The Daughter of an Earl (7 page)

He nodded. “That is a good beginning. His family has this trunk and will be willing to relinquish it? Or at least allow you to peruse its contents?”

“I do not see why not. You see, upon his death, it was delivered to me, so it is rightfully mine.” She lifted her chin and dared him to refute her ownership.

“I see.” But he did not. If it was given to her, how had it come to be in the viscount's family's possession?

“My father had it turned over to the Bransons,” she said, answering his unasked question. “He thought the sight of it upset me.” She glanced out the window again. “I was . . . I was not home to stop him. After Jason's death, Julia took me to the Lake District for a few months. She thought a change of scenery would be a good idea. You see, Jason grew up in Bedfordshire, so there were . . . there were many memories—”

“I understand,” he rescued her, hating to see her flounder. Steel was strong, but if enough heat or duress was applied to it, it could bend or break.

He was beginning to grasp how deep her grief had been. She had reforged herself, but there were still cracks. She hid them beneath her poised veneer, but if one looked closely, they were there.

More buried secrets.

Brett regretted he had not viewed them earlier. Her triumph over her grief added to her courage—and strength. She would need both to achieve her goal. But perhaps having already conquered her demons, she feared no more. Admiration for her suffused him, and something else.
Desire.

He tamped it down. He could not go there. They had enough with which to deal without further complicating matters. “Fine. Then we shall find out if they are willing to let you recover the trunk.”

“Yes, that is where I am heading now. I will let you know what—”

“No.”

“No, what?” she said, bristling.

“I am going with you. That is another one of my stipulations if you want my assistance. I agree to help you
and
not breathe a word of your agenda to your family, even though when they learn what you are up to—which, if you succeed, they will—I am putting my life at risk. Your father has a handsome set of Manton dueling revolvers that he—”

“I understand,” she said.

“I am willing to risk my life twofold, and all I ask in return is that you agree not to pursue any lines of inquiry, travel anywhere, or do anything in regard to this investigation without me. Those are my terms and they are nonnegotiable.”

“Do not be absurd. Nothing is going to happen to me on a visit to the Bransons. How on earth am I to explain your accompanying me? You have never met them!”

He shrugged. “You comment on my talents. Well, one of yours is that you are adept at weaving tales. In one of the addendums to my business letters, you convinced a customs official I had a disfiguring pox, despite the man having seen me the prior week. I am sure you have spun some fabrication for your family that enables you to go on your merry way unchecked. You will think of something. I have complete faith in your ingenuity and imagination.”

At her truculent expression, he hardened his tone. “Listen to me. As you dig deeper and others are alerted to what you are doing—as they will be when you start asking questions and prying into treacherous matters—then you will no longer be safe. Because if you are right, and someone is responsible for your viscount's death, your quest to have that individual strung up at Newgate will not please them.

“Your goal of justice is a worthy one, but your adversary is fighting for his life, and that goal trumps yours. People become desperate when their lives are threatened and will stop at nothing to thwart you—including murder, which you believe they have proven themselves capable of committing.
You would be wise to remember that.” He gave her a searching look, as if he sought to assure himself that the full import of his words had registered.

Her lips had parted and her face had paled. After a moment, she nodded curtly. “Fine. I agree to your terms.”

“Good. Then as I always say after completing a successful business alliance, I look forward to working with you. To justice.”

“Justice for Jason.” She paused before adding more softly, “Thank you. Thank you for assisting me when I know you . . . you would rather not.”

“You left me little choice.” Then he grinned. “As I said, obdurate.”

“Determined.” She lifted her chin.

B
RANSON
Manor was built in the sixteenth century in the Tudor style. It boasted a Tudor arch entrance complete with the Weston heraldic crest above the door.

Brett paused to study the ferocious-looking dragon carved into the gray stone frontage. “I never excelled at Latin. If the motto reads ‘beware of fire-eating dragons,' perhaps we should retreat?”

“You are not amusing,” Emily said and tossed him a reproving look. Before he could respond, the door opened, and they were ushered into the drawing room to await Jason's brother, Tristan Branson, now Viscount Weston. When she had first come to call after Jason's death, the pain of it had nearly dropped her to her knees. With each subsequent visit, the agony had lessened until it settled into a dull ache in her heart.

She crossed to the large French windows and stared unseeing outside, fighting back the siege of memories. Whispered words of love, stolen kisses, a forbidden passion and much more. She curled her arms around her waist.

“Are you all right?”

She blinked at the burning in her eyes. It was time to stop looking behind her, and to look ahead. Having a goal and someone to assist her helped her to do so. She faced Brett, still marveling over his agreeing to work with her. “You need not worry about me. This is not my first visit. I am fine.”

“That does not necessarily make it easier. Do you want me to speak—?”

