The Daughter of an Earl

by Victoria Morgan

  “They melt them down and use them to make other items, like gun barrels.”

  “Gun barrels? Cor, then they can shoot the thieving pirates!” Jonathan shouted.

  “Ah, we are more civilized these days. Thieves and other miscreants go before the customs officials, who . . .” At Jonathan’s crestfallen expression, Brett’s voice trailed off. With a wink at Emily, he bent close to Jonathan’s ear and spoke sotto voce. “Actually, I heard there might be a secret ship upon which they force the no-good, rotten blackguards to walk the plank at sword point. They call the ship the Skull and Crossbones.”

  “The Skull and Crossbones?” Jonathan breathed. A beaming smile split his face. “I knew it! The British Navy will not let any no-good thieving blackguards get away with anything.” He lifted his sword and jabbed it in sharp thrusts toward a foe only he could see.

  Emily rolled her eyes.

  Brett simply laughed. Straightening, he ruffled Jonathan’s hair.

  At the affectionate gesture, something constricted in her chest. He was good with her brother. He had rescheduled a meeting with Owen Jenkins to accommodate Jonathan’s pleas to see the ships.

  He would make a wonderful father—and he deserved to be one. When their strange, wonderful interlude wound to a close, she had to let him go. To free him to find another woman who could give him the life she could not. And she would.

  Just not yet.

  Her brother dashed from the room, and she cleared her throat. “The Skull and Crossbones is a fine touch. His grisly imagination will feast on it for some time.”

  He laughed. “I thought so. He is a brave lad. Your father must be proud.”

  “My father believes that like Job, he is being tested. Then he makes me promise to have only daughters.” She pressed her hand to her stomach, covering another stab of pain. She changed the subject. “I am looking forward to visiting your ship. What is this one importing?”

  He smiled. “The Waveny delivered a shipment of timber. Our imports are predominately timber, cotton, and tobacco.”

  “Why only those?”

  “Those are the products England coveted during the war. Your British Navy blockaded our ports stretching the length of the eastern coast. Unable to export these goods, it opened a market for them here when the war ended. During the blockade, Daniel and I cultivated relationships with mill owners, southern plantations, and logging companies, enabling us to fill the demand for these products.”

  “Very clever.” She smiled, and was unable to resist questioning him further. “I was curious. How did you acquire the capital to finance your venture? To purchase the fleet of ships? If you do not mind my asking.”

  Business matters, particularly money or finance, were not discussed in polite company, nor were they a proper conversation topic for a young woman, but curiosity overrode etiquette. Besides, Brett was an American, and often gave little heed to stodgy etiquette. He was different. Like her. The unbidden thought crossed her mind, closely followed by another—she was beginning to prefer different. Very much.

  “My father is a partner in a prominent Boston law firm, so he assisted us with legal matters and provided us a loan of capital. We then courted private investors, both English and American.” He shrugged. “The war had ended, and nationality is irrelevant when one is begging on bended knee for their livelihood, so to speak.”

  “So to speak. It must have been difficult to set aside your opinions of our pampered, haughty aristocrats.” She cocked her head to the side, amused.

  “What opinions?” Brett rejoined.

  “It appears business trumps prejudices,” she said, smiling at the teasing gleam in his eyes. “And now you are expanding into Bristol and hoping to move toward steam. It is an impressive success. Admirable. You should be very proud.”

  Brett gave her a sharp look, and she marveled at the flush that stole over his features before he glanced away.

  Interesting. The man must not be used to compliments, at least not from her. It was something to ponder. After all, he was good at so many things. She thought of his kisses and the interlude in the maze and—

  “My pardon, sir, but this message was delivered for you. I was advised that it was important.” Burke entered the library and handed Brett an envelope.

  Flushing, she watched Burke depart, cursing her train of thought. “Anything amiss?” she asked Brett, who was reading the note.

  “It is from Jenkins,” Brett said, and then cursed, his expression thunderous. “Devil take it! Bertram Marsh was viciously attacked on his way to work.”

  She gasped. “No! Is he all right? What happened?”

