The Daughter of an Earl (21 page)

Emily visibly cringed, as if their failure would be another blow to his face.

Brett broke the silence. “Yes. That is exactly what they will get. However, it might take a little more time for justice to be meted out.”

Marsh's good eye darted between them. “The portfolio? You do not have it? Was it stolen? The trunk lost?”

“They were not in the false bottom of Jason's trunk,” Emily said, and splayed her hands helplessly. “Jason's sister, Miss Patricia Branson, said the compartment was empty.”

Marsh closed his eyes and sank back into his pillow.

“All is not lost, Marsh. We will recover it. And . . .” Brett trailed off, a sudden idea striking him. He turned to pace, caught up in his excitement. “If Drummond is behind this attack and is responsible for destroying your reputation, I believe he made a crucial mistake in attacking you a second time, this time physically—”

“What?” Marsh sputtered, wide-eyed. “My pardon, but do you mean
Lawrence Drummond
, the viscount's former colleague is behind this attack? And you suspect
him
of maligning my reputation? I do not understand. He urged the viscount to flee, sought to protect him after the attacks on his life.” Marsh pressed a frail hand to his temple.

Brett stopped and arched a brow at Emily. He left the decision on what she wished to confide to her.

She drew a deep breath and forged ahead. “We have reason to believe Lawrence Drummond is the man whom Jason identified as having embezzled from the East India Company.” She briefly summarized how they had arrived at their suspicions.

“But why would he betray the viscount? They were friends. What is his motive?” Marsh said.

Bloody motive again
. Devil take it, he should have examined Drummond's motivation earlier. Hoped that Daniel was successful in his search to do so. “Greed is usually behind embezzlement,” he echoed Daniel's response.

Marsh nodded solemnly. “As the Good Book says, ‘The love of money is the root of all evil,'
Timothy
6:10.”

“Yes, err, very true.” Brett could cite scripture as pathetically as he could read Latin, which is to say, hardly at all.

“You were saying earlier that if Drummond is responsible for this attack on Marsh he made a mistake? What do you mean?” Emily said.

“Because why search Marsh's house if Drummond has all the incriminating material in hand? Why take that risk?
I think Emily's persistence in searching for Jason's ledger has Drummond fearing that there may be something still circulating that could incriminate him. That is, if he is indeed the guilty man we believe him to be.”

“And Mr. Drummond is offering to assist me to thwart my finding this evidence?”

“What is this about Mr. Drummond's offer of assistance?” Marsh grimaced as he sought to frown.

Brett apprised Marsh of Drummond's offer, and then continued. “We knew that already, but we assumed Drummond had no plans to search himself, while assuring you that he was working diligently on your behalf.” He again paced as if to stay ahead of his churning thoughts.

He summarized Drummond's movements to date. “We believe that Drummond first collected all the business papers in Jason's trunk and destroyed any files pertaining to Jason's work at the company. Drummond then ostensibly tarnished your reputation, preventing you from speaking for Jason or against Drummond should you have had any damaging information. In essence, Drummond took care of anything or anyone potentially harmful to him.”

He stopped and grinned at Emily. “Then you came along and began digging into his buried secrets. Now he is afraid. I think he fears Jason's letters have steered you toward new information that only you are privy to, and he is desperate to acquire this information before you.”

“So we are now searching for the same incriminating information, but are at cross-purposes with each other?”

“I think so, which raises the stakes, as you are now competing against the other.” He frowned, remembering another race for information that he and Daniel had found themselves engaged in—and the dire consequences of that. Unconsciously, he rubbed his now-healed broken arm. At least he and Emily knew what they were searching for, an advantage he and Daniel had not had. It was something.

“But where
is
the portfolio? Drummond does not have it, it was not in the trunk, and I do not have it,” Marsh said, frustration lacing his words.

“There is one more lead to follow,” Emily said. “You did say Jason's valet was the only other person cognizant of this false bottom in the trunk?”

“Winfred!” Marsh's good eye locked on Brett. “You must find him and warn him that he is in danger. The thugs who waylaid me might go after him next. If you are thinking of speaking to him, Drummond might have similar thoughts, particularly if he is monitoring your movements.”

Emily gasped. “Of course. We should have considered that.” She shot Brett another chastising look, as if he should have had the foresight to know that as well. “I forgot to tell you that Patricia Branson gave me Winfred's address. Patricia told me her brother had procured a post for Winfred with Lord Halford's eldest son. Halford is hosting a ball tomorrow evening. I hope to speak to Winfred then, but I will send a note of warning to him immediately.”

“Another ball.” He sighed and grimaced.

Ignoring him, Emily addressed Marsh. “Winfred also tried to talk to me at Jason's funeral. I think he wanted to confide something that I was not ready to hear.”

Brett frowned. “You did not mention that either.”