“No. Certainly not. I appreciate your concern, but just because I agreed to your escort, it does not mean that I agreed to relinquish everything to you. That is not the assistance I am looking for. I am quite capable of—”

“Using the brain you have. Yes, I have seen you do so. Admirably.” He grinned. “You know, I am not your enemy. I am on your side. I give you my word of honor.”

She arched a brow. “I did not know we were at war.”

He laughed. “Oh, we have been from our very first meeting. You had your weapons drawn, defenses fortified, complete with a moat surrounding you. Believe me, my dignity still carries the scars from having a beautiful woman rebuff my attentions over the past year when our paths crossed.”

A beautiful woman
. He was casual with his compliments. He should not be so in a business alliance. “Perhaps we did get off on the wrong foot. If I promise to lay down my weapons, can we call a truce? It might be wise if we are to be on the same side. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” He smiled.

He stood so close that she caught the scent of his sandalwood soap. She tamped down the impulse to draw a deep breath. A throat being cleared broke the silence, and she whirled.

“Lady Emily, what a pleasure, as always. I was delighted to receive your note saying you were coming to visit.”

The viscount was a tall, lean man, whom Jason had groused kept his head buried in academic tomes, hence the indoor pallor. The lenses of his wire-rimmed spectacles illuminated blue eyes that mirrored Jason's, and she had to
brace herself to meet them. “Lord Weston, the pleasure is mine. I had been meaning to make a visit earlier, but time slipped away from me.”

“Since you've become an aunt, I am sure that your time is not always your own. My sister has met the twins, and I hope to pay a visit soon. All is well with your family?”

She responded, making the obligatory inquiries after his mother and sister, and then turned to Brett. “Allow me to introduce Bedford's former business partner, Mr. Brett Curtis.”

“Ah yes, of Curtis Shipping,” Weston said, studying Brett. “Viscount Weston, at your service.” He bowed. “News of your company fills the
Times
. I have been looking for a sound investment and Bedford highly recommends your firm. Perhaps we can find time to discuss the matter further.”

Brett returned the bow. “Of course, but I am confident that Bedford's opinion as my former partner is thoroughly unbiased,” Brett said straight-faced, causing Weston to laugh. “Lady Emily mentioned she was making this visit, and I hope you do not mind my intrusion. She has told me that we share a mutual interest, so I insisted on joining her.” As Weston turned to her in question, Brett surreptitiously cocked a brow at Emily, encouraging her to respond.

“Yes, he was quite insistent. In fact, he gave me little choice in the matter.” She stalled, scrambling for a reason until inspiration struck. “What the financials neglected to share about Mr. Curtis is that, like yourself, he is an avid ornithologist.” She almost giggled when Brett's attention snapped to her, his expression appalled. “Just last year, he and Daniel visited Bedford's cousin, Lord Bryant, and viewed his extensive collection of skins.”

“Is that so?” Weston beamed. “Bedford neglected to mention that.”

“Well, Bedford has been tied up with estate matters and the birth of the twins, so he has probably forgotten about our shared interest,” Brett said, recovering. “I shall have to take him to task for that. That is, when I have a chance to
update him on all I have been up to recently. We have much to discuss.” Brett gave her a deliberate look.

She simply smiled at him, undaunted. He would not dare give her away to Daniel. He had given her his word. To an Englishman, their word was everything. It was tied to their honor. Brett may be American and while upstart colonials did not stand by king and country, she had faith in Brett to stand by her.

“Oh, my apologies. Please sit,” Weston said, motioning them forward. “Let me arrange for refreshments.”

Brett waved a hand for her to precede him, and she swept over to the settee, taking a seat. The room was a mixture of yellows and greens, the wallpaper peppered with a variety of birds perched on or peeking out from vines that climbed the wall. Weston had done some redecorating; the bird prints were new.

Brett eyed the paper and prints, and with Tristan distracted in flagging down a footman, he grimaced. “Ornithology?” he hissed under his breath, and dropped into the chair adjacent to her. “He couldn't natter on about foxhunting? Or be an avid horseman? Like most
normal
Englishmen?”

“Unfortunately, no,” she whispered back. “But you did insist on joining me.”

“My mistake,” he said. “I seem to be making a lot of them lately.”

“Now then,” Weston said, returning his attention to them. “I am delighted to show you my collection of skins but it is not as extensive as Bryant's. Some of his specimens are on display in the British Museum.”

“Yes.” Brett shifted on his seat. “They are, ah . . . impressive. Distinct.”

A housemaid entered the room, bearing a platter of coffee and tea, which she set on the table before them. Emily slid forward to do the honors, both men accepting coffee.

“Distinct? Unusual phrasing. How so?” Weston said.

“Yes, how so?” Emily asked as she handed Brett his coffee, her lips twitching.

Brett paused, and then snatched his saucer so abruptly
that the china cup rattled, spilling some of the coffee. “How careless of me. I did not burn you, did I?”

“No, I am quite all right.” She bit her lip to stifle her laughter.

Brett turned to Lord Weston. “Ah, what I meant is that they looked so real.”