  “Jenkins says he is bruised and battered, but the surgeon he sent for assured Jenkins that Marsh will make a full recovery.”

  “Thank goodness,” she breathed. “How did Jenkins learn of it?”

  “Baines and his mates stumbled upon two ruffians assaulting Marsh on Ring Street. The boys chased them off, Baines retrieved Jenkins, and he then helped Marsh into a hackney and escorted him home. Marsh has requested to speak to me. Jenkins says he was quite insistent on the matter.” He handed the letter to her, his face grim. “Apparently Marsh’s rooms were ransacked. The only fortunate news is that his aunt was not home at the time, because she was paying a call on an ill friend.”

  “We must go to him,” she said, skimming Jenkins’s note. “We need to ensure that he is all right and learn what he wants to speak to you about.”

  Brett nodded. “Yes, I will visit him and—”

  “I am going, too!” she protested, glaring at Brett. “This is my fault. I dragged him into this matter, so it is because of me that—”

  “I understand you feel responsible and are concerned for Marsh’s welfare, but you cannot visit a single man in his rooms,” Brett said.

  She bristled. He spoke with measured calm, as if reasoning with an unruly child, forgetting that moments earlier he had been explaining the intricacies of his company to an intelligent adult. She might have to revise her earlier opinion of him. Perhaps he was not that different from most men after all. “Marsh resides with his aunt,” she reminded him, “which is very respectable. I am going. I will wear that concealing cloak that I wore when we visited your office. No one can identify me in that, but it is a risk I am willing to take. His aunt will be distressed and will need a woman’s empathy. I am going.”

  The muscle worked in Brett’s cheek as he gritted his teeth. “I cannot take you into a situation that is dangerous as Marsh’s condition attests to, and which—”

  “It says here that Jenkins has posted Baines and his boys to guard Marsh’s rooms.” She pointed to that section in Jenkins’s letter. “That should give us fair warning of any pending danger.”

  “I told you, we are not do anything . . .” Brett began, but at her expression, he tossed up his hands. “What am I thinking? If I refuse, no doubt you will simply go on your own. Fine. Come. But you tell Jonathan about the change in plans.”

  She grinned. “Fine. Now that he has given his word about not using his sword, I shall be quite safe. Do not look so bleak. You asked me to trust you. Well, I do. I trust in you to keep me safe.”

  “Mmh. Why do I feel like my own words are coming back to haunt me?”

  She simply laughed, and dashed off to brave Jonathan’s temper tantrum.

  BRETT FOLLOWED MARSH’S aunt to her nephew’s room. She was a diminutive woman, rail thin, her gray eyes matching her wan expression. Upon meeting them, Mrs. Marsh had dabbed at her tears with a lace handkerchief, lamenting the damage to their rooms and the assault on her nephew. Emily had tossed him a reproachful I told you so look.

  Emily might be right about the aunt, but he still wished he could have assessed the situation first. He should have insisted on it, but her jutting chin and you cannot tell me what to do look had silenced him. He shook his head, baffled to feel a smil
e curving his lips. She would not be his Athena had she meekly ceded to his demands. Truth be told, her capitulation would have disturbed him far more.

  He shook his head, marveling at how easily she was maneuvering him to her way of thinking. Like leading an ass to water.

  Brett stopped short when Emily froze on the threshold of Marsh’s room, but her reaction saved him from contemplating the indignity of the analogy. Marsh’s battered face gave him pause as well. One eye was swollen shut, his lip split and twice its normal size, and a multicolored bruise distorted one cheek.

  Marsh moved to sit up, and his aunt rushed to his side to rearrange his pillows behind his back. “I do not think you should—”

  “It is all right, Auntie.” Marsh’s swollen lip gave his words a slight slur. He patted her arm while she bent to tuck his blankets around him. “I promise you, I look worse than I feel. Auntie, would you be so good as to bring us a cup of tea?”

  She straightened. “Of course. How remiss of me.”

  “Tea sounds lovely. Thank you, Mrs. Marsh,” Emily said.

