The Emperor's Conspiracy (28 page)

“Wait.” She reached out and finally touched him, taking hold of his arm as she turned to Gary and Kit. “Go home without me. I’ll be accompanying Lord Durnham.”

“What, to confront Hawthorne?” Luke spoke incredulously from the shadows. “There’s no telling what he’ll do. He’s behind Frethers’s death, for certain. I forbid you to go.”

Edward had gone still under her hand the moment she
touched him. “I hate to agree with Mr. Bracken, but I would not like you there, either.”

“But that’s where
you’re
going.” She dropped her hand, stepped away from him, then turned to Luke. “You’ve never had the right to forbid me anything, and you certainly don’t now. You need to put a stop to this guinea smuggling, Luke. The end doesn’t justify the means. You need to finish it.” She turned away without waiting for him to respond. “Lord Durnham,” she gave a tiny bow. “Would you be so good as to give me the address of your stepfather?”

He jerked as if she’d slapped him. “You wouldn’t—”

“I’ll take Kit and Gary with me, of course. Perhaps Sammy will come along, too?”

Sammy nodded from the shadows, and something tight in her chest eased a fraction. “In fact, if Sammy’s been watching Lord Hawthorne for Luke, I could get the address from him.” She smiled brightly. “No need to trouble you further. I’ll be on my way.”

Edward stared at her, his face sharp and exquisitely controlled. Then he pulled open the door of the carriage and held out a hand. “You are, of course, welcome to accompany me. After you.” He spoke with an exaggerated politeness that spoke of anger and frustration held in close control.

She looked at his hand for one long beat.

“Please,” he said.

She put her hand into his and he helped her in.

She looked back at Luke as she sat on the bench seat of
the coach, but he made no move to stop her. He stood quite still, as if lost in thought.

Kit closed the door, and she caught a glimpse of his face as they began rolling down the street. He was afraid.

She peered out the window, then across to Edward. “Better ask the coachman to hurry.”

“Why is that?”

She winced at the honed edge of his words. “Because Luke would like to kill Hawthorne before we get to him. I can promise you that.”

E
dward liked control. And there was no doubt, with Charlotte Raven, he had none.

“You are very angry with me,” she said. But she did not look sorry. She looked annoyed with him.

He wanted to laugh, suddenly. She was completely uncowed.

“I’m more angry than I can ever remember being. I stopped myself feeling anger, and hurt, and unhappiness, when I was a child. Hawthorne liked to make me cry, and so I refused to do it. I refused to be upset, or miserable, or anything too strong. And I never am.”

She leaned back and studied him. “Is happiness on the list, too?”

He shrugged. “If you are happy, you can be made to feel otherwise.”

She nodded. “I know only too well what you mean. But I think you know you still feel all those things. You just bury
them.” She kept her gaze steady. “Why don’t you hide them with me?”

He couldn’t look away. His heart stopped beating and then came to life again like a hard, painful punch. “I can’t seem to help myself where you’re concerned. It goes against everything I’ve done for most of my life.” His voice was rough, the air in the coach close and suffocating.

She closed her eyes slowly, then opened them again. “You make me wish for things I thought I could never have. Want things I never thought I would want.” She stopped and clenched her hands in her lap.

The coach rolled to a stop, and Edward glanced out, saw they were at his stepfather’s.

He considered driving on, calling to the driver to keep going until all of this was left far behind them.

But his stepfather would be between them, no matter what. Luke had seen to that.

“I’m not looking forward to this. It has to be done, but I would rather be anywhere else.” Charlotte looked out the window, leaning close to him, and he could feel the warmth of her body, smell the faint scent of some light floral powder.

He took her hand and slowly, deliberately, stripped off the thin cotton glove she had borrowed from her maid for this evening’s work.

He lifted her palm and kissed it, then kissed the web of thin white scars on her inner wrist. He could feel her pulse beneath his lips, and raised his eyes.

She was sitting with her eyes closed, her face perfectly still, facing out the window in profile.

He cupped her cheeks, turned her toward him, and leaned into her, brushing his lips with hers and then deepening the kiss, coaxing her mouth open and tasting her.

She breathed in, a quick, sharp movement, and he felt the brush of her breasts against his chest, the tremble of her body.

He was so tempted to slide his hands over her, to cup her breasts, follow her rib cage to her waist, and lift her up to straddle his lap. He threw himself back—away from her.

“Please.” His voice was a whisper, an octave lower than usual. “Please, whatever you hear in there, remember I am nothing to do with my stepfather. I’ve spent my life trying to avoid him, cursing the day he came into it.”

She blinked—a long, lazy, sensuous sweep of her eyelids that did something to the blood in his head, making him feel quite dizzy.

She gathered her cloak about her to take the steps, and he saw a shudder pass through her, caught the faintest scent of arousal, and cursed his stepfather and Luke to the lowest levels of hell.

“Of anyone, I know better than most we are what we make ourselves.” Like his, her voice was husky. Deeper. “I won’t hold your stepfather against you.” She gave him a tentative smile. “If you don’t hold him against me.”

33

H
awthorne’s butler was under a great deal of stress.

Charlotte noticed his hand shook as he opened the door, and his face held the stiff mien of someone who has recently been slapped or sworn at and is still dealing with the shock of it.

