Drummond paused, no doubt struggling to discern whether or not he was being played for a fool. The man was either obtuse or his vanity saved him from drawing such a disparaging conclusion.
“You are nothing if not persistent in your quest, soliciting both of our assistance, unbeknownst to each other,” he said.
“You did suggest I remember Jason as the man he was. These letters are all I have left of the man I knew, so you must understand my desire to reclaim them.” Let the scoundrel challenge that. She omitted reference to the diary for fear of Drummond seeing that as possessing more incriminating information.
He furrowed his brow and pursed his lips, appearing to still be weighing her sincerity. She lifted her chin and met his gaze.
“So now we must work together,” Patricia said, oblivious to the undercurrents swirling beneath their exchange. “Surely this portfolio can be located so that Lady Emily can retrieve her correspondence. After all, these letters belong to her, not the company. This portfolio must be gathering dust in a filing cabinet. Can you not search through a few? That is not too much to ask. As Jason’s friend and former colleague, how can you refuse to assist his fiancée?”
Emily bit her lip at this appeal to Drummond’s chivalry. Patricia had no way of knowing the man had no loyalty. Or honor. Or morals.
Drummond left Patricia’s plea to hang suspended for a minute before he emitted a beleaguered sigh. “Lady Emily, you leave me no choice, because I see you are most determined to have your way. Miss Branson is right. Perhaps it is time we worked together. If I promise to pursue this matter and review all the items I might still possess, as well as locate any files of Jason’s that reside at the East India Company, will that alleviate your mind? Will you then promise me that you will let this matter rest? And not burden anyone else with your request?” he said, his gaze locked on hers.
Was the man so vain that he truly believed she was blind to his duplicity? And so ignorant that he was oblivious to hers?
Drummond’s features were composed, his expression unreadable.
She summoned a smile of relieved gratitude, clasped her hands together, and lied through her teeth. “I would be pleased to accept your offer of assistance. Thank you.” The man had left her no choice. She could not refuse him before Patricia, but neither could she ever work with the villainous bastard. Nor would she abandon her course—not until the traitor was rotting in the deepest, darkest bowels of hell.
“Consider me your faithful servant.” He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “But please, do not give this matter another worry. Leave it entirely in my hands.”
“You are too kind,” she managed. His mouth was like a Judas brand on her silk glove. She tamped down her revulsion, and practically yanked her hand from his, sliding her thumb over the area, desperate to erase all remnants of his traitorous touch. Later she would wash the area thoroughly.
Oblivious to her recoil, he straightened. “Good. I am departing tomorrow, but should you wish to reach me, Clarise and I will be residing with the Earl of Dayton.” Drummond paused briefly to give his esteemed connection his proper deference.
“Is Clarise here with you?” Patricia asked.
“Of course. As her only male relative, she is stuck with my escort. She is about somewhere. No doubt taking advantage of her older brother’s lapse in vigilance, but alas, I can only rescue one beautiful damsel at a time.”
Patricia’s laughter rang out, delighted with the turn of events.
Emily’s smile was so brittle, she feared it might crack. “Perhaps she is in the gardens where I am due to meet my family. I should head there now, before they deem me lost and send out a search party, or you are forced to do the same for your sister.”
“Shall we venture down together?” Patricia suggested. “Sutton’s gardeners are gifted, and he does have that intriguing maze.”
“He does indeed. Allow me.” Drummond smiled at Emily, and gestured for them to precede him.
Emily refused to meet Drummond’s gaze, lest her flustered expression at the mention of the maze give him mixed signals. But she had a far more pressing concern. She needed to find a quiet, secluded place to explain Drummond’s offer to Brett. Somewhere that no one could overhear his explosive reaction.
“HE DID WHAT? Is he playing you for a fool?” Brett blurted, looking thunderstruck.
Solitude and quiet reigned supreme in the library, but Brett’s booming voice shattered that sanctity as it resounded in the room. She could never depend on the dratted man to behave as he should. “Keep your voice down,” she hissed.
Brett glanced around Sutton’s plush library with its inviting green and gold brocade couches, wall-to-wall rows of books, and the mammoth world globe planted in the center of the room. They were alone at present, but the open door was an invitation to anyone’s interruption. He caught her arm and dragged her behind a tall potted plant. He selected a leather-bound volume from the shelf and shoved it into her hands. “Look studious.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, because no one can see us standing behind this greenery. Or if they do, our literary pursuits will put to rest any nefarious suspicions they might harbor.”
“Exactly. Stop smiling. I gave you a tragedy.”
She glanced at her book, Antigone. “So you did. What is yours, a farce? That should adequately sum up this situation.”
He grunted. “True. The villain offering his assistance in finding evidence that potentially implicates himself is ripe for Drury Lane. You would be adept at penning an amusing tale; have you ever considered trying your hand at a comedy?”
“Melody was right; you are so very droll. Drummond is obviously convinced we have no suspicions of his role in the embezzlement and perhaps even in Jason’s death. I can only assume his offer of help is an attempt to prevent me from turning to someone else. After all, it makes sense when you consider that he shares your opinion about my persistence.”
