Marsh nodded. “Right, sir. I will think on that. They might have information I do not.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Brett said.
“Mind you, Mr. Curtis assured me that you are to take all the time you need to recover. Is that not right, Mr. Curtis?” Agatha Marsh said as she handed Brett his cup of tea.
Brett hated tea, preferred coffee, but accepted it with a smile. “Of course. Marsh, do not return to work until you are fit to do so. That is an order. That is another nonnegotiable point.”
Mrs. Marsh beamed. “See, Bertram. Mr. Curtis wants you to take care of yourself, and I shall be seeing that you do just that.” She fussed over his pillows, and then handed him his cup of tea.
Brett used her distraction to toss his tea into a nearby plant. It was mostly water, and the plant thirsted for it, appearing as beaten down as Marsh. He caught Emily’s frowning rebuke and shrugged, unrepentant. Emily might maneuver him to do many things, but he would be damned if she turned him into a tea drinker.
The small act of defiance reminded him that he remained in control of certain parts of his life. That was a good thing, because she was wearing his defenses down and eroding barriers he had erected years ago. It left his battered heart exposed—and worse, vulnerable.
He did not want to fall in love with Lady Emily Chandler, but it might be too late.
Chapter Twenty-one
I CANNOT believe that you have talked me into this,” Brett grumbled.
Emily lifted her skirts to descend the narrow, dimly lit stairwell ahead of him. The flickering light cast from a maid’s lantern was all that illuminated their passage. She tossed Brett an aggrieved look over her shoulder. “Should I have arranged for Winfred to meet us outside in the shrubbery? Or in the library where anyone could stumble upon us?”
When she reached the bottom, she turned to face him. “Besides, I needed to separate you and Melody. If she mentioned the good Mr. Jenkins again, you might have throttled her.”
Brett hurried down the last steps, but paused at her comment. “She was doing that deliberately.”
“Of course she was. And as amusing as it was, the steam pouring out of your ears looked dangerous. Really, you need to trust Melody to take care of herself.” Jenkins had delivered some papers to Keaton House yesterday afternoon. He had stayed to take tea with Daniel and Brett’s sisters, all whom he knew from his time in the Boston office.
“I have no choice, do I?” Brett muttered. “She never listens to me. Reminds me of another young woman I know. Perhaps you two should be separated. I think . . .” he began and then broke off. “We digress. Shall we continue?” He flashed the maid one of his disarming smiles.
“Ah . . . er . . . yes, sir,” the young girl stammered, and then turned to lead them down a corridor lit with a single oil lamp that was perched in a nearby sconce.
Emily rolled her eyes, bristling at the gleam of amusement in Brett’s.
The maid stopped and knocked on one of the doors lining the corridor. When the minutes crawled by without a response, she knocked again. “Mr. Winfred?” Silence answered her.
Emily frowned, quite certain that Winfred’s note had directed them to meet him at his rooms at eleven o’clock. He had even solicited the help of a footman to locate them at the ball and direct them to this downstairs maid. She had been waiting to escort them to Winfred’s rooms in the basement, where he lodged with the other male servants.
So . . . where is he? Had Drummond already gotten to him?
She had not seen Drummond at Halford’s, despite keeping a vigilant watch for him, even soliciting Julia’s help to do so. Her sister’s delight gave Emily a twinge of guilt, which deepened when Julia assured her that if Drummond was present, he would not escape her notice.
But why was the valet not answering his door?
She struggled to keep her worries at bay as the silence echoed.
“If you will excuse me, may I?” Brett nodded to the door.
“Of course, but I do not think he is here. Perhaps Master Halford required his services,” the maid said apologetically.
Brett bent and ran his finger along the doorframe.
Only then did Emily notice the slivers of splintered wood that surrounded the lock. She drew a sharp breath.
Brett inspected the scraped area and his glove came away with fine splinters. He straightened. “We are too late.” He gestured for them to step back and barred their advance with his arm. His expression somber, he turned the brass knob and gave the door a gentle prod, but it swung open easily. “Winfred’s not here, but someone else has been.” He opened the door wide to reveal the upended room.
The maid gasped, and Emily groaned. Winfred’s room did not contain the bric-a-brac of the Marshes’ drawing room, being more sparsely furnished, but the few possessions belonging to the valet, predominately books, were scattered across the floor. The drawers of two bureaus jutted out, clothes spilling over them. The bedclothes looked riffled through, their pillows on the floor.
She had wanted justice for Jason, but at what cost? Winfred’s life? Or threats to Bertram Marsh and his aunt?
Or . . . to Brett?
She lifted her gaze to his handsome features, and her knees weakened. The price was too high. Perhaps it was time she slammed Pandora’s bloody lid closed and locked it. Jason had been dead and buried for nearly four years, his reputation outside the company was safeguarded, and she had no evidence implicating Drummond. Was she on a fool’s quest that was endangering everyone who became involved? What about her family? Or heaven forbid, the twins?
“Emily?”
She blinked, struggling to calm her runaway thoughts. Brett took one look at her expression and guided her to a chair in the corner of the room, sitting her down. He disappeared, but soon returned to press a glass into her grip, cupping her hands around it.
