The Suspect's Daughter: Regency Romance (Rogue Hearts Book 4) (17 page)

Sacrifices…destroying an innocent man…Good heavens! Could this be a conversation over ruining someone’s reputation? Or did someone in this very house plot to assassinate the prime minister as Bow Street and Grant Amesbury suspected?

But who were the men she’d overheard? The words “our man” suggested they spoke of someone not present during that discussion. She refused to think Papa would be party to such evil. Possibly it meant some of his supporters were acting without his knowledge. But which of her father’s supporters were zealous enough—and ruthless enough—to want him in that position badly enough to commit murder?

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, she turned immediately toward her room. At the last second, she stepped into the shadows, glancing downward toward the conversation she’d overheard. It was too dark to make out anything of the forms below. She waited, but no one approached. No sound broke the silence. She let out her breath, releasing pent-up fear quivering in her stomach.

She resumed her path toward her room but checked her steps. Surely she ought to check on Grant Amesbury. As a guest in their home, he deserved her attentiveness. As her rescuer who’d injured himself in the course of his brave and selfless act, he deserved her undying gratitude and an extra measure of care.

In the guest wing, she stopped in front of his door and tapped softly.

“Come.”

At least he sounded stronger. She entered and found him sitting on the floor next to the bed, hunched over with his head in his hands, wearing only trousers and a shirt.

“Mr. Amesbury?”

He lifted his head.

At the sight of his pallor, she rushed toward him. “Did you fall?”

He scowled. “I tried to get up….”

She kneeled in front of him. “Didn’t the doctor tell you to stay abed for at least a day?”

“Can’t. Have work to do.”

“Your work will have to wait. You won’t get anything accomplished if you injure yourself again.” She pressed the back of her fingers to his forehead, checking for signs of fever.

He went very still under her touch, his eyes wary. Her fingers tingled. A shiver of awareness ran the length of her whole being. Remembering she was supposed to be checking for fever, she cleared her throat. His skin remained cool. The utter stillness about him and that sharp intensity in his gaze left her breathless. His unbuttoned shirt only opened to a slight V at his throat, but as an unmarried miss, she certainly should not view his state of dress. Heat flushed her cheeks.

She lowered her hand. “You don’t feel feverish, thank goodness, but you belong in bed.”

He growled. “I don’t have time for lying about.”

Clearly the man felt none of the same physical reaction to their closeness that currently zinged across her skin. She moistened her lips. “I’ll call a footman to help you up.”

“No. I can manage.” But his pallor and the tightening around his mouth betrayed his pain.

She huffed an exasperated laugh. “I don’t think you can, not today. I’ll help you.” She lifted his arm to put it around her shoulder but he hissed in his breath, his face twisting in pain. The she remembered. “Oh! I’m so sorry. That’s your sore shoulder.”

She moved to his other side, ducked under his other arm and placed it around her shoulders. With her arms wrapped around his waist, and after tucking her feet under her body and bracing her back against the bed, she said, “Up you go, then.”

She stood, groaning under his weight. It was like trying to lift a horse. Her muscles strained and shook. Leaning on her, and using his other hand to steady himself, Grant pushed himself up enough to get back up into bed. As he lowered himself onto the mattress, she placed a hand behind his head and guided him back onto the pillow. She pulled up the counterpane on the bed and covered him with it.

He pushed it back. “Leave it off. It’s too warm.”

To assure herself no fever had developed, she touched his face again and relaxed when she encountered cool skin. She gave into the urge to brush a strand of hair away from his face. Dark as midnight and as soft as a child’s, his hair obediently moved under her fingers. Pale gray eyes with enormous pupils watched her steadily.

Heat rushed to her cheeks at the familiarity she took with him. She cleared her throat. “I’ll leave you, then. Good night.” If he had any sense, he’d stay abed tonight. Her skirts swished as she stepped toward the door.

“What troubles you?” His voice halted her.

She stopped, meeting his gaze. “What do you mean?”

He rolled over onto his side and folded his elbow underneath his head. “You’ve learned something. About your father?”

She caught her breath. Grant Amesbury was too perceptive. “No.”

