Every Bit a Rogue

by Adrienne Basso

  Chapter Seven

  Jon awoke alone, to a quiet, semidark workshop.

  “Emma?”

  The settee was empty. He turned his head, quickly scanning the room. Damn, the workshop was empty too. Well, except for his horse standing quietly in the corner. Jon swore again. Clearly she had left on her own. But when? The moment the rain stopped? The moment he had so rudely fallen asleep?

  He ran his hand over the cushions of the settee, but the cold fabric gave him no clues. Following his next instinct, Jon bolted to his feet and headed for the door. He would ride immediately for the manor to make certain Emma had reached home safely.

  If anything dire had happened to her . . .

  He reached for the door, then paused. He could hardly present himself at the Atwoods’ residence in his current disheveled state. ’Twas obvious he had slept in these clothes. His sudden appearance at such an inappropriate time would raise questions that he was unable to answer.

  Not to mention how odd it would look if he called at the house with the singular purpose to inquire if Emma was there. No, he would follow the path she always used through the woods, to make certain she was not on it and confirm what he sincerely hoped—that Emma’s sensible nature had prevailed and she had waited until there was enough light before traipsing through the woods.

  Bloody hell, she certainly knew the way, he thought with a grin. She had traveled the damn path between the two properties enough times in the past few days.

  Feeling slightly less anxious, he led his horse from the workshop, vaulted onto its back and searched for the path. Finding it empty, he turned his horse and rode for home. He looked forward to having a hot bath, a shave, and changing into clean garments before calling at the manor.

  The household was just beginning to stir as he slipped in through a side door. He deliberately avoided the servants, yet somehow his valet materialized the moment Jon stepped into his bedchamber. Naturally, the stoic Gilmore said nothing about the state of his employer’s clothing and asked no questions about where he had been all night.

  Instead, the valet arranged for a bath, brought out fresh clothing, sharpened Jon’s razor, and inquired if the viscount would require breakfast to be served earlier than usual. Jon’s stomach growled at the mention of food. ’Twas all the answer Gilmore needed.

  When Jon entered the dining room an hour later, the sideboard was filled with silver covered servers. He filled his plate with a heaping pile of eggs, bacon, blood sausage, fried potatoes, buttered kidneys, toasted bread, and blackberry preserves. He downed a cup of hot coffee, refilled his cup, then dug into the appetizing fare.

  As his stomach filled, his mood improved. He spread a generous portion of blackberry preserves on a slice of toasted bread and reflected on the events of last night.

  Was it fate or merely bad luck that kept throwing Emma Ellingham in his path? He smiled. Nay, ’twas neither.’Twas Emma herself. He had never met such a forthright, determined woman.

  Why had he kissed her? Impulse? He rarely gave in to it. Circumstance? Well, she had literally fallen into his arms and when their lips came so close, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to lean in and capture them. They had tasted far sweeter than he had hoped and her eager response had stirred his senses.

  As they kissed, he had been seized with a desire to not just feel her mouth beneath his, but capture it and make her his own. It surprised him. This possessive, conquering emotion was something he had never felt. It had taken considerable effort to control and restrain it.

  Even his most passionate moments with Dianna, the woman he had loved so deeply, had been more reticent. Why then was he so undisciplined when he kissed Emma?

  ’Twas the question that Jon was still pondering when his butler entered the room, his normally impassive face grave.

  “The Marquess of Atwood is here, my lord,” the butler announced. “He regrets calling at such an early hour, but insists he must speak with you immediately on a matter of utmost urgency. He is awaiting you in the drawing room.”

  Bloody hell.

  Jon took a vicious bite of his toast, and cast a quick glance at the ornate clock his mother had especially selected for the dining room. Not yet eight. Damn, it was certainly serious if Atwood was here at this hour of the morning.

  Emma!

  It had to be about her, Jon reasoned. She must have been discovered returning home in the early morning hours. Or else she hadn’t returned at all? The delicious breakfast he had just consumed congealed into a hard ball in the pit of his stomach.