He went down the hall to inform Hawthorne of Edward’s presence like a schoolboy walking to the schoolmaster’s office for a hiding.

Hawthorne had lost his temper with his staff today. There could be no doubt.

The butler came back with a slightly lighter step. Hawthorne was glad Edward was here, it seemed. Edward hadn’t given her name and perhaps the butler had not even mentioned her presence.

So much the better, if so.

“One moment, Clavers.” Edward pulled the man aside and murmured very low in his ear. Clavers went white, and then
flushed very red, looking down at the toes of his highly polished shoes. When Edward stepped back, he gave a short, decisive nod, then turned to lead them down the passage.

He did not look her way once.

Edward followed, taking her with him, his hand on her arm, his thumb brushing the cotton of her glove in a light, circular movement.

She thought it was unconscious, and even more sensual for that. It revealed his mind more clearly than anything he could say or do deliberately.

They stepped into a large library, the warm leather of books lending the large space a cozy air. Most of the furniture was leather, too, burnished and gleaming.

Hawthorne sat with his back to the door, facing a small fire even though the evening was still very warm.

As Clavers murmured Edward’s name and closed the door, she expected Hawthorne to turn, but he did not.

“Took your time to come. You didn’t let me know what the magistrate had to say about Geoffrey’s death.”

Edward slanted her a look, then fixed his gaze on the back of Hawthorne’s chair. “I’ve brought you a visitor. A lady.”

At last Hawthorne turned, stiffly and with difficulty, and she saw he had one foot bandaged and up on a footstool. She’d noticed nothing about him the first time she’d met him; his behavior had taken all her attention. But now she could see the blunt, hard lines of his face, the bags under his eyes, and the tiny broken veins under his skin. His nose had the bulbous red look of a drunk’s.

His eyes flickered at the sight of her. He said nothing.

“Good evening, Lord Hawthorne. I understand from Luke Bracken you are my father.”

At that, his foot slipped from its footstool and he let out a cry of agony, and then began to swear; dirty, vicious words that most would consider more commonplace at Billingsgate or in the stews than in this fine library.

She knew better.

Edward ignored the vitriol and kept his hand on her arm, gently stroking, as if soothing a wild animal.

“So tell me, did you rape Miss Raven’s mother before or after you decided to marry mine?” he asked Hawthorne.

Hawthorne’s temper tantrum cut off abruptly. “What does it matter?” His eyes glittered in the firelight. “What does the timing matter?”

“It doesn’t, I suppose,” Edward agreed easily. “The fact that it was done, rather than the timing, is more important.”

“Important to what?” Hawthorne snapped out, half bravado, half contempt.

Edward did not answer that, and Charlotte wondered what was racing through his mind. He had let her go, his arms dropped to his sides, and his hands fisted.

“What is the purpose of this?” Hawthorne said, slowly lifting his foot back onto its footstool, his attention on it, his body turned away from them, a dismissive, disrespectful movement.

For a moment, anger spiked through her deliberate calm, making her want to knock his leg off its stool again, or strike
out at him, and she forced herself still—wrestled with herself. The whole reason she’d come here tonight was to find out about her mother, speak to Hawthorne about her, but she realized how foolish that had been. She would get nothing from him. He never knew her mother, anyway. He’d just used her.

Edward gave her a quick look, and she turned away a little, so he would not see her battle for control.

She needed to find Charlie the sweep, or Miss Raven, the be-gloved wallflower, not the Charlotte that had been close to abandoning herself to a man’s kiss not twenty minutes ago.

“The purpose is for you to understand it is all over. You will tell me who else is involved with you in smuggling guineas out of the country; you will tell me who you sent to kill Frethers, and Geoffrey, too,” Edward said, and his voice was thick. Harsh.

Hawthorne looked at him over his shoulder. “Geoffrey? Geoffrey was an idiot. I can only assume he killed himself, because his death has been most inconvenient to me. When I got a letter from him, telling me what Frethers had proposed to him in order to clear his debts, I was furious. But it was too late. You came the next day to say he was dead. I realized how Frethers had maneuvered him, making him think debtors’ prison was in his future, that he had no choice but to hand over his children, when all along we’d planned to pay his debts for him. We wanted to keep him on edge and then make him very grateful to us for saving him, keep the use of his estate for the smuggling. I was very angry that day. Frethers couldn’t be allowed to continue. Not when his appetites were
exceeding his sense. He should have left Geoffrey and his family alone. You
never
foul your own nest.” Hawthorne chopped a hand sharply downward. “But as for names? I won’t tell you anything.” He was breathing heavily. “I’m in control here, Edward, not you. You think I haven’t been crafting evidence against you from the beginning? I bribed someone to appoint you to investigate this mess, and since then, I haven’t heard a word mentioned about your involvement from anyone in my circle. They’re keeping it quiet, which shows just how little confidence they have in you.

“If you try to move against me, or any of my group, you will be in disgrace. You may eventually work your way free, but there will always be whispers attached to your name, and because of the indiscretions Geoffrey committed, your nephews and your sister will be dogged by his mistakes for the rest of their lives.” He glanced at Charlotte, and his lip curled. “As for her”—he tossed his head—“she will be exposed for the gutter scum she is. Tell me, my dear, how have you managed to survive all these years?”

She was at last Charlie Raven again. Nothing could touch her. “My own wits, and Luke Bracken.”