Under his probing stare, she studied the ground and wrapped her arms around herself. In an attempt to appear nonchalant, she shrugged. “It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

Very quietly, he said, “You can tell me.”

“No, I can’t. You’ll twist it around to make sure it fits what you’ve already decided is the truth.”

His stare remained fixed upon her. Was it her imagination or were his pupils still too large even for the dim lighting? “I admit when I first started investigating your father, I had something of a bias.”

She sighed and nodded.

“But I give you my word, I will carefully examine every clue and be fair. I am not on a witch hunt; I seek justice.”

She huffed and sank into the nearest chair. “Who believes this of my father?”

“Bow Street.”

“And you believe my father capable of something this heinous?”

“His name is linked to the plot.”

She waited but he didn’t elaborate. “So, someone said my father is guilty and your task to prove it.” She cocked her head to the side. “What if you find that he’s innocent? Or what, even, if you cannot find any evidence of his guilt?”

“Then I will report back such and work to discover the real conspirators.” But his words lacked conviction and something of a struggle revealed itself in his expression. His gaze refocused on her face. “What have you learned?”

She hesitated. “I don’t remember their exact words.”

“Whose words?”

She’d heard nothing condemning for her father; only a confirmation that a plot existed. Still, she hedged. “I didn’t see them.”

He said nothing, only focused those pale eyes with their too-large pupils on her, stripping away her defenses. Was he so formidable in matters of love, as well?

Heat returned to her face at the unbidden thoughts and her words tumbled out. “They were in the dark and speaking barely above a whisper. But I heard something about Lord Liverpool, and sacrifices, and destroying innocent men.”

She stopped. She wanted to confide in him about such a serious matter but feared how he’d react. Still, she had to tell someone; an innocent life was threatened.

She drew a breath and revealed it all. “And they appeared to be having some kind of disagreement. One of them mentioned ‘our man’ being the only suitable candidate once they made their move.”

His eyes took on an even deeper intensity as he mulled over her words. “‘Our man’ meaning whom?”

“My father was not one of them,” she said desperately.

He sat up and draped an arm around one knee. “No, I doubt he’d speak of himself as ‘our man.’ But that doesn’t mean he is unaware of the plot.”

“It doesn’t mean he is aware of it, either.”

“True, but you’d never admit it even if we found irrefutable proof.” He pressed his fingers against his temples.

She stiffened. “He’s my father. Wouldn’t you defend your father to your dying breath?”

He let out a snort. “My father was a tyrant.”

She stared, shocked at the venom lacing the harsh words.

Unlike his usual stoicism, he added, “He made it very clear that Cole and Christian were his favorites and the rest of us were expendable.”

“Surely not.”

“Neither one of them could do any wrong. But if the rest of us stepped out of line, he was all too quick with the cane. I got sneakier, Jared got more outrageous, but Jason…” He swallowed hard. “Jason tried so hard to please him, but he never gave Jason the time of day except to express his displeasure.” Grant sank his head into his hands and drove his fingers through his hair. He sat hunched over, his fingers still in his hair, and took labored breaths.

“Is your head causing you pain?”

“Some.” He swayed a little.

She jumped to her feet and went to his side. “Are you dizzy? Lie back down. You need rest. Such a blow to the head is nothing to trifle with.”

Unresisting, he lay down and squeezed his eyes closed. She ached to smooth back that strand of ebony hair laying over his brow and soothe him. But she’d been too bold already. “Rest now. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

He said nothing, only pressed his lips together.

“Good night.” She stepped out and closed the door.

Resting her forehead on the door, she pictured a dark-haired child desperate for attention and approval, but instead receiving the wrong end of a cane. With such highly protective instincts, he must have suffered seeing his beloved brother receive the same treatment. And then that brother had died. No wonder Grant had closed up. The inner wounds he carried from childhood had probably multiplied during the war until his only defense from pain came from layers of emotional armor. Some people grew gentler with adversity and tragedy; others grew into hardened men like Grant.

Her childhood home had been filled with love and laughter. She’d never been physically punished and couldn’t imagine her parents using force as a means of discipline. Tragedy had struck when her eldest brother died in the war serving king and country. And then dear Mother was gone. But despite the aching hole in her heart at their loss, she’d never doubted their love.