  “Inform the marquess that I will be with him shortly,” Jon commanded.

  “Very good, my lord.” The butler bowed and left the room.

  Jon took a deep breath and placed the remainder of his uneaten toast on his plate. Brushing the crumbs from his fingers with surprisingly steady hands, he wiped the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin and rose from the table as though he had not a care in the world.

  However, his sense of foreboding intensified the moment he entered the drawing room. The marquess did not greet him with the usual smile and handshake. Indeed, Atwood’s face sported a most ominous expression.

  “I apologize for disturbing you at such an uncivilized hour, but this couldn’t wait,” Atwood said.

  “So my butler has informed me. What’s wrong?” Jon asked, a surge of fear flooding his veins. If anything dire had befallen Emma, he’d never forgive himself.

  “Gerald Dickenson, the new Lord Brayer, is dead,” Atwood said flatly. “He was found early this morning in his study by one of his servants, lying in a pool of blood with a knife protruding from his chest.”

  “Christ!”

  Jon swallowed, remembering Dickenson’s boorish behavior when they had met in the village the other afternoon. In truth he could not say that he was saddened by the news. Still, it was a rather brutal way to die.

  Atwood’s eyes narrowed. “Two of the footmen who were on duty told me that their employer had a late night visitor. They saw this man and Brayer entering the study, then next heard the baron shouting in anger and an equally loud raised voice replying.”

  “The assailant?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Nasty business.” Jon shuddered.

  It was a quiet, placid community, with no crime to speak of beyond a petty theft now and again or a drunken brawl at the local pub. This was truly shocking.

  “I’m afraid there is more.” Atwood’s lips thinned into a hard line and Jon felt the hair on the nape of his neck begin to rise. “The footmen were both able to identify the man with Brayer.”

  “That should prove helpful.”

  Atwood frowned. “They say it was you.”

  Jon’s head whipped around. “Me? That’s ludicrous. What business would I have with him at any hour of the day or night?”

  Atwood lifted his brow. “He ran off with your bride on the morning of your wedding. Some would find that reason enough to confront him.”

  “As much as it pains me to admit it, we both know that was as much Dianna’s doing as his,” Jon said, heaving a sigh.

  “Did you call upon the baron last evening?” Atwood asked.

  “Absolutely not!” Jon insisted vehemently. “If those footmen claim to have seen me, they are very much mistaken. Surely the servant who admitted this man to the house caught a better look at his features and can verify it wasn’t me.”

  Atwood shook his head. “The hour was late. Apparently he did not call at the front door.”

  “Well, he gained admittance somehow.” Jon scratched his head.

  Atwood shrugged. “I can only assume that Brayer let the killer into the house. And further assume it was someone known to him.”

  Jon could feel his face beginning to heat. Atwood’s tone held a note of accusation and his eyes were narrowed with suspicion. ’Twas disheartening to discover a man he thought was his friend would believe him capable of such an act.

  “I give you my word, as a gentleman,
that it wasn’t me,” Jon insisted, squaring his shoulders and looking Atwood directly and steadily in the eyes.

  “Your word?”

  “I swear that I was not in any way involved.”

  Atwood watched him carefully, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “I believe you, Kendall. However, as magistrate of the county, I require more than just your word. There were, after all, two witnesses who swear it was you.”

  “The footmen are mistaken,” Jon repeated.

  “Well, ’tis a simple matter to prove them wrong. You need only to have someone verify your whereabouts last night. If you can prove that you were somewhere else, anywhere else, it would be impossible for you to have been involved in Lord Brayer’s death.”

  * * *

  I’ve somehow gotten away with it!

  Emma stared at the reflection in her dressing table mirror and breathed a great sigh of relief. She had snuck into the manor just after dawn broke, creeping up the servants’ stairs, flattening herself against the wall in the corridor to hide her shadow from the maids who were beginning their daily chores.

  Once safely in her bedchamber, Emma had quickly removed her clothing, pulled on a nightgown, and climbed into bed. She dozed fitfully until a maid timidly knocked on her door, asking if she needed anything.