Her eyes lifted to his and then away. “Yes, well, I do not like to revisit that time, so I have not done so until recent discoveries have forced me to look more closely. I should have recalled—”

“No,” he said, cursing himself for being obtuse. “Do not punish yourself for not being able to process information at your fiancé's funeral. For grieving,” he added softly. “We will speak to Winfred. He can then share whatever it is that he wished to confide to you all those years ago.”

Her brow furrowed, but she nodded. “Yes, you are right.”

“I remember something as well,” Marsh said. “Winfred mentioned to me on the voyage home that he saw Drummond leaving Jason's rooms shortly before Winfred had found Jason . . . er . . . ah, Jason dead,” he stammered, glancing uncertainly at Emily before forging on. “Winfred had forgotten about it in the chaos of the ensuing events. Winfred also
said that Drummond's valet had told him that Drummond had supplies of opium.”

“Good lord,” Brett breathed. “That is damning indeed.”

Emily's lips parted and she looked wide-eyed. “I need to get Winfred to confirm that.” She turned to Brett, excitement brimming in her eyes. “We need to convince Winfred to speak to Drummond's valet, to convince him to come forward. To give this statement to a magistrate and see what other information he may have.”

Brett smiled. “We do, and we will.”

“Do you think Drummond might have given the drug to the viscount, pressed it upon him?”

Emily cleared her throat and looked at Brett, as if she sought his support. He gave her an encouraging nod. “I think that is exactly what he did. And it is now even more imperative that we speak to Winfred.”

His Athena
.

Marsh audibly swallowed. “I see. Mr. Drummond will have much to answer for come Judgment Day, breaking two of the Lord's commandments.” He met Emily's gaze. “I trust you shall prevail. However, allow me to offer my services as well. What can I do? There must be something.”

Before they could respond, there was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Marsh returned carrying a large tea-laden tray.

“Tea and biscuits. Oh, thank you, love,” she said to Emily, who had hurried over to relieve Mrs. Marsh of her burden and assist her in setting it on a corner table.

Brett answered Marsh. “There is something that would be of great assistance to me. If you can provide the names of anyone else who worked with you and your late colleague on that troublesome project, that would be most helpful. It might be wise to speak to them, or to those who have returned from their posting abroad.”

Marsh nodded. “Right, sir. I will think on that. They might have information I do not.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Brett said.

“Mind you, Mr. Curtis assured me that you are to take
all the time you need to recover. Is that not right, Mr. Curtis?” Agatha Marsh said as she handed Brett his cup of tea.

Brett hated tea, preferred coffee, but accepted it with a smile. “Of course. Marsh, do not return to work until you are fit to do so. That is an order. That is another nonnegotiable point.”

Mrs. Marsh beamed. “See, Bertram. Mr. Curtis wants you to take care of yourself, and I shall be seeing that you do just that.” She fussed over his pillows, and then handed him his cup of tea.

Brett used her distraction to toss his tea into a nearby plant. It was mostly water, and the plant thirsted for it, appearing as beaten down as Marsh. He caught Emily's frowning rebuke and shrugged, unrepentant. Emily might maneuver him to do many things, but he would be damned if she turned him into a tea drinker.

The small act of defiance reminded him that he remained in control of certain parts of his life. That was a good thing, because she was wearing his defenses down and eroding barriers he had erected years ago. It left his battered heart exposed—and worse, vulnerable.

He did not want to fall in love with Lady Emily Chandler, but it might be too late.

I
CANNOT
believe that you have talked me into this,” Brett grumbled.

Emily lifted her skirts to descend the narrow, dimly lit stairwell ahead of him. The flickering light cast from a maid's lantern was all that illuminated their passage. She tossed Brett an aggrieved look over her shoulder. “Should I have arranged for Winfred to meet us outside in the shrubbery? Or in the library where anyone could stumble upon us?”

When she reached the bottom, she turned to face him. “Besides, I needed to separate you and Melody. If she mentioned
the good Mr. Jenkins
again, you might have throttled her.”

Brett hurried down the last steps, but paused at her comment. “She was doing that deliberately.”

“Of course she was. And as amusing as it was, the steam pouring out of your ears looked dangerous. Really, you need to trust Melody to take care of herself.” Jenkins had delivered some papers to Keaton House yesterday afternoon. He
had stayed to take tea with Daniel and Brett's sisters, all whom he knew from his time in the Boston office.

“I have no choice, do I?” Brett muttered. “She never listens to me. Reminds me of another young woman I know. Perhaps you two should be separated. I think . . .” he began and then broke off. “We digress. Shall we continue?” He flashed the maid one of his disarming smiles.

“Ah . . . er . . . yes, sir,” the young girl stammered, and then turned to lead them down a corridor lit with a single oil lamp that was perched in a nearby sconce.

