The Daughter of an Earl (12 page)

“So was I,” he said tightly, and then shrugged. “It was a long time ago. Not everyone is fortunate to have what you had with your fiancé. He must have been a very special man.”

“He was. Very special.” She swallowed, disconcerted to have Jason enter this conversation like a third party interrupting an intimate tryst. For the first time, a flicker of irritation arose within her.

Jason was dead, and she was alive, very much so. She had not felt this alive in a long, long time.

But Brett did not want her, or rather, like herself, was not willing to take the risk of loving another again
or
—he feared Daniel and her father would kill him should he become involved with her. There was
that
. She gnawed on her lower lip.

She would never again have what she had with Jason. This had to be enough for her. Passion. Desire. A man to hold her . . . to touch her. To remind her that she was alive and a desirable woman.

Not any man, but
this
man.

This strong, vibrant man who was turning her down. And he thought
her
stubborn. There was only one course of action left to her. She would simply have to remove his reservations.

To seduce him.

She caught her breath at the brazen thought, waiting for her conscience's appalled protest to erupt. The denials never came.
Well then.
Brett had said she had too many hidden weapons at her disposal. It was time to deploy them.

The man would never know what hit him.

A small smile curved her lips.

Brett held up his hands and stumbled back a step. “Now what are you planning? As I have said before, I have three sisters; I recognize guile when I see it.”

She laughed. “You poor man, always under siege from women. I do not know how you weather it.” She turned her back on him, speaking over her shoulder. “We should return. If you have no plans to offer for my hand, we cannot be caught alone in here. You would not survive the scandal of
that
. As you know, my father does have a pair of Manton revolvers and would be delighted to use them if it meant seeing me married.” She grinned at his groan, but did not wait to see if he followed her when she headed back toward the ballroom.

She kept her smile in place, but prepared for battle. She anticipated an easy conquest. Then she would seize all his assets and demand a full surrender. Heat suffused her at the memory of the strength of his muscular body flush with hers. She sighed.

He had fine assets indeed.

W
HERE
are we meeting this clerk?” Brett asked Emily, refusing to shift or fidget in his chair despite the unfortunate fit of his trousers. He should be immune to the torment as it was a permanent affliction ever since Emily had presented him with her ludicrous proposition. His hand tightened on his knife. The woman was going to be the death of him if her father did not kill him first. He valued his life, or did so when his body was not in this pulsating state of pain.

He reiterated to himself what he had been repeating like a child reciting a rote passage.
It was the right decision.
And an honorable one.
Despite unleashing all sorts of carnal images in his dreams, in the light of day, he was a gentleman, or was raised to be one. And she was a
lady
. He could not dishonor her so—even as his body screamed for release from a prison of his own making.

She looked so angelic in a lovely yellow day dress. The sun streamed over her and created a halo effect above her golden hair. Who would have thought there was a conniving she-devil beneath her prim and proper exterior?

They were seated at the dining room table as they broke the fast, alone except for Jonathan and the bustle of footmen. Petie, Taunton's eagle-eyed housekeeper, was also flitting about somewhere. She made her presence known with an occasional throat-clearing, do-not-forget-that-I-am-near warning. His sisters were having a lying-in after their exciting evening, and Taunton had eaten earlier and retired to his study. Brett was grateful for the reprieve, feared his lustful thoughts were branded on his brow.

Jonathan had abandoned his meal to engage his toy soldiers in a battle beneath the table. His occasional cries of gunfire were the only noise to break the silence that had settled between them. As he regarded her, Emily ever so slowly licked crumbs from her mouth. He was mesmerized by the slow and sensual movement of her pink tongue sliding over her full lips until she . . . smiled.

The blood drained from his head. She had done that on purpose! He stiffened, or the parts of him that were not already in that particular condition did so.

Jonathan's soldiers should shoot him now. Put him out of his misery.

“He said he would meet us in Hyde Park,” Emily said, answering the question he had posed earlier.

Having no recollection of what it was, he prudently held his silence and nodded curtly. Better to look the fool than to open his mouth and remove all doubt.

She glanced at his untouched plate. “You are not hungry?”

“I do not have much of an appetite.” He cursed the hoarse croak in his voice.