  Brett’s only interest in tea was that it secured the privacy they needed, which is what he surmised Marsh intended.

  Brett noted Mrs. Marsh left the door wide open, and a maid appeared to settle in a chair just outside the room. He grunted, wishing Emily gave equal care to her reputation.

  Emily had adjusted to Marsh’s appearance and had crossed to his bedside. “Mr. Marsh, please let me offer my most sincere apologies. You warned me not to dredge up matters better left buried. I feel responsible for this horrid attack, and I am wretched over it.”

  He brushed aside her concerns. “No apologies are necessary. You believed in me when no one else did. For that, I shall be eternally grateful.” He echoed words his aunt had said to them upon their arrival. “As to the other, well, we know what the culprits were after, but they searched the wrong place. Now with the ledger safely in your hands, we can identify who is behind these attacks. Justice will prevail, and the blackguards will rot in Newgate.” He spoke with a strength that was at odds with his battered appearance.

  Emily visibly cringed, as if their failure would be another blow to his face.

  Brett broke the silence. “Yes. That is exactly what they will get. However, it might take a little more time for justice to be meted out.”

  Marsh’s good eye darted between them. “The portfolio? You do not have it? Was it stolen? The trunk lost?”

  “They were not in the false bottom of Jason’s trunk,” Emily said, and splayed her hands helplessly. “Jason’s sister, Miss Patricia Branson, said the compartment was empty.”

  Marsh closed his eyes and sank back into his pillow.

  “All is not lost, Marsh. We will recover it. And . . .” Brett trailed off, a sudden idea striking him. He turned to pace, caught up in his excitement. “If Drummond is behind this attack and is responsible for destroying your reputation, I believe he made a crucial mistake in attacking you a second time, this time physically—”

  “What?” Marsh sputtered, wide-eyed. “My pardon, but do you mean Lawrence Drummond, the viscount’s former colleague is behind this attack? And you suspect him of maligning my reputation? I do not understand. He urged the viscount to flee, sought to protect him after the attacks on his life.” Marsh pressed a frail hand to his temple.

  Brett stopped and arched a brow at Emily. He left the decision on what she wished to confide to her.

  She drew a deep breath and forged ahead. “We have reason to believe Lawrence Drummond is the man whom Jason identified as having embezzled from the East India Company.” She briefly summarized how they had arrived at their suspicions.

  “But why would he betray the viscount? They were friends. What is his motive?” Marsh said.

  Bloody motive again. Devil take it, he should have examined Drummond’s motivation earlier. Hoped that Daniel was successful in his search to do so. “Greed is usually behind embezzlement,” he echoed Daniel’s response.

  Marsh nodded solemnly. “As the Good Book says, ‘The love of money is the root of all evil,’ Timothy 6:10.”

  “Yes, err, very true.” Brett could cite scripture as pathetically as he could read Latin, which is to say, hardly at all.

  “You were saying earlier that if Drummond is responsible for this attack on Marsh he made a mistake? What do you mean?” Emily said.

  “Because why search Marsh’s house if Drummond has all the incriminating material in hand? Why take that risk? I think Emily’s persistence in searching for Jason’s ledger has Drummond fearing that there may be something still circulating that could incriminate him. That is, if he is indeed the guilty man we believe him to be.”

  “And Mr. Drummond is offering to assist me to thwart my finding this evidence?”

  “What is this about Mr. Drummond’s offer of assistance?” Marsh grimaced as he sought to frown.

  Brett apprised Marsh of Drummond’s offer, and then continued. “We knew that already, but we assumed Drummond had no plans to search himself, while assuring you that he was working diligently on your behalf.” He again paced as if to stay ahead of his churning thoughts.

  He summarized Drummond’s movements to date. “We believe that Drummond first collected all the business papers in Jason’s trunk and destroyed any files pertaining to Jason’s work at the company. Drummond then ostensibly tarnished your reputation, preventing you from speaking for Jason or against Drummond should you have had any damaging information. In essence, Drummond took care of anything or anyone potentially harmful to him.”