Emily rolled her eyes, bristling at the gleam of amusement in Brett's.

The maid stopped and knocked on one of the doors lining the corridor. When the minutes crawled by without a response, she knocked again. “Mr. Winfred?” Silence answered her.

Emily frowned, quite certain that Winfred's note had directed them to meet him at his rooms at eleven o'clock. He had even solicited the help of a footman to locate them at the ball and direct them to this downstairs maid. She had been waiting to escort them to Winfred's rooms in the basement, where he lodged with the other male servants.

So . . . where is he? Had Drummond already gotten to him?

She had not seen Drummond at Halford's, despite keeping a vigilant watch for him, even soliciting Julia's help to do so. Her sister's delight gave Emily a twinge of guilt, which deepened when Julia assured her that if Drummond was present, he would not escape her notice.

But why was the valet not answering his door?

She struggled to keep her worries at bay as the silence echoed.

“If you will excuse me, may I?” Brett nodded to the door.

“Of course, but I do not think he is here. Perhaps Master Halford required his services,” the maid said apologetically.

Brett bent and ran his finger along the doorframe.

Only then did Emily notice the slivers of splintered wood that surrounded the lock. She drew a sharp breath.

Brett inspected the scraped area and his glove came away
with fine splinters. He straightened. “We are too late.” He gestured for them to step back and barred their advance with his arm. His expression somber, he turned the brass knob and gave the door a gentle prod, but it swung open easily. “Winfred's not here, but someone else has been.” He opened the door wide to reveal the upended room.

The maid gasped, and Emily groaned. Winfred's room did not contain the bric-a-brac of the Marshes' drawing room, being more sparsely furnished, but the few possessions belonging to the valet, predominately books, were scattered across the floor. The drawers of two bureaus jutted out, clothes spilling over them. The bedclothes looked riffled through, their pillows on the floor.

She had wanted justice for Jason, but at what cost? Winfred's life? Or threats to Bertram Marsh and his aunt?

Or . . . to
Brett
?

She lifted her gaze to his handsome features, and her knees weakened. The price was too high. Perhaps it was time she slammed Pandora's bloody lid closed and locked it. Jason had been dead and buried for nearly four years, his reputation outside the company was safeguarded, and she had no evidence implicating Drummond. Was she on a fool's quest that was endangering everyone who became involved? What about her family? Or heaven forbid, the twins?

“Emily?”

She blinked, struggling to calm her runaway thoughts. Brett took one look at her expression and guided her to a chair in the corner of the room, sitting her down. He disappeared, but soon returned to press a glass into her grip, cupping her hands around it.

“Drink this.” He pressed his fingers beneath the tumbler and urged it toward her.

It was water and refreshingly cold. It slid down her throat and washed away her grim train of thought. She finished every drop, lowered the glass, and drew a shuddering breath. “I am all right.”

“Yes, you are.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his smile so sweet it nearly brought tears to her eyes.

Her momentary lapse annoyed her. She would not falter. How could she with Brett at her side? He was a safe harbor, or a sturdy anchor that, at the very least, she could use to pull herself to safety.

“Hold on to that.” He winked and turned to step out into the hall.

She strained but failed to decipher the low murmur of voices. She clenched her jaw, determined to remind Brett that she may have faltered, but she had not fallen. She was quite capable of hearing whatever news was being imparted. In a minute, she would tell him that in no uncertain terms. Maybe a few minutes. She cursed herself for being a coward masquerading as a brave crusader.

“Winfred is all right.”

“What?” she gasped, her gaze searching Brett's.

He carried the maid's lamp, its light casting flickering shadows on the wall. He set it on the bedside table and closed the door. “A colleague of Winfred's, another footman who shares this room with him, said they were together when they discovered the room had been broken into. Winfred had asked this young man to meet us and convey Winfred's apologies for needing to flee.”

“But where did he go?”

“Therein lies the rub,” Brett said, frowning. “His friend did not know, but said Winfred would get word to him when he could. Winfred's only instructions were to not report this incident until the footman had given us Winfred's message and time for us to leave his room unseen.

“I gave the gentleman my card and instructed him to contact me as soon as Winfred resurfaces, and the footman promised to keep his confidence about our visit. I asked for a quarter of an hour before he reports this to the housekeeper, so we have a few minutes. But if there was anything to be found, I am sure whoever did this has located it,” he finished, his gaze shifting over the disarray.

Worry segued into annoyance. “For goodness' sake!” she huffed. “Winfred could not take a few minutes to give us a by-your-leave himself? If the culprits had already left his room,
why did Winfred have to flee so soon? I did tell him what I had to discuss was important.” She slipped off the chair and snatched up a handful of books, irritably shoving them into the bookshelves. “I do not think that is too much to ask after all that Jason has done for him. I do not—” She snapped her mouth closed when Brett caught her hand and extracted the novel she held.