“You mean your obduracy—”
“Persistence. I think he now understands I will not stop searching until I receive the answers I seek.”
“We could turn this matter over to Lord Roberts and ask him to investigate, now that Patricia no longer has Jason’s portfolio. Marsh did say Roberts was suspicious about Jason’s death. As the bereaved fiancée, you might be able to persuade him to—”
“Are you abandoning me?” she said, narrowing her eyes. “This is an ironic turn of events. Drummond pretends to assist me and you beg off.”
“I am not!” he snapped, then lowered his voice. “You say I should trust you; well, you need to do the same. I will not abandon your cause, but remember what happened to Sophocles’s poor Antigone when she sought justice for her dead brother.” He nodded toward her book.
“I am breaking no unjust laws, so unlike poor Antigone, no one should hang me. But if you remember, Antigone succeeded in what she set out to do. She gave her brother the honorable burial he deserved. I seek no more than to restore Jason’s good name within the company, and of course, to see that Drummond meets his own just ends should he be found guilty.”
His eyes gleamed. “I expected no less than that very answer.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Nonplussed, she frowned. His lips curved, and he brushed his fingers over her cheek in a featherlight caress. Her breath quickened and a heat suffused her. He trailed those nimble fingers over her lips, making her forget her retort.
He caressed the contour of her lower lip. “I surmise you are right and that Drummond does not wish you seeking help from anyone who might truly assist you. Someone whom he considers to be bad company, like myself. No doubt he fears my trade-blackened hands will tarnish your stellar reputation. I wonder what he would think if he knew where else they have wandered,” he said softly.
She blinked at the smoldering look in his eyes, and a knot of desire tangled within her.
“Shh. The door is open,” she breathed against his hand. Where he touched, her skin burned.
His smile was slow and dangerous. “So it is. Perhaps I should stop talking lest someone hear me.” His hand fell, and he leaned forward.
Despite the threat of discovery, she could not summon the will to move or protest. She had become rather reckless of late. Why stop now? He caught her lips with his, and she let herself sink into his kiss for one blissful moment.
She savored the comfort, the touch, and the familiar taste of him, letting him settle emotions that Drummond’s proposal had disturbed. She wanted to lean into Brett’s strong body, to trust him as he asked her to do. The kiss deepened, a slow tangle of tongues and mingling breaths before she returned to her senses and drew back.
He sighed and dipped his forehead to hers. “Who would have thought the library can be almost as dangerous as the maze? Imagine that.” He straightened and wiggled his eyebrows.
She opened her mouth to respond, when laughter interrupted them.
“Is it empty?” a female voice spoke in a loud whisper.
“Just as I said,” Brett spoke loudly. He quickly retreated to a safe distance, while Emily sought in vain to fade into the potted plant. “Antigone’s most notable trait is her loyalty,” Brett continued as he peered around the plant. “Ah, Winspear, fancy meeting you here. I did not know you were an avid reader.”
“Nor I you,” a masculine voice drawled, more amused than offended. “However, I believe you will agree with me that there are other reasons one is enticed to seek the inner sanctum of the library. While I do not presume to suggest that you have found one, allow me to give you the privacy to do so, or carry on with your edifying literary pursuits. Antigone is a fine selection.”
“What? But that is not fair—” the feminine voice protested.
“It is. They arrived first. Come, my dear, we can do our literary plundering elsewhere. Pray tell me, have you visited Sutton’s maze?”
A lilting laugh answered the suggestive tone and then, “Who is Antigone?”
Brett laughed, but mortified, Emily skittered out from behind the plant. “This is madness. We cannot hide in here. What was I thinking?”
“It is all right. He did not see you, only me.”
“And that makes it all better?” She shoved Antigone into his hands and frantically neatened her hair and her skirts. “How do I look?”
“Like a woman who has been thoroughly kissed.” At her groan, he held up his hands and laughed again. “I am jesting. You look as beautiful, as serene, and as unattainable as you always do. But you need not worry, no one would dare accuse the daughter of an earl of impropriety behind a potted plant,” he teased.
She frowned at his choice of words. Unattainable. Is that how he saw her? After her breakdown, it was the portrait she had sought to paint of herself.
So why did Brett’s words upset her?
Because she now knew his opinion on aristocratic Englishwomen. It should not matter, because she did not want him to look deeper or expect more from her. Of course not. Unattainable was more tolerable than shallow, broken, or worse—mad.
“We should leave.” Disturbed at the heaviness that settled over her like a wet blanket, she strode to the door. She did not wait for him to follow, but with his long-legged strides, he quickly fell into step beside her.
“We still have the advantage over Drummond,” he said.
“How so?” she said as they walked down the corridor leading away from the library. A wealth of oil paintings hung in multiple rows and plastered the towering walls. Her gaze drifted over them.