“Pity. Cook's sausages are delicious.” Emily's eyes never left his as she speared her fork into one, lifted the succulent meat to her mouth, and bit in.

Bloody hell. He gritted his teeth, swallowing his protest as she slowly chewed.

“Surrender or die!”

Jonathan's bellow shattered his immobility. He dropped his knife.
Enough
. “Look, I surrendered, and it is time you
did the same. You need to lay your weapons down, because if you are not careful, one is going to misfire and get both of us killed.”

“Weapons?” Jonathan's tousled head poked up from beneath the table, and he scrambled to his feet. “Do you have weapons?” Disappointment clouded his features as he surveyed the table. “I do not see any.”

“Oh, they are here all right,” Brett said.

Jonathan looked perplexed. “Where?”

Emily intervened. “Nowhere. Mr. Curtis has an active imagination. In fact, maybe he will play war with you? Oh, my mistake, he prefers not to battle, is wary of engagements that involve an element of risk, even if the rewards of victory might be worth fighting for.” She aimed a challenging look at Brett.

Damn her. Was she questioning his bravery? Or his masculinity? He feared it was both. “My apologies, Jonathan. I am already engaged in a battle of a different sort with your sister, and it is not wise to engage in a war on two fronts at the same time.”

“What sort of battle?” Jonathan frowned. “She doesn't have a sword.”

“But Mr. Curtis does,” Emily quipped, a spurt of laughter escaping her. At Jonathan's blank look, she relented. “Mr. Curtis believes he is at war with me, but he is mistaken. I am not his enemy.”

“Then who is?' Jonathan scratched his head.

“Himself.” Emily rose to her feet, forcing Brett to his. “Enough talk of war. We need to go change, because Mr. Curtis has offered to escort us for a brief sojourn to Hyde Park before his sisters awaken.”

“Can I bring my sword?” Jonathan asked.

“Of course,” Brett answered before Emily could respond. “I might have need of it. But do not attack anyone unless we give you permission.”

Emily steered Jonathan to the door, and Brett overhead Jonathan pose another question.

“Is Mr. Curtis bringing his sword?”

Emily glanced back at him, her eyes brimming with teasing lights, while his narrowed in silent warning.

Amused, she wrapped her arm around Jonathan's shoulders and practically shoved him from the room. “We will see.”

“But I want to see his sword.”

Emily's trill of laughter was her only response.

To think, the lyrical wave of it used to be music to his ears.

With a groan, he dropped into his seat, set his elbows on the table, and rested his head in his hands. She was formidable. He might have to call in reinforcements. He would write to Daniel and Julia to see if they could manage a visit. With the House of Lords in session, Daniel must be needed to cast a vote on some matter of national importance or other.

Emily would be forced to behave with her sister around. Wouldn't she? He did not know. He had no idea what crossed through the woman's mind.

He would draft that letter to Daniel.

Reinforcements might not save him, but they could not hurt.

T
HE
A
PRIL
DAY
was brisk and overcast. March's chilling bite lingered, belying the advent of spring. Being late morning, Rotten Row was quieter than the midday hour when Londoners, willing to brave the less than temperate climate, promenaded near the roadway encircling the park. As they watched the carriages and riders, they made sure to
see
and
be seen
in their fashionable attire.

They left Hyde Park Corner and headed east toward the Serpentine River. Jonathan skipped ahead, his nurse quickening her pace to keep up. Brett glanced behind to see Agnes following at a leisurely pace. He surmised she was seeking sights of more interest to her, no doubt something in long pants and a tall hat.

Brett kept his head down, his hat tipped low, not wanting
to run into any acquaintances, particularly with Emily looking so fetching in a lavender carriage dress, a becoming blush staining her cheeks. He had no interest in sharing her. Despite his intentions to keep his hands to himself, that did not mean he wanted to steer her anyone else's way.

“There he is,” Emily said, catching his arm. “He . . . he looks unwell.” Worry furrowed her brow beneath the brim of her bonnet.

He glanced up to see a gaunt man walking with a cane, his gray overcoat dwarfing a diminutive frame. Brett gave her hand a squeeze before it fell to her side, and they awaited the middle-aged man's approach. There was a wan pallor to his skin, and an air of weariness as if he had walked too many miles on meager rations.