“Have a care. These poor tomes are innocent. But you are right, it is not too much to ask,” he gently agreed. Disregarding his pristine black evening clothes, he settled on the floor beside her. He set the book on the shelf. “Do not worry. Winfred cannot disappear entirely. I have tried to do so when Melody has been harping at me, and it is impossible. I promise you, he will turn up somewhere.”

She scowled and handed him another book. The quiet task of restoring the shelf calmed her. They worked in companionable silence. “Do you think whoever tossed this room found Jason's ledger? That Winfred had Jason's portfolio after all?”

“I do not know. We will have to wait until we speak to Winfred.”

She nodded, struggling to overcome her frustration and disappointment. “I am not good at waiting,” she muttered. When Brett did not respond, she turned to him. He was fingering a book in his lap and smiling as if he had discovered a long-lost friend.

He glanced up and grinned. “It is Dafoe's
Robinson Crusoe,”
he murmured. “In it, Crusoe refers to his island as the
Island of Despair
. When I was first shipped back here for school, I wrote to my mother and told her that was what I thought of England, and I pleaded for her to send a ship to rescue me with all due haste.”

Her heart twisted at the image of a young boy shipped a continent away to attend school in a foreign country—without family, friends, or . . . a title in a world where rank reigned supreme.
The Island of Despair.
“You must have been very homesick.”

Her soft tone caught his attention, and he snapped his
eyes to hers. In that typically dismissive way men had about displays of emotion, he shrugged and hastened to assure her that he carried no lasting scars. “It was not as bad as all that. I met Daniel and soon after Drew arrived. I read this aloud to Drew, and it was his favorite book. That is, until Daniel and I started calling him Friday.” Grinning, he returned the book to the shelf.

“You read the book out loud to him?” She again questioned Drew's intelligence, or lack thereof, and wondered if his cousin
was
illiterate. Her suspicions grew when Brett avoided her eyes, and his lips compressed into a tight line.

“I did. Hasn't Julia ever read to you?” There was a challenging edge to his query.

Surprised, she did not immediately reply.

He swept to his feet and held a hand out to her. “We should leave. Each minute we stay, we court scandal should we be discovered.”

The chance to respond had passed. Clearly, he was done reminiscing. She pondered his reaction to the innocuous question as she allowed him to assist her to her feet.

Prescott's disappearance was part of a larger picture, and the details about why Brett sought to find him were missing with his cousin.

“Speaking of Prescott. Have you located him? Or received any word from him?” she said lightly. “I fear I have not upheld my end of our original bargain in giving you time to look for him. You have been too busy assisting me. But while we are forced to wait for Winfred to reappear, you will have time to renew your search.”

“That is not necessary,” he said. “Like Winfred, Drew will be in touch with me when he is ready.” He collected the lantern, opened the door, and waited for her to precede him.

“What makes you so sure that he will do so?” She fell into step behind the maid, who had waited to escort them back.

“Because I have something he wants. Badly.”

“Haversley's A. W. Grant painting in which your cousin was interested?” she prodded, waiting for him to ascend the
narrow staircase. He glanced at her, clearly surprised that she had remembered the painting.

“Exactly.” He grinned, and then climbed the stairs.

“You bought it for him? Why?”

“Because he was unable to do so himself.”

At his enigmatic response, she pressed him further. “Why will he contact you about
that
particular painting? Is it valuable?”

Brett's snort drifted down to her. “Hardly. It is worthless. In fact, I am certain it is a forgery.”

“I do not understand. Why on earth would your cousin contact you over a forgery?” she said, baffled.

“Because it is in his best interest to do so.”

He stopped at the top landing. “We should not come barreling out together. I will go first, and you should follow a few minutes later—once the maid determines that no one is about.”

He opened the door and returned the lantern to the maid. The maid wisely held her counsel before she followed Brett out. Halford trained his servants well.

Emily exhaled an exasperated huff. Brett was finished with the subject, or had finished telling her what he wished to share.
Secrets
. She thought she knew the man. Seeing him at his office, the docks, with her family, and intimately with her. She was discovering she did not. Or rather, there was so much more she did not truly know.

She knew nothing of his past. Of the young boy tossed into a sea of aristocrats and forced to swim—or drown. He had loved and lost an Englishwoman. And this mystery surrounding his cousin. They had shared some passionate moments, but nothing more. She frowned.

Wasn't that all she wanted?

It was the stipulation to their alliance and the seduction that she had embarked upon. It annoyed her that she should now be questioning it.

Emily blinked at the blaze of light when the door opened.

“It is all right, mum. You can slip out now,” the maid said.

Emily was grateful for the interruption, her thoughts confusing her. “Thank you, I appreciate your assistance. If you do hear anything, anything at all from Winfred, it is very important that you let him know that I am most anxious to hear from him.”