  It was the usual morning routine, but today instead of turning the girl away—as she often did—Emma requested a breakfast tray to be brought to her room. As expected, Dorothea soon appeared in her chamber, worried that something might be amiss.

  After assuring her sister that all was well—though Emma wasn’t entirely certain that she had convinced Dorothea—she ate every bite of her breakfast. Then she picked up her sketchbook.

  Visions of the wheels and cogs of the reaper ran through her mind, but she tamped them down. Instead, she found herself sketching a strong jaw, a straight nose, and a pair of intense, deep-set eyes.

  Jon.

  Tossing the sketchbook aside, Emma came to her dressing table and began brushing her hair. The steady stroke of the brush through the long strands always managed to relax her. When her nerves had settled, she pinned the shining strands into a simple chignon, softening the look by leaving a few curling wisps around her temple.

  Emma stepped outside onto the south patio and Dorothea greeted her with a pleasant smile. The day was lovely; filled with sunshine and clear blue skies.

  “Where are Philip and Nicole?” Emma asked as she took the seat beside the cradle where baby Harold dozed.

  “At the stables, waiting for their father. As you know, Carter often takes them riding at this time of the morning and they are anxious to get started.” Dorothea sighed. “I do hope he returns home soon. I would hate for the children to be disappointed.”

  Emma leaned into the cradle and drew in a deep breath, reveling in the sweet scent of her baby nephew. “It’s not like Carter to miss a standing appointment, especially with his children. Where has he gone?”

  “To see Viscount Kendall.”

  Emma lunged forward, catching herself before she landed on top of the baby. “He’s gone to see Viscount Kendall? Really? About what?”

  Dorothea raised her shoulders in a delicate shrug. “I have no idea. I was still asleep when he left this morning. He scribbled a brief note that tells me nothing.” Dorothea smiled. “’Tis so typical of a man, is it not, to leave out all the interesting details.”

  Mind racing, Emma muttered an incoherent reply. Had Carter somehow discovered where she had spent the night? Had he gone to see the viscount to confront him on the matter? The events of last night—and her early morning return home—echoed over and over in Emma’s mind, yet she saw no way her secret could have been revealed.

  “Is everything all right, Emma?” Dorothea asked. “Your face has suddenly gotten rather pale.”

  Emma cringed. Thankfully, Harold chose that moment to stir and waken. She gathered the baby in her arms and lifted him from the cradle, then gently handed him to his mother.

  “Do you think he’s hungry?” Emma asked, grateful for the chance to change to subject.

  “He’s always hungry,” Dorothea replied with a laugh. She discreetly adjusted her clothing, somehow managing to modestly cover herself, while putting the babe to her breast.

  Emma’s mind continued to race as Dorothea’s attention became completely focused on her child. This could be bad—very bad. If it became common knowledge that she and the viscount had spent the night together . . . oh, God, there would be hell to pay!

  Unease settled in the pit of Emma’s stomach, but then she scolded herself for so quickly assuming the worst. There could have been any number of reasons why Carter needed to see Jon at such an early hour. Granted, she currently could not think of a single one, but that did not preclude the existence of a good reason.

  A reason that had nothing at all to do with her.

  Thankfully, Emma managed to get her wayward thoughts under control just as her brother-in-law appeared on the patio. He kissed his wife, gently stroked Harold’s bald head, and settled in a chair.

  “Have you eaten?” Dorothea asked her husband.

  “Just now,” Carter replied. “I was famished and Cook prepared all my favorite breakfast foods the moment I arrived home.”

  Emma could not hold back her smile. Cook adored the marquess and took great delight in spoiling him at every turn.

  “Well, I’m glad that you have sustenance for your outing with Philip and Nicole,” Dorothea said. “They are waiting for you in the stables.”

  Carter nodded. “I’ll join them in a few moments.”

  “Can you tell you us what so urgently took you away this morning?” Emma asked in what she hoped was only a curious—and not desperate—voice.