“While Drummond is supposedly playing hero to your damsel in distress, he is doing so under the mistaken belief that you will be waiting patiently to hear from him. Your being the well-bred daughter of an earl, he will expect you to do as you have been raised, that is to quietly attend to your embroidery or your social obligations.”
“You are mocking me. I happen to have a fine hand at embroidery.”
“I have no doubt you excel at everything you set your mind to, and that is Drummond’s failing, or rather one of his many failings, considering he is a potential embezzler, traitor, and dirty, rotten—”
“I understand. But how does Drummond’s ignorance of my gift with a needle and thread constitute a fault in his character?”
“Because he does not know you. He does not know that beneath your calm façade lurks a combination of Athena, the goddess of heroic endeavors, and Antigone, avenger of her fiancé’s honor.”
The man was nothing if not well read, and he carried a little of Melody’s dramatic flair. Still, she rather liked the comparison, and a responding flutter arose beneath her breasts. “What is your point?” she said.
“After a period of time passes, I predict that Drummond will apologize and look pained when he delivers the heartrending news that he has found nothing. Which is hardly surprising, of course, since Drummond is likely responsible for the files’ disappearance in the first place.”
“Again, Drummond’s inevitable failure helps us because . . . ?” Exasperation laced her words.
“It gives us time to search for the portfolio ourselves without Drummond hovering over your every movement. He will not watch over you if he thinks he is handling matters while you are occupied embroidering pillows or chairs or whatever you embroider.” He waved a hand airily.
“Chairs?” Her lips twitched. “Drummond has not been hovering over me. You have been doing that,” she teased.
“I have not. I have been trying to protect you, and—” He paused, blew out a breath, and started again. “Drummond has been following you. He visited the Bransons, where he inquired about you. He met up with you at Dayton’s, and then appears at this house party where he knew Miss Branson had plans to meet with you.”
Disturbed at the idea, she curled her hands around her waist. “Will he stop now that he is pretending to assist me?”
“I do not know, but I think it is time for us to begin monitoring his movements. I have some men under my employ that I can hire to do this. I will speak to them.”
“I want to find Winfred, Jason’s valet, but I did not have a chance to ask Patricia his new address. Drummond interrupted us. But now I am worried that Drummond might follow us to Winfred’s place of employ. If so, he might threaten Winfred as he threatened Marsh.”
“All the more reason to monitor Drummond’s movements. And Emily, should Drummond seek to meet with you again, I need your promise that you will not meet with the man alone. I cannot be with you because he does not trust me, but the lack of trust between us is mutual.”
“Of course,” she said, furrowing her brow. “I did not think this would become so cloak-and-dagger.”
“Well, let us hope we have better luck than this poor fellow.” Brett tipped his head toward a still life of a skull perched on a pile of books. Its hollow-eyed black sockets stared ominously back at them. At her indrawn breath, he laughed. “I was jesting. Do not worry, we will prevail. How can we not, with Athena leading the charge?”
“With her protector at her side.”
When he smiled, she managed to return it. They would trounce Drummond at whatever game he played. After all, the odds were against him.
Chapter Nineteen
BRETT slid his gaze past Miss Patricia Branson to narrow it on Drummond, who stood beside her on the opposite side of the dance floor. The snake was known to be the craftiest of all the beasts, so he and Emily needed to stay one step ahead of him.
He gritted his teeth, Drummond’s offer irking him. No doubt the bastard imagined himself the hero to Emily’s distressed damsel. He snorted. His Emily was a charging bull and woe to the misbegotten matador who
blocked her path. He almost felt sorry for the ignorant whoreson. Almost, but not quite.
His attention shifted to Emily, who stood beside Julia and a few yards down from him. Her hair was tucked up in a neat chignon, threaded with violet flowers, and small ringlets framed her face. She was lovely. As if aware of his eyes on her, her gaze met his. He should look away, rather than stand staring like a lovesick fool, but he could not bring himself to do so, not when she moistened her lips and drew an unsteady breath.
He wished everyone in the ballroom would magically disappear. He needed them gone, because the dance he yearned to perform with Emily was not a quadrille. It was intimate, scandalous, and involved minimal to no clothing.
He dipped his eyes to the lace edging the neckline of Emily’s emerald gown. Its plunging décolletage teased him with the rise and fall of the creamy swells of her breasts, and his pulse raced. He imagined pressing his face there and breathing in the lavender scent that she dabbed in the valley between her breasts. She must have read his intent, because a rose-colored blush suffused her fair skin and she abruptly whirled away—but not before she tossed him a narrow-eyed behave yourself warning.
He chuckled softly. Needing a distraction to douse the flare of desire, he searched for his sisters—then froze. A frigid green-eyed gaze met his, spearing him in place.
Daniel.
Well then. He did not need his sisters after all. The blast from his friend’s glare was akin to jumping into a frozen lake. He swallowed.
“The card room. Now.”
Without a by-your-leave to his startled wife, Daniel turned on his heel and stormed off. Like the parting of the Red Sea, couples scurried from his path lest they be plowed down.
The Daughter of an Earl Page 19
