Jenkins's note. “We need to ensure that he is all right and learn what he wants to speak to you about.”

Brett nodded. “Yes,
I
will visit him and—”

“I am going, too!” she protested, glaring at Brett. “This is my fault. I dragged him into this matter, so it is because of me that—”

“I understand you feel responsible and are concerned for Marsh's welfare, but you cannot visit a single man in his rooms,” Brett said.

She bristled. He spoke with measured calm, as if reasoning with an unruly child, forgetting that moments earlier he had been explaining the intricacies of his company to an intelligent adult. She might have to revise her earlier opinion of him. Perhaps he was not that different from most men after all. “Marsh resides with his aunt,” she reminded him, “which is very respectable. I am going. I will wear that concealing cloak that I wore when we visited your office. No one can identify me in that, but it is a risk I am willing to take. His aunt will be distressed and will need a woman's empathy. I am going.”

The muscle worked in Brett's cheek as he gritted his teeth. “I cannot take you into a situation that is dangerous as Marsh's condition attests to, and which—”

“It says here that Jenkins has posted Baines and his boys to guard Marsh's rooms.” She pointed to that section in Jenkins's letter. “That should give us fair warning of any pending danger.”

“I told you,
we
are not do anything . . .” Brett began, but at her expression, he tossed up his hands. “What am I thinking? If I refuse, no doubt you will simply go on your own. Fine. Come. But you tell Jonathan about the change in plans.”

She grinned. “Fine. Now that he has given his word about not using his sword, I shall be quite safe. Do not look so bleak. You asked me to trust you. Well, I do. I trust in you to keep me safe.”

“Mmh. Why do I feel like my own words are coming back to haunt me?”

She simply laughed, and dashed off to brave Jonathan's temper tantrum.

B
RETT
FOLLOWED
M
ARSH
'
S
aunt to her nephew's room. She was a diminutive woman, rail thin, her gray eyes matching her wan expression. Upon meeting them, Mrs. Marsh had dabbed at her tears with a lace handkerchief, lamenting the damage to their rooms and the assault on her nephew. Emily had tossed him a reproachful
I told you so
look.

Emily might be right about the aunt, but he still wished he could have assessed the situation first. He should have insisted on it, but her jutting chin and
you cannot tell me what to do
look had silenced him. He shook his head, baffled to feel a smile curving his lips. She would not be his Athena had she meekly ceded to his demands. Truth be told, her capitulation would have disturbed him far more.

He shook his head, marveling at how easily she was maneuvering him to her way of thinking. Like leading an ass to water.

Brett stopped short when Emily froze on the threshold of Marsh's room, but her reaction saved him from contemplating the indignity of the analogy. Marsh's battered face
gave him pause as well. One eye was swollen shut, his lip split and twice its normal size, and a multicolored bruise distorted one cheek.

Marsh moved to sit up, and his aunt rushed to his side to rearrange his pillows behind his back. “I do not think you should—”

“It is all right, Auntie.” Marsh's swollen lip gave his words a slight slur. He patted her arm while she bent to tuck his blankets around him. “I promise you, I look worse than I feel. Auntie, would you be so good as to bring us a cup of tea?”

She straightened. “Of course. How remiss of me.”

“Tea sounds lovely. Thank you, Mrs. Marsh,” Emily said.

Brett's only interest in tea was that it secured the privacy they needed, which is what he surmised Marsh intended.

Brett noted Mrs. Marsh left the door wide open, and a maid appeared to settle in a chair just outside the room. He grunted, wishing Emily gave equal care to her reputation.

Emily had adjusted to Marsh's appearance and had crossed to his bedside. “Mr. Marsh, please let me offer my most sincere apologies. You warned me not to dredge up matters better left buried. I feel responsible for this horrid attack, and I am wretched over it.”

He brushed aside her concerns. “No apologies are necessary. You believed in me when no one else did. For that, I shall be eternally grateful.” He echoed words his aunt had said to them upon their arrival. “As to the other, well, we know what the culprits were after, but they searched the wrong place. Now with the ledger safely in your hands, we can identify who is behind these attacks. Justice will prevail, and the blackguards will rot in Newgate.” He spoke with a strength that was at odds with his battered appearance.