Weston laughed. “They do indeed. However, that is the purpose of skinning the birds rather than mounting them. It maintains their shape so much better. As an ornithologist you must recognize the difference.”

“Yes, do you not agree, Mr. Curtis?” she politely inquired, unable to resist. For some perverse reason, she found his aggravation appealing.

Brett's eyes narrowed at her. “I do agree. However, perhaps we can discuss this further at another time. Lady Emily is not as eager an ornithologist, and so . . .”

“Oh, no, I find it fascinating. Is there a particular species that you are enamored of when you observe birds?”

Before Brett could respond, the maid returned with a tray of tea sandwiches. She posed a question to Weston and while he was distracted, Brett hissed at Emily, “Tread carefully, lest you find your lovely hide mounted with the rest of his fine-feathered friends.”

She glanced at him with wide-eyed innocence. “We cannot very well dive straight into a discussion about Jason's trunk. Civilities have to be exchanged first. It is proper etiquette. Or as I am sure you have learned in your business dealings, diplomatic.”

Incredulity crossed his features and Brett simply blinked at her, unable to respond as Weston's attention returned to them.

“Please help yourself.” Weston pointed to the array of sandwiches. “And that is a good question Lady Emily presents.”

“Lady Emily is very clever indeed.” Brett's smile did not reach his eyes and he fell silent, as he appeared to ponder his response. “My cousin, now the Duke of Prescott, visited me in America one year. He introduced me to a friend of his, John James Audubon, who was traveling across the country,
rendering detailed paintings of birds for an anthology he was compiling. He shared with me his picture of a peregrine falcon in full hunting dive. I've always been partial to falcons, having studied them in school and observed them hunting here in England. Audubon explained that the bird is believed to be the fastest on earth. An admirer of hunters who catch their prey, I find the falcon is a particular favorite of mine.” He narrowed his eyes on Emily.

“Extraordinary. I would dearly love to see his paintings,” Weston said.

Emily frowned. Brett thought she was the clever one, but it was he who was quick-witted. She had wanted to point out the absurdity of his insistence on accompanying her on this visit. Brett had missed her point, but she had received his. Like the peregrine falcon, she was now convinced that they would catch their prey.

“Hopefully he will publish his anthology so that you can,” Brett said, turning back to Weston. “However, I do not mean to distract from the true purpose of Lady Emily's visit. As much as I appreciate her allowing me to join her, she has a more pressing matter to discuss.”

“Oh, Lady Emily?” Weston's expression was curious.

“I admit that I did come with an agenda.” She bristled that Brett had opened the subject that was hers to introduce. She would have to speak to him on that matter. “I have avoided this subject on my previous visits because I was not certain how to approach it. You see, it is about Jason's trunk.” She read the surprise in Weston's eyes, and a stillness settled over his frame as if he, too, had to brace himself to hear his brother's name. “I know this is difficult for you, as it is for me. That is part of the reason my father turned his trunk over to you in the first place. He believed it would be hard for me to sort through Jason's personal effects. At the time, he was right. However, it has been over three years, and I was wondering . . . well, I was wondering if there was a reason Jason had the trunk delivered to me in the first place. If there was something in it that he wanted me to have.”

Weston set his coffee down. “I understand. Admittedly, I
did wonder why it was originally given to you, rather than brought straight home. I thought it unusual, and so I did go through the contents, studying the items carefully to see if there was anything that I believed Jason would want you to have. Mementos, personal letters, or something of that ilk.”

“And?” she asked, leaning forward.

He splayed his hands, looking rueful. “It was all ledgers, memos, and correspondence. There was little in the way of personal effects.”

“Perhaps I might take a look at the items?” She struggled to not betray her eagerness. Mundane business papers might be of no interest to Tristan, but they were vital to her. “You never know, there could be something that I might view differently? That is if it is not too much of an imposition.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Weston hastened to assure her.

“Thank you for understanding. I was not . . .” Her words trailed off as she noticed his furrowed brow.

“There is only one problem with your request. You see, the materials are no longer in my care,” he said, chagrined. “When I realized it was all related to his work with the East India Company, I turned everything over to Lawrence Drummond. You remember Mr. Drummond. He worked—”

“With Jason. Of course, I remember. How could I forget?” Her smile was brittle.
Drummond
. The dratted man appeared to thwart her at every turn.

“Yes. He came to pay his respects a month or two after the funeral. You must understand that Jason's death was difficult for him. In Calcutta, the two of them were working closely together.” Tristan fell silent, as if he needed to summon the energy to continue. “Drummond asked if there was anything he could do for us. If there was unfinished business that he could take care of for Jason. Jason was very meticulous about tying up loose ends, so Drummond worried that there might be some incomplete paperwork that he could finish on Jason's behalf. He offered to look over the material to ascertain if anything was outstanding, knowing we were unfamiliar with Jason's work or his accounts.”