“Drink this.” He pressed his fingers beneath the tumbler and urged it toward her.
It was water and refreshingly cold. It slid down her throat and washed away her grim train of thought. She finished every drop, lowered the glass, and drew a shuddering breath. “I am all right.”
“Yes, you are.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his smile so sweet it nearly brought tears to her eyes.
Her momentary lapse annoyed her. She would not falter. How could she with Brett at her side? He was a safe harbor, or a sturdy anchor that, at the very least, she could use to pull herself to safety.
“Hold on to that.” He winked and turned to step out into the hall.
She strained but failed to decipher the low murmur of voices. She clenched her jaw, determined to remind Brett that she may have faltered, but she had not fallen. She was quite capable of hearing whatever news was being imparted. In a minute, she would tell him that in no uncertain terms. Maybe a few minutes. She cursed herself for being a coward masquerading as a brave crusader.
“Winfred is all right.”
“What?” she gasped, her gaze searching Brett’s.
He carried the maid’s lamp, its light casting flickering shadows on the wall. He set it on the bedside table and closed the door. “A colleague of Winfred’s, another footman who shares this room with him, said they were together when they discovered the room had been broken into. Winfred had asked this young man to meet us and convey Winfred’s apologies for needing to flee.”
“But where did he go?”
“Therein lies the rub,” Brett said, frowning. “His friend did not know, but said Winfred would get word to him when he could. Winfred’s only instructions were to not report this incident until the footman had given us Winfred’s message and time for us to leave his room unseen.
“I gave the gentleman my card and instructed him to contact me as soon as Winfred resurfaces, and the footman promised to keep his confidence about our visit. I asked for a quarter of an hour before he reports t
his to the housekeeper, so we have a few minutes. But if there was anything to be found, I am sure whoever did this has located it,” he finished, his gaze shifting over the disarray.
Worry segued into annoyance. “For goodness’ sake!” she huffed. “Winfred could not take a few minutes to give us a by-your-leave himself? If the culprits had already left his room, why did Winfred have to flee so soon? I did tell him what I had to discuss was important.” She slipped off the chair and snatched up a handful of books, irritably shoving them into the bookshelves. “I do not think that is too much to ask after all that Jason has done for him. I do not—” She snapped her mouth closed when Brett caught her hand and extracted the novel she held.
“Have a care. These poor tomes are innocent. But you are right, it is not too much to ask,” he gently agreed. Disregarding his pristine black evening clothes, he settled on the floor beside her. He set the book on the shelf. “Do not worry. Winfred cannot disappear entirely. I have tried to do so when Melody has been harping at me, and it is impossible. I promise you, he will turn up somewhere.”
She scowled and handed him another book. The quiet task of restoring the shelf calmed her. They worked in companionable silence. “Do you think whoever tossed this room found Jason’s ledger? That Winfred had Jason’s portfolio after all?”
“I do not know. We will have to wait until we speak to Winfred.”
She nodded, struggling to overcome her frustration and disappointment. “I am not good at waiting,” she muttered. When Brett did not respond, she turned to him. He was fingering a book in his lap and smiling as if he had discovered a long-lost friend.
He glanced up and grinned. “It is Dafoe’s Robinson Crusoe,” he murmured. “In it, Crusoe refers to his island as the Island of Despair. When I was first shipped back here for school, I wrote to my mother and told her that was what I thought of England, and I pleaded for her to send a ship to rescue me with all due haste.”
Her heart twisted at the image of a young boy shipped a continent away to attend school in a foreign country—without family, friends, or . . . a title in a world where rank reigned supreme. The Island of Despair. “You must have been very homesick.”
Her soft tone caught his attention, and he snapped his eyes to hers. In that typically dismissive way men had about displays of emotion, he shrugged and hastened to assure her that he carried no lasting scars. “It was not as bad as all that. I met Daniel and soon after Drew arrived. I read this aloud to Drew, and it was his favorite book. That is, until Daniel and I started calling him Friday.” Grinning, he returned the book to the shelf.
“You read the book out loud to him?” She again questioned Drew’s intelligence, or lack thereof, and wondered if his cousin was illiterate. Her suspicions grew when Brett avoided her eyes, and his lips compressed into a tight line.
“I did. Hasn’t Julia ever read to you?” There was a challenging edge to his query.
Surprised, she did not immediately reply.
He swept to his feet and held a hand out to her. “We should leave. Each minute we stay, we court scandal should we be discovered.”
The chance to respond had passed. Clearly, he was done reminiscing. She pondered his reaction to the innocuous question as she allowed him to assist her to her feet.
Prescott’s disappearance was part of a larger picture, and the details about why Brett sought to find him were missing with his cousin.
“Speaking of Prescott. Have you located him? Or received any word from him?” she said lightly. “I fear I have not upheld my end of our original bargain in giving you time to look for him. You have been too busy assisting me. But while we are forced to wait for Winfred to reappear, you will have time to renew your search.”
“That is not necessary,” he said. “Like Winfred, Drew will be in touch with me when he is ready.” He collected the lantern, opened the door, and waited for her to precede him.
