The Daughter of an Earl (27 page)

He kissed her temple, and she savored the warmth of the fire and their embrace. After a moment, she leaned back to see his face. “I am deeply sorry about the shipment. I warned you to flee while you had the chance. I wanted—”

“Shh. I am not a poor, powerless clerk like Marsh. I have powerful friends. The Duke of Bedford
and
the Earl of Taunton are demanding a full investigation into the charges. I do not always approve of the power your aristocracy wields, but when it is in the pursuit of righting a wrong, well, I appreciate their hoisting their banners on my behalf. The Court of Directors, who oversee the docks, will not dismiss two powerful peers of the realm. Now then, dare I hope you braved my room to lay down your arms and finally accept my proposal?”

How easy it would be to concede. He was an easy man
to love. “I am considering it.” She did not wish to break this spell that had woven around them. Refused to let the harsh light of reality intrude.

“I see you need more convincing. Alas, I have no flowers. So I will have to do my best to romance you. To love you,” he murmured softly, pressing his lips to her brow. “I do, you know. With all my heart.”

He was good at romance. At loving her. She could feel her resistance melting.

She sighed when his arm slid under her legs, and he carried her to the bed. He lay her down gently and then with a predatory grace, he climbed onto the bed and knelt over her. Those dark, lucid blue eyes locked on hers as he leaned over, slowly untied the belt of her robe, and then spread it open. He sucked in a sharp breath. She wore another gown from her trousseau, one of silver satin that shimmered in the flickering firelight. The heat of his admiring perusal sent her pulse thrumming and warmth searing through her.

His words escaped on an exhale of breath. “You come with formidable armor.”

“Yes, well, let's hope not for long,” she whispered and lifted her arm to cup his neck and draw him down to her.

His husky laughter wrapped around her, vibrating through her body. He dipped his forehead to hers, and spoke with aching tenderness. “Love me, Emily. Be mine.”

She cupped his cheeks and spoke the words from her heart. “I do. I am.” Then she kissed him, and all was right with her world.

T
HE
days leading up to their meeting with Winfred crawled, but Emily had no complaints about the evenings. During the day, Brett was at the docks, where he reviewed the
Bostonian
's inventory with the customs officials. The goods in contention were safely secured in one of the dock's many cavernous warehouses.

The evenings belonged to Emily, to smooth out the frustrated lines furrowing Brett's brow. To curl up cradled in his arms and savor his wooing her with words of love and poetry. Brett was proving as single-minded as she in the quest of his goal, and in his arms, he made her believe in buried dreams.

She stifled the urge to giggle, because while the man might be well read, his verse was abysmal. She knew Brett was different—his poetry confirmed it. Not many men would pen a romantic poem featuring bawdy battles. If the man were not so besotted, he would see that he was making her half mad.

She would give him her answer soon—but not today. Today
they were due to meet Winfred. Over a year ago, she had reread Jason's letters and became convinced that there was foul play in regard to his death. Nearly two months had passed since she and Brett had entered into their strange alliance. It was hard to believe that after so much time had passed, that she was finally nearing her goal. Today, she hoped to collect the damaging evidence to convict Drummond. And then, only then, would she be free to consider her future.

She neatened the skirts of her dove gray carriage dress and hurried toward the foyer to meet Brett. The sight greeting her caused the smile curving her lips to freeze and her eyes to widen. She stopped short, too stunned to react. In the back recesses of her mind, she prayed Brett was running late. If he was on time, she sincerely feared for Melody's life.

A tall, dark-haired stranger held Melody tightly and swung her off her feet, twirling her in his arms. Melody's laughter rang out like chiming bells. The man's features were hidden, his head tilted toward Melody's upturned face, and his rich laughter melded with hers.

“He best be armed, because if he is not, he is going to die.”

Emily whirled to find Brett had stolen silently upon them. She held up her hands, hoping to avoid bloodshed. “Wait! There must be some explanation. Let us stay calm and listen to it.”

“Calm? Why should I be?” Brett protested, his brows snapping together. “The man disappears for nearly half a year, leaving his sisters alone to deal with their harridan of a mother, while still reeling from their own grief. While he neglects his title, his responsibilities, and disappears to who knows where, with nary a word to anyone and doing . . . ? What the devil
have
you been doing?”

