The Daughter of an Earl (28 page)

Daniel leaned into the cab and fired off directives. “Get him to Taunton's. I will send for Taunton's physician. I want to remain here to see if we can catch the bastards. I also need to locate one of the men Brett hired and who has disappeared. Go.”

Jaw clenched tight, Prescott nodded and knelt beside Brett to press another handkerchief to his temple.

The door shut, and the coach bounded forward, driving with increased urgency.

Prescott glanced her way and managed a reassuring look. “He is alive. The man's aim was off. Brett has a thick head,
so I have faith in his resilience.” Prescott shrugged out of his jacket. “Here. You are pale as a ghost. That is shock.” He leaned over and folded the garment around her. “Stay with me. Brett needs you. Head wounds bleed a lot. He looks worse than he is.”

She struggled to still her tremors. “How? We had so many men . . . How could—?”

“The bastard did not withdraw his pistol until he was nearly upon the coach.” Prescott clenched his jaw, his eyes dark. His attention returned to Brett, and he brushed blood-streaked strands of hair free of the binding.

In a daze, she followed his movements. His tender gesture cut through her grief and severed her stunned immobility. Her heart thundered, and a protest sprang to her lips. She needed to do that.

She refused to let him go. She would not lose Brett. He was alive. The darkness could wait. Brett needed her.

With unsteady hands, she shrugged off Prescott's jacket, and knelt beside him in the tight confines of the cab's floor space. “Let me.” She moved Prescott's hands aside, and gently brushed her fingers through Brett's hair. She gazed at his ashen features, the long lashes, and his body so ominously still. She pressed her mouth to his ear, whispering the words of her heart. “Hold on. Hold on for me. I love you.”

G
OOD
lord, is he all right? What the devil happened?”

Her father's booming voice rolled off Emily, so intent was her focus on directing Prescott to Brett's bedchamber. Sully supported Brett beneath his arms while Prescott carried him by the legs, and she hovered beside the two men—close to Brett.

She shoved open the door to his room and dashed ahead to yank back the bedcovers. “Gently!” she cried, biting her lip as they lowered Brett onto the bed. The site of his still form, pale features, and the ominous blood-soaked cravat that bandaged his head tore at her already frayed nerves.

She cursed her shaking hands as she leaned over to remove Brett's boots, but her father's grip on her arm drew her back. “I need—” she began.

“It is all right, Emily,” Prescott interceded, giving her a reassuring smile. “Let me tend to him for a minute. He is my cousin, I love him, too.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but her father's housekeeper Petie then rushed into the room and hurried to assist
the men. With reluctance, Emily allowed her father to draw her away from Brett's side, but kept her eyes locked on his figure.

“Emily, what happened?” her father said gently.

She moistened her lips to respond, but she stammered, finding it difficult to articulate the words. “He was . . . he was shot, but he will be all right. Daniel has sent for Doctor Malley. Prescott told him to duck, but he . . . he did not heed the warning because he was protecting me. He . . . he lunged at the cab to shut the door. I had opened it. Why did I open it? He told me not to, to wait inside, but I . . . it is my fault. I never should have . . . I . . .” She was babbling, could not seem to stop until her voice broke on a sob.

“Shh. None of that.” Her father drew her into his arms and held her tight. “It is
not
your fault. That fault belongs to the man who pulled the trigger. It is his alone to carry. Brett Curtis vowed to protect you, and he did. He is an honorable man, and you would not love him so if he was anything less.”

“He is reckless and foolish . . . and thickheaded,” she cried, drawing deep, ragged breaths.

“And that is fortunate considering the location of his wound. He is strong; he will come through. After all, he has you to fight for.” Her father pressed his handkerchief into her hand and drew back to smile at her.

“Well, I—”

Doctor Malley's arrival curtailed her response. She turned to follow him, but to her annoyance, her father once again intervened.

“Please, love, let the doctor see to him,” he said gently but firmly. “Brett is all right for now, but you are not. You have been through a shock. Once the good doctor finishes, you can return. Prescott will get you should he wake or you are needed.”