“What makes you so sure that he will do so?” She fell into step behind the maid, who had waited to escort them back.
“Because I have something he wants. Badly.”
“Haversley’s A. W. Grant painting in which your cousin was interested?” she prodded, waiting for him to ascend the narrow staircase. He glanced at her, clearly surprised that she had remembered the painting.
“Exactly.” He grinned, and then climbed the stairs.
“You bought it for him? Why?”
“Because he was unable to do so himself.”
At his enigmatic response, she pressed him further. “Why will he contact you about that particular painting? Is it valuable?”
Brett’s snort drifted down to her. “Hardly. It is worthless. In fact, I am certain it is a forgery.”
“I do not understand. Why on earth would your cousin contact you over a forgery?” she said, baffled.
“Because it is in his best interest to do so.”
He stopped at the top landing. “We should not come barreling out together. I will go first, and you should follow a few minutes later—once the maid determines that no one is about.”
He opened the door and returned the lantern to the maid. The maid wisely held her counsel before she followed Brett out. Halford trained his servants well.
Emily exhaled an exasperated huff. Brett was finished with the subject, or had finished telling her what he wished to share. Secrets. She thought she knew the man. Seeing him at his office, the docks, with her family, and intimately with her. She was discovering she did not. Or rather, there was so much more she did not truly know.
She knew nothing of his past. Of the young boy tossed into a sea of aristocrats and forced to swim—or drown. He had loved and lost an Englishwoman. And this mystery surrounding his cousin. They had shared some passionate moments, but nothing more. She frowned.
Wasn’t that all she wanted?
It was the stipulation to their alliance and the seduction that she had embarked upon. It annoyed her that she should now be questioning it.
Emily blinked at the blaze of light when the door opened.
“It is all right, mum. You can slip out now,” the maid said.
Emily was grateful for the interruption, her thoughts confusing her. “Thank you, I appreciate your assistance. If you do hear anything, anything at all from Winfred, it is very important that you let him know that I am most anxious to hear from him.”
“Yes, mum. I will do so.” The maid bobbed a curtsy and then disappeared.
The footman had Brett’s card, and Emily now had the maid’s assurance. Between the two, they should soon receive word of Winfred’s whereabouts.
To return to the ballroom, Emily had to cross through a portrait gallery lined with Halford’s ancestors, an austere and grim-faced group. She was scowling back at one dour-looking fellow when the click of boots forced her to recompose her features.
She struggled to place the identity of the man approaching, but like a distant object, his name eluded her. Due to her absence from society, this was not uncommon, but it still frustrated.
The man carried himself with a rigid aristocratic bearing, his head tilted slightly back. He was dressed in uncompromising black, his evening jacket and matching waistcoat beautifully tailored, and the knot in his silk cravat a rival to Drummond’s. He could have alighted from one of the portraits, because his heavy-browed expression mirrored that of the ancestor with whom Emily had been exchanging scowls.
He stopped short as he caught sight of her, and his austere features softened. “Ah, Lady Emily, ’tis a pleasure,” he drawled as he dipped into a bow.
Wentworth! The Earl of Wentworth. “Lord Wentworth,” she greeted him as she curtsied.
“I hear congratulations are in order, and your lovely sister and Bedford are the proud parents of twins. Taunton must be so proud—as must you be.”
“Of course. I take my role as the doting aunt seriously, and
my sister agrees. She assures me I have turned spoiling into a fine art.”
“I am sure you jest. As I advise my daughter, indulged children may be excused, but they quickly grow, and spoiled adults are not so amusing.” He spread his hands in a there you have it gesture.
Yes, he definitely could join the ranks of Halford’s humorless portrait gallery. His daughter had Emily’s most sincere sympathy. “I shall keep that in mind. Thankfully, I have a few years before the damage is irreversible.”
He nodded, her wry tone clearly eluding him. “Quite right. They are young yet. Please convey my felicitations to Bedford and your lovely sister. I have not had the . . .”
Once again, the clacking of boots on the hardwood floor echoed, and she turned to see Daniel and Brett enter the corridor.
“Emily, Julia sent me to find you, and now I have. Pity all of her requests cannot be resolved so easily,” Daniel said, his amused voice ringing out.
“It appears you can do the honors yourself, Lord Wentworth,” Emily said, grinning at the earl.
The earl turned to greet Daniel. The smile curving his lips wavered and then froze. It was like watching a warm lake ice over, so cold was his expression. Emily resisted the urge to rub her hands down her arms. “Have you met Mr. Curtis of—?” she began.
“Spare me the introductions,” Wentworth rudely interrupted. “We are well acquainted. Unfortunately, our history goes back a long way.”
Brett’s eyes flared and a muscle vibrated in his cheek, but if one did not know his features as well as Emily had come to know them, his reaction would have been missed. He did not deign to greet Wentworth or respond to the insult.
Wentworth addressed Daniel, dipping his head. “Bedford. I had heard you and Curtis still kept company, but I refused to believe it. Now that you have come into the title, I had hoped you had outgrown your youthful transgression into trade. Thought you had refined your taste in confidants, considering those whom you solicited to support the agriculture bill. It appears I was mistaken,” he said with scathing contempt.
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