The stranger stopped spinning Melody and set her on her feet. Laughter brimmed in his eyes as he straightened to his full height, which equaled Brett's. “It is good to see you, too, cousin. I am touched that you have given me a thought, because word has it that you are in far deeper trouble than I. So I have chivalrously returned to help dig you out. Please, no thanks are needed.”

The enigmatic Duke of Prescott
.

Emily caught her breath. With thick, raven black hair, rich cobalt blue eyes, and that infectious laugh, he was almost as striking as Brett.
Almost
, she loyally affirmed.

Brett snorted. “All slanderous lies. However, I am late for a meeting, so your overdue explanations and excuses will have to wait.” He caught Emily's elbow and made for the door, but Melody blocked his exit.

“Andrew will assist you. If you do not want me penning that letter to Lady Janice Wentworth, you best allow him to do so,” Melody said, a hard glint in her eyes.

“You would not dare.” At his sister's jutting chin, Brett blew out a breath, and narrowed his eyes on Prescott. “Fine. I did promise Taunton I would bring extra men with me. For once, you might prove useful.”

“I am at your service,” Prescott said, dipping his head. “You have always been there when I needed your help, so I am here to return the favor. It is past due.” He winked at Melody and followed Brett to the door. “Of course, I love to assist a damsel in distress. I take it this fair damsel is the Earl of Taunton's . . . ?”

“Daughter. Lady Emily Chandler,” Brett bit out, pausing to begrudgingly make the introductions. “As you can see, she is not in distress and is quite capable of taking care of herself. Bedford is meeting us at the docks, but an extra duke along could not hurt. God knows, your infernal country does bow and scrape before them.”

Emily covered her mouth to stifle her laughter at Brett's crotchety display of gratitude. She dipped into a curtsy. “Your Grace.”

Prescott bowed, Brett's temper rolling off him like water from the prow of a ship. “The pleasure is mine, but please, let us not stand on formality. Call me Prescott. I have yet to use my title, so it will be good practice to flaunt my ducal power on your behalf, Curtis. Again, no thanks are needed.”

“Slow down,” Emily hissed at Brett's broad back, unable to respond as Brett practically dragged her down the front
stoop of Keaton House. Her father's gleaming burgundy town coach awaited them at the bottom of the steps.

Once settled inside the cab, Brett gave directions to the driver and alerted the footmen to be on alert for anything suspicious, which aroused Prescott's interest.

“I had heard that customs confiscated one of your shipments. Is there something else I should be looking out for?” Prescott studied Brett more carefully.

“You ask a lot of questions for a man who has many unanswered of his own,” Brett said, but with an air of resignation, he updated Prescott, curtly answering his array of probing questions.

Emily could discern nothing wrong with Prescott's mind, and again pondered the comments she had overheard in regard to his intelligence. Truth be told, it did not matter. She knew the most important thing about the man—he had returned when he had learned that Brett was in trouble. That was all that counted.

“You should know, your mother passed on your parting missive to me,” Brett said, changing the subject back to Prescott. “It sent her into apoplexy, which I take it was your intent.”

Prescott shrugged. “I only confirmed all she ever expected from me. She should have been pleased, because you know how Mother loves to be right.”

“She does indeed. Well played,” Brett said, smiling. “So you did not return for a painting? For A. W. Grant's
Adrift at Sea
?”

Prescott paused, a flicker of surprise lighting his eyes. “You know about that?”

“Brett bought the painting,” Emily supplied, her mind on the enigmatic note Prescott had left his mother. She was disappointed when they did not elaborate. “But Brett believes it to be a forgery.”

“So it is. A clever young woman replicated it,” Prescott said.

Her eyes widened. “What . . . ? What will happen to her?”

“She will become my duchess of course.” Prescott beamed, clearly delighted with his choice.

“But of course,” Brett drawled. “Talent such as hers should be rewarded.” Laughter danced in his eyes.

“Exactly. I surmise that Mother will disapprove of an art forger for a daughter-in-law. As my very existence gives her enough with which to find fault, perhaps we should keep my duchess's eccentric pastime between ourselves. Agreed?”