  “Terrible business, I’m afraid.” Carter sighed and rubbed his hand across his chin. “Gerald Dickenson was killed last night. His servants discovered him this morning on the floor of his study with a knife in his chest.”

  “How horrifying.” Dorothea pulled the baby tightly against her chest, cradling his head protectively. “Has the person been caught? Are we in any danger?”

  “We are safe, though I have instructed the servants to be vigilant and alert me immediately if they encounter any strangers on the grounds.” Carter leaned into Dorothea. “I believe this attack was personal. The baron knew his killer.”

  “That’s dreadful.” Dorothea propped the babe on her shoulder and began gently patting his back. “But I thought your note said that you had gone to see Viscount Kendall.”

  “It did. I did.” A hint of frustration crossed Carter’s face. “Kendall is the prime suspect. Two of Lord Brayer’s footmen swear they saw Kendall entering the baron’s study with him late last night. A loud argument then followed. A few hours later, Brayer’s body was discovered.”

  Emma’s mouth fell open. She remained still for several moments as her mind tried to comprehend the implications of Carter’s revelations.

  Suspected of murder? Jon?

  “That cannot be true,” she whispered.

  “Kendall denies it, most vehemently, and personally I believe him,” Carter replied. “Yet as much as I would like to, I cannot so easily dismiss the accounts of two eyewitnesses. Especially when Kendall has no one other than himself to refute the footmen’s claims.”

  “No one?” Looking perplexed, Dorothea raised her brow. “Surely one of Kendall’s servants or Lady Sybil saw him at some point last night and can vouch for his whereabouts?”

  “Apparently not. Kendall claims to have spent the night in his workshop. Alone.”

  The babe let out a loud belch and Carter’s solemn expression broke into a fond smile. Reaching out, he took his youngest son into his arms.

  “Goodness, this is most unfortunate for Kendall,” Dorothea exclaimed as she discreetly buttoned the front of her gown.

  “But there is no real proof that the viscount was involved,” Emma protested. “These footmen did not see Kendall strike their employer.”

/>   “True, yet Kendall will need to mount a spirited defense to prove his innocence.”

  “Defense? Has he been charged with the crime?” Emma asked, her heart racing.

  “I had no choice,” Carter said with obvious regret.

  “Dear Lord,” Emma whispered.

  “Gracious, this only gets worse and worse.” Dorothea tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I shall call on Lady Sybil directly. She must be beside herself with worry.”

  “The viscount said nothing else about his activities last night?” Emma pressed. “Nothing at all?”

  “There appeared little to tell,” Carter replied. “Regrettably.”

  A wave of panic swept through Emma. She knew precisely why Jon had said nothing. It was obvious that he was protecting her reputation. Yet at what cost?

  Granted, he knew that he was innocent of this heinous crime. The real killer will be found and Jon will be set free.

  Yet even as the words echoed in her mind, Emma knew that justice was not always fair. The guilty were not always caught and innocent people paid and suffered for crimes they did not commit.

  She cast an anxious glance at Dorothea and Carter. They would be most distressed hearing what she needed to tell them, but the stakes were too high to keep silent.

  “There is something that I have to tell both of you,” Emma said slowly, searching her mind for the right words.

  “Oh, my, you suddenly look very solemn and serious, Emma,” Dorothea exclaimed.

  “This concerns Lord Kendall,” Emma replied, careful to keep any emotion from her voice, hoping that if she remained calm and matter-of-fact, so would her sister and brother-in-law. “I can state with absolute certainty that he is telling the truth. He was at his workshop all of last night and well into this morning.”

  Carter and Dorothea exchanged a puzzled look.

  “Emma? How on earth can you make such a bold statement?” Carter asked.

  Emma shivered. “I know this is true because he wasn’t alone. I was with him in the workshop last night until very early this morning.”

  * * *

  Disbelief appeared to rob both Carter and Dorothea of speech. They didn’t speak for several long moments, and when the silence was finally broken, they both began talking at once.