The man removed his hat and bowed. “Lady Emily.”

Emily dipped her head. “Mr. Marsh, thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

“It is my pleasure. It was an honor to work with Viscount Weston.” His gruff voice gentled. “He was a good man.” His eyes set in deep sockets drifted to Brett, his expression wary.

Brett was not inclined to set the man's mind at ease. Aware of the lack of scruples inherent in the men of the East India Company's employ, Jason's former clerk might be looking to sell information as a means to climb out of his poverty. The man looked as if he had fallen on hard times and could use a few pounds.

As if sensing the mutual distrust, Emily hastened to make the introductions. “This is Mr. Curtis, a friend of my brother-
in-law's.”

“I am familiar with Brett Curtis, or rather, his company. Curtis Shipping is a competitor of the
Honourable
East India Company.” A sneer curved the man's thin lips as he evoked the full title.

“I doubt the East India Company views any firm as competition to its
venerable
enterprise,” Brett said evenly. “However, I am here to assist Lady Emily. That is my only
business today. Please, will you walk with us and give her a chance to explain her purpose?”

Jonathan's shouts as he scampered ahead filled the silence that lengthened as Marsh assessed Brett. Marsh appeared to have assuaged whatever misgivings he harbored, because he dipped his head and fell into step beside them.

“Mr. Marsh, you asked me to get in touch with you after the viscount's death,” Emily began. “You said you had important matters to discuss with me. I was not prepared to hear what you had to say then, but I am now, and I hope . . . I hope it is not too late.”

Frowning, Marsh's gaze dropped and he fingered his cane. “There were issues that I thought you should be aware of at the time. That were important to the viscount . . .” His voice trailed off, and he lifted his eyes. “But now I do not know what could come of dredging this all up again. I do not see the point, only the dangers inherent in doing so.”

Emily's lips parted before her now-familiar look of determination settled on her features. “Viscount Weston is the point, Mr. Marsh. You cannot in good conscience believe what the company has been circulating about him behind closed doors.”

Marsh stopped short, and a flicker of surprise lit his dark eyes before they darkened.

Emily faced him down. “Please, you know he did not die an”—She faltered, but forced herself to continue—“an opium addict. I implore you, help me to uncover the truth. If you believed him to be a good man, then I know you will not turn away from getting him the justice he deserves.” At his conflicted expression, she pressed further. “I believe you are the only one who can.”

His gaze shifted between them, his eyes sad. “Lady Emily, please, you do not need this kind of trouble. Let it rest.”

“What kind of trouble?” She frowned. “What is it that you still fear? It has been nearly four years. Surely no one—”

“A tarnished reputation does not heal with the passage of time. Once lost, it can never be redeemed. Because I cannot repair my good name, I cannot get work. No one will hire a
thief
and a
liar
,” he bit out bitterly. “As a bachelor, I did not have much to lose, and I reside with an elderly aunt. She appreciates my company and my care. But you, you are a lady and the daughter of an earl. You cannot afford to lose your reputation.”

Brett nearly snorted. He and this Marsh agreed on one matter.

“Lord Weston would not care for any slander to harm you,” Marsh said. “I made a mistake in approaching you at his funeral. Please do not make another one.” He made to turn away, but paused at Emily's plaintive cry.

“I cannot,” Emily cried. She stared at him through a sheen of moisture blurring her eyes. “I let Jason down when I did nothing after you first approached me. His memory is all I have left of him, and I refuse to fail him again by allowing innuendoes and lies to blacken it. I am sorry for the injustice that has befallen you. Jason wrote of your work, and of you, with great respect. I believe you are no thief, nor a liar, but someone needed to sully your name, and thus call into question the veracity of your word.”

Wide-eyed and still, Marsh simply stared at her.

“Lady Emily is right,” Brett said. “We would like your help, and it would not come without a reward. Consider it an exchange of sorts. My company has need of honest and loyal men, particularly clerks who are valued in their work.” He extracted his silver card case from his jacket pocket, and gave Marsh his card. “Owen Jenkins manages my London offices. Tell him I sent you. The late viscount's testimony on your behalf is reference enough. We can give you time to settle in, but I hope that when you do so, you will be ready to speak with us.”