  He stopped and grinned at Emily. “Then you came along and began digging into his buried secrets. Now he is afraid. I think he fears Jason’s letters have steered you toward new information that only you are privy to, and he is desperate to acquire this information before you.”

  “So we are now searching for the same incriminating information, but are at cross-purposes with each other?”

  “I think so, which raises the stakes, as you are now competing against the other.” He frowned, remembering another race for information that he and Daniel had found themselves engaged in—and the dire consequences of that. Unconsciously, he rubbed his now-healed broken arm. At least he and Emily knew what they were searching for, an advantage he and Daniel had not had. It was something.

  “But where is the portfolio? Drummond does not have it, it was not in the trunk, and I do not have it,” Marsh said, frustration lacing his words.

  “There is one more lead to follow,” Emily said. “You did say Jason’s valet was the only other person cognizant of this false bottom in the trunk?”

  “Winfred!” Marsh’s good eye locked on Brett. “You must find him and warn him that he is in danger. The thugs who waylaid me might go after him next. If you are thinking of speaking to him, Drummond might have similar thoughts, particularly if he is monitoring your movements.”

  Emily gasped. “Of course. We should have considered that.” She shot Brett another chastising look, as if he should have had the foresight to know that as well. “I forgot to tell you that Patricia Branson gave me Winfred’s address. Patricia told me her brother had procured a post for Winfred with Lord Halford’s eldest son. Halford is hosting a ball tomorrow evening. I hope to speak to Winfred then, but I will send a note of warning to him immediately.”

  “Another ball.” He sighed and grimaced.

  Ignoring him, Emily addressed Marsh. “Winfred also tried to talk to me at Jason’s funeral. I think he wanted to confide something that I was not ready to hear.”

  Brett frowned. “You did not mention that either.”

  Her eyes lifted to his and then away. “Yes, well, I do not like to revisit that time, so I have not done so until recent discoveries have forced me to look more closely. I should have recalled—”

  “No,” he said, cursing himself for being obtuse. “Do not punish your
self for not being able to process information at your fiancé’s funeral. For grieving,” he added softly. “We will speak to Winfred. He can then share whatever it is that he wished to confide to you all those years ago.”

  Her brow furrowed, but she nodded. “Yes, you are right.”

  “I remember something as well,” Marsh said. “Winfred mentioned to me on the voyage home that he saw Drummond leaving Jason’s rooms shortly before Winfred had found Jason . . . er . . . ah, Jason dead,” he stammered, glancing uncertainly at Emily before forging on. “Winfred had forgotten about it in the chaos of the ensuing events. Winfred also said that Drummond’s valet had told him that Drummond had supplies of opium.”

  “Good lord,” Brett breathed. “That is damning indeed.”

  Emily’s lips parted and she looked wide-eyed. “I need to get Winfred to confirm that.” She turned to Brett, excitement brimming in her eyes. “We need to convince Winfred to speak to Drummond’s valet, to convince him to come forward. To give this statement to a magistrate and see what other information he may have.”

  Brett smiled. “We do, and we will.”

  “Do you think Drummond might have given the drug to the viscount, pressed it upon him?”

  Emily cleared her throat and looked at Brett, as if she sought his support. He gave her an encouraging nod. “I think that is exactly what he did. And it is now even more imperative that we speak to Winfred.”

  His Athena.

  Marsh audibly swallowed. “I see. Mr. Drummond will have much to answer for come Judgment Day, breaking two of the Lord’s commandments.” He met Emily’s gaze. “I trust you shall prevail. However, allow me to offer my services as well. What can I do? There must be something.”

  Before they could respond, there was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Marsh returned carrying a large tea-laden tray.

  “Tea and biscuits. Oh, thank you, love,” she said to Emily, who had hurried over to relieve Mrs. Marsh of her burden and assist her in setting it on a corner table.

  Brett answered Marsh. “There is something that would be of great assistance to me. If you can provide the names of anyone else who worked with you and your late colleague on that troublesome project, that would be most helpful. It might be wise to speak to them, or to those who have returned from their posting abroad.”