“Well, I . . .” Conflicted, she glanced over her shoulder, but seeing Doctor Malley lean over Brett, Prescott close beside him, she nodded. “Just for a minute.” She let her father guide her into the hall, but then whirled and grasped his arm. “Melody and Miranda!” Good lord, she could not forget Brett's sisters.

“They are at the park with Julia, the twins, and Jonathan. They will—”

“Sully must collect them. Instruct him to do so immediately. They need to be here. They will want to be with Brett should . . .” She paused, unable to finish the thought. “They will want to be at his side during this time. He must not be alone.” She pressed a hand to her head as she fought to collect her scattered thoughts. To push aside the shock and grief that warred within her.

“No, of course not. We will arrange a bedside vigil. Everyone can take a shift.”

But she needed to do more. Surely there was something she could do or she would go mad.

She tamped down that thought as well and pressed an unsteady hand to her brow.

“Here, you need to sit. You cannot help him if you do not have a care for yourself.” Her father guided her to a nearby chair and collected another to move it beside her. “Ah, here is Agnes. She will sit with you while I see how the doctor fares. I will return for you as soon as he is finished.”

She nodded jerkily. She did not like to concede it, but Julia had always been better at nursing wounds than she. She cursed her squeamish stomach and unsteady hands.

“He will be all right, miss. He is fighting strong,” Agnes said. “Besides, he needs to do right by you. Marry you properly.”

Emily emitted a hysterical laugh. The man was so bullheaded that she could almost believe he would not deign to let a mere bullet to the head thwart him. Leave it to Agnes to know just what to say to her.

She drummed her fingers on her thigh, unable to sit still, strung so tight with nerves. She was better at planning—with Brett. She closed her eyes, but then immediately opened them.

Drat and damnation
.

She should have thought of it immediately.

Brett was not safe so long as Drummond remained free.

She needed to find Winfred. She dug out the note from her skirt pocket, the one Winfred had ostensibly penned, and whirled on Agnes to thrust it impatiently at her. “I need you to return to Halford's and show this to the footman who rooms with Winfred. Ask him if this is Winfred's hand.” Emily desperately wished to go with Agnes, but she refused to leave Brett.

Agnes frowned. “You think it is not?”

“I wonder if it was a trap. Those men were after Brett. They could have killed Prescott or Daniel, but the only shot fired was at Brett.”

Agnes blew out a breath. “Of course, miss.”

“You told me you are friendly with the footman who shares Winfred's room. I know you have spoken to him on this matter before, but it is now imperative that you press upon your friend our need to speak with Winfred very soon. Each day Winfred does not come forward further endangers himself and others.”

“I will, miss. Ralf will assist me.” She winked at Emily. “I think he fancies me.”

“I have no doubt,” Emily said, a half laugh escaping her. “And Agnes, if Winfred is there, you must convince him to come here. I must speak to him as soon as possible.”

Agnes bobbed her head. “That I will, miss. I promise.”

Emily bit her lip as Agnes scurried off. It might not be enough, but it was something. She glanced up as the door to Brett's room opened and her father reappeared, waving her inside.

She almost mowed him down as she dashed to reach Brett's bedside.

Later Miranda and Melody joined her vigil. And that was where Agnes found her when she returned from her errand.

Emily turned, her pulse racing at the beaming smile that split Agnes's face.

“Winfred has sent word! He is returning tomorrow and will come here directly.”

Expelling a breath, Emily grasped Brett's hand and
squeezed. Perhaps, just perhaps, this nightmare was winding to an end.

“E
MILY
,
SIT
. B
URKE
said he would bring Winfred here as soon as he arrives, and your wearing a hole in the carpet will not expedite matters,” Julia said.

Emily turned, her hands cupping her elbows. “I cannot. That is all I have been doing. All I could do until now.”

After spending a night sitting vigil in the easy chair in Brett's room, her body had paid the price. She felt aches and pains in muscles she did not know she had. When others had shared her watch, she had been able to sleep on the nearby settee, but her rest was fretful and uneasy. Doctor Malley's assessment of Brett's recovery had haunted her.