Grant wasn’t truly hardened. She’d seen too much evidence of his goodness. But he protected a soft heart behind a hard barrier. What did he hope to keep out? Pain? Unfortunately, that same barrier probably also kept out love.

She pushed away from the door and continued down the corridor toward her room. A boy of perhaps fifteen sat slumped in a chair, dressed in the tailored, if subdued, clothing of a valet. He sprang to his feet as she approached, and he trotted toward Grant’s room.

As they passed she said, “Are you his valet?”

He checked his step and blinked large brown eyes at her. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Your name?”

He glanced around wide-eyed. Perhaps he was unaccustomed to being addressed by ladies of her social status, or perhaps by women in general. “Clark.”

“Is that your first name or your last name?”

He paused. “It’s the only name I have.”

She stared, startled by his answer. Compassion overcame her for the child that must have grown up all alone in the world struggling to recall the name his mother had given him. “Clark, have you been with Mr. Amesbury long?”

He cast a glance at the door. “Since the war.”

“You were in the army together?” Her attention fell to his missing ear and the spider web of scars splayed along the side of his neck.

“No, ma’am. We met after he came home.”

She nodded, tempted to press him for information but suspected he would prove as taciturn as his employer. He proved her wrong.

“He caught me trying to pick his pocket. He grabbed my hand and told me I could either go to the constable or find a way to improve myself.” His mouth twisted in attempted suppressed humor.

Leaning forward, she waited for him to elaborate. An image of a stern Grant Amesbury issuing an ultimatum to a street urchin formed in her imagination.

His mouth lifted faintly on one side and he spoke carefully, as if practicing polished words rather than using the accent of a London street urchin. “He fed me, asked me lotta questions about the streets—thieves, flash houses, others who lived on the wrong side of the law. Then he told me he’d pay me to give him information. So I did. I had food in my belly, I did—for the first time in a long time. Eventually, he hired me to be his valet.”

“I’m sure you do an outstanding job.” She smiled and nodded, hoping she appeared interested and encouraging. It must have worked because he kept talking.

“But I’m not a real valet, not according to what the other valets tell me they do. I fetch his dinner, take his clothes to the washerwoman, keep my ears open on the streets for anything that might help him when he needs information.”

“I’m sure that’s exactly what he needs of you.” She lowered her voice, “Clark, for the next few days, he needs rest to recover from his head injury.”

“Yes, miss. The doctor, he explained that to me.”

“Try to get him to stay in bed.”

“I’ll try miss. He’s powerful stubborn.”

“I know. Do your best. Goodnight, Clark.”

“’night, miss.”

Smiling, she went to her room and prepared for bed picturing the very tough, unapproachable Grant Amesbury rescuing a street urchin. Despite his grumbly exterior, he was proving to be a surprisingly complex and kind man.

She could only hope he’d be fair enough to see her father’s innocence.

Grant took a few cautious steps forward, steeling himself against the nausea and dizziness that plagued him the previous day, but his stomach stayed in place and the ground remained level. Doctor Blake had warned him that he’d have dizzy spells and headaches, possibly even difficulty concentrating, over the next few days or weeks and to get plenty of rest. But Grant had work to do. And at the moment, he felt well enough. Truth be told, his body ached all over from the fall, but he never let a little thing like pain stop him.

“Are you sure you should be up?” Clark asked, rubbing absently at what was left of his ear.

“Don’t be a mother hen.”

“The doctor, ’e, I mean,
he
warned me to keep you abed—”

Grant waved his hand to cut off the boy’s words. “I need to get to work. This house party is my best opportunity to investigate our prime suspect, and no little bump on the head is going to stop me.”

He wiggled his toes as he pulled on his boots. With a longing glance at his trunk where one set of comfortable clothes lay, he tugged at his fashionable frockcoat and let Clark wrestle his cravat into submission, all the while wordlessly cursing the investigation that had thrown him into gentleman’s clothing and amid polite company. He’d rather be in the streets. Creeping along alleys in search of cutthroats suited him so much better than wearing fancy togs and doing the pretty with the brainless, boring members of the
beau monde
who swore by honor but lived for pleasure. Only a murder plot kept Grant at the house party.