“Eccentric pastime?” Brett echoed and shook his head. “Has the lady accepted your proposal?” His eyes met Emily's. “I have learned that it is wise to get a woman's acceptance before announcing the nuptials.”

Prescott shifted on his seat. “There are a few details to work out before I ask for her hand. We had a slight disagreement, but—”

Brett threw back his head and laughed. “Welcome home, Drew. I needed some amusement. My thanks to you for providing it. For my appreciation,
Adrift at Sea
is yours.”

“No thanks needed, but I will take the painting.” Prescott smiled.

Brett updated Prescott on family matters, and his cousin inquired after Bedford. As the two men bantered, it was clear that Prescott and Brett's friendship was a deep bond. Emily smiled because Brett might be forced to realize that not all English aristocrats were worthy of his disdain.

“C
OULD
YOU
NOT
have chosen a better meeting place?” Prescott grimaced.

They were meeting Winfred in a tavern in the Wapping district in East London, not far from Brett's offices. Dock laborers bustling to their jobs mixed with sailors and immigrants, and a chorus of foreign dialects rose above the din. Public houses lined the streets, despite the putrid smell of raw sewage from the nearby river. Emily pressed her handkerchief to her nose. The May day also threatened rain, which contributed to the bleak and depressing atmosphere.

Brett responded as they turned off Wapping Lane and onto
a side street. “Winfred chose the location. With no means of contacting him, we could not change the venue, or believe me, I would have.” He addressed Emily. “Stay in the carriage until—”

“No! He wishes to meet with me, not you. Between the coachmen, your men, Bedford, you, and Prescott, I shall be quite safe.”

Brett emitted a beleaguered sigh. “Fine, but first give me a minute to assess the area. That is not negotiable,” he added when she opened her mouth to protest.

The carriage drew to a stop, and at Brett's nod, Prescott alighted first. Brett waited until she acquiesced to his demand before he turned to follow his cousin.

“I do not see a tavern. You said the
Jolly Tar
?” Prescott said.

At Prescott's query, she opened the door to peer outside.

Prescott ventured down the alley ahead of the coach, while Brett stood a few paces from the door, surveying the area.

She glanced back toward Prescott, who began to return to the coach. Suddenly, his eyes widened and he frantically waved his arms. “Behind you, Curtis! Get down!”

Emily gasped as Prescott broke into a mad dash in their direction. Before she could react, Brett lunged and slammed the carriage door shut, causing her to stumble backward, nearly tumbling to the floor.

“Go!” Brett bellowed. The sound of his fist pounding the coach's side, urging it to move, echoed in her ears.

When she regained her balance, she scrambled toward the door and grasped at the latch with unsteady hands.

The handle was ripped from her fingers in the wake of an explosive pistol shot. The noise caused the horses to startle with whining cries, and the abrupt jerk forward upended her to the floor.

The bellowing commands of the coachmen, who fought to calm the animals, drowned out her cry.

“Don't shoot! Hold your fire!”

She recognized Daniel's authoritative voice.

“I want them alive. Follow them! There were two!”

“Brett!” Emily cried. Shouts, pounding footsteps, and the jangle of the horses' harnesses and clacking hooves rent the air.
Brett.
When the coach rolled to a stop, she scrambled to her feet and tore at the latch, but it was yanked open from the outside.

Prescott stood outside, his eyes sharp as they roved over her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course.” She pressed a hand to her thundering heart. “Brett?”

Grim-faced, Prescott pursed his lips, but made no reply. He reached in and pulled the steps down, bounding into the cab. “Lift him up to me.”

She stumbled onto a seat, her shaking legs unable to support her. Her hands rose to her mouth.

Prescott grasped Brett's unconscious form under his arms. Daniel and another man hefted up Brett's prostrate figure from the outside.

No!
The protest sprang to her lips, a prayer from her heart.

Prescott laid Brett on the carriage seat, his long legs dangling off the side, his blood-soaked cravat tied around his head.
Not again
. She fought to draw breath, her chest tightening.
Please.
She could not do it again. The pain. The loss. The grief. Fear was like long talons sinking into her, biting deep, pressing her down.