The good doctor had launched into a lecture on the complexity of head wounds and the complicated workings of the mind. He ominously pronounced that only time would tell the true nature of Brett's injury. The wretched doctor then sought to alleviate their concerns with reassurances that on the other hand, Brett could wake up speaking impeccable Latin. She snorted. Brett's Latin was atrocious, so his prognosis looked bleak indeed.

“What was that?”

Daniel's question startled her, and she waved her hand airily, but froze when Burke appeared at the door to the drawing room.

“Mr. Reginald Winfred,” he intoned. After Winfred entered the room, Burke discreetly departed, closing the drawing room doors behind him.

Heart hammering, Emily stared at the young man. He was slight of stature, with a shock of brown hair peeking out of his hat and wide brown eyes that surveyed their group. He clutched a satchel against his chest, and her breath caught at the sight of it.

It was a large leather portfolio.

She pressed her hand to her stomach. She recognized it, having purchased the case for Jason just before he had
embarked for India. It was her parting gift, and she had even taken care to have his initials sewn into it.

Winfred removed his hat and dipped his head. “It is just Winfred. I rarely acknowledge the Reginald part, but your butler seemed insistent upon the matter.”

“Welcome, Winfred, and thank you for coming,” Julia said, keeping a straight face, but her lips twitched. “Please, have a seat. There is much to discuss.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Winfred said.

Emily took her seat on the settee beside Julia, while Daniel and Winfred settled in the chairs across the coffee table.

“Allow me to apologize, Lady Emily,” Winfred began. “I would have returned the viscount's portfolio to you much sooner had I known you were looking for it.” He leaned over to hand the satchel to her.

She caught her breath and laid it almost reverently on her lap, running an unsteady hand over the battered leather. Half of her wanted to tear it open and dig inside, but the other half of her had questions for Winfred. “Not that I am not grateful for your care of Jason's personal effects, but I am interested to know how you came to safeguard this particular item and for so long.”

“Well, it is where the viscount kept his diary and his personal correspondence. Why, he saved every letter you wrote to him. As it was private, he directed me to safeguard it in the false bottom of his trunk. When the viscount died, I thought it was right that the trunk go to you, per his request. You should have your letters back, and I knew you would take good care of his diary.”

“So if the portfolio was sent to Emily with Jason's trunk and then on to the Bransons, how did you next acquire it?” Daniel said, breaking the silence that had followed. At Winfred's hesitation, Daniel continued. “Please, you can speak freely here. You are among friends who appreciate your coming forward.”

“I was residing at the Bransons after the viscount's funeral and was there when the viscount's trunk was delivered. When I heard his brother planned to turn the contents
over to Mr. Drummond, I took the portfolio into my safekeeping. It was personal, you understand. I did not want
that man
to have it, refused to let him touch the viscount's things,” he said, sneering at the reference to Drummond.

He turned to Emily. “I planned to give it back to you. But when your father delivered the trunk, he explained that it was too difficult a reminder for you. I thought perhaps later when you were married and had someone else to care for, you might be ready then.”

Emily blinked back her tears, and clutched the portfolio to her chest. “Thank you, Winfred. You were right and kind to think of that. I shall be forever grateful to you.”

Winfred flushed, but gave a shy smile.

“You did not care for Mr. Drummond?” Daniel said, returning to Winfred's earlier comment, his tone neutral.

“No, Your Grace, I did not,” Winfred said curtly, his smile fading.

“Is there a particular reason for your opinion?” Daniel pressed.

“There is,” Winfred snarled. “I know a trickster when I see one. The man had a shifty manner about him, and he was always sniffing about the viscount's room.” He drew a deep breath, and again spoke directly to Emily, his expression contrite. “I should have come forward sooner, but I had no evidence against the blackguard, just suspicion. I also had heard what happened to Mr. Marsh when he spoke up, so I did not think anyone would listen to me, a mere servant.”