The Emperor's Conspiracy (7 page)

“
I
wasn’t aware you were a pugilist, Lord Durnham.” Charlotte regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth, wishing to scoop them up and throw them out of the drawing room window. They’d rushed from her, unbidden, at the sight of his beautiful face so bruised and swollen. And his hand. It looked half again its normal size.

Her eyes flicked to the door, willing Catherine and Emma to return at once from tending to Ned’s scraped knee.

“What makes you say that?” The look he sent her was icy. Completely emotionless.

Charlotte relaxed. She felt a little skip of excitement in her chest. She had thought her remark would reveal her regard, but instead it had irritated him.

She smiled. A smile of pure delight.

Lord Durnham’s eyes locked on her face. He blinked. Jerked his head back in shock at her reaction.

She tried desperately to compose herself. “I ask because you have obviously been involved in fisticuffs with someone, and you do not strike me as a man who would brawl over cards or dice, or even a woman, so the only conclusion left was that you had taken a turn in the boxing ring.”

“I was set upon by a footpad.” He spoke quietly, as if the information should mean something to her.

Which of course it did.

Her eyes went wide, and she lifted a hand to her mouth. “Where?” she whispered.

“Tothill Road.” He leaned back in his chair and lifted the cup of tea Catherine had given him to his lips. Took a sip.

Clutching shaking hands together to still them, Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment. “What on earth were you doing in Tothill Road? That is an invitation to be set upon.”

“One would think so. But judging by the calm way you stroll around there, it seems safe enough for you.”

Charlotte raised her head in horror, forcing her eyes open, forcing her gaze on his face. “I am not just anyone.”

“Oh, Miss Raven, never was a truer word spoken. And I would very much like to know who you are.” There was no artifice in his voice, no give in his tone. He was deadly serious. Determined to have answers.

“Is the person who attacked you all right?”

It was the last thing he’d expected her to say, she could tell by the flare of his nostrils. “Better than me.” He slipped
a hand into his pocket, drew out a knife. “I have something of his.”

Charlotte held out her hand and watched him as he continued to hold it, with no indication he would hand it over. “I’ll see it is returned.”

He laughed, really laughed, and slipped the knife back in his coat. “I don’t think so, Miss Raven. Next time he might not be so careful with it around my eyes.”

She closed her own eyes again. “What did he look like?” She massaged her temple.

“Medium height, black hair, well built.”

“Sammy.” She sighed. “You need to watch your back now, Lord Durnham.” She lowered her hands. “I’d apologize, but you rather brought it on yourself, following me around at night.”

He conceded the point, which surprised her, lifting a shoulder as if to acknowledge it. “You interest me, Miss Raven. And seeing you walk in country boots to a rookery turned that interest very keen indeed.”

“There is nothing to it. You will be bored to learn the truth, I assure you. But the damage is done now. No one has followed me before. He’ll think this is serious. Maybe he’ll do something equally serious in return.” Gripped by a sudden urgency, she rang on the bell.

Her maid, Betsy, came, flushed and pretty, to the door, and Charlotte did not even try to use doublespeak. It was no longer necessary in front of her guest. “Find Kit, tell him to go to Luke and tell him I have to see him tonight. And he’s to tell Luke to do nothing until then.
Nothing
.”

Betsy’s eyes went to Lord Durnham, then back to her, wide with surprise.

“Hurry.”

Betsy gave a nod and disappeared, and Charlotte looked after her, the sight of an empty doorway far more appealing than the questions on Lord Durnham’s face.

“Who is Luke?” From the corner of her eye she saw him put down his cup, stretch his legs out as if he had all the time in the world.

She needed to let him know his time was running out.

“Luke Bracken is the man who sent that footpad last night.” She lifted her head, made sure she had his full attention. “He is the man who is planning a way to kill you.”

9

T
here was no mistaking that Charlotte Raven was serious.

“Kill me?” Edward raised an eyebrow. “That sounds overly dramatic.”

“Were you asking questions of me a day or two ago? Or rather, did you pay others to?” She spoke, not with outrage, but some other more intense, more focused, emotion.

Edward frowned. So much for discreet inquiries. “I did.”

“Your men are all dead.” Seeming unable to keep still, she stood up and walked to the window. “So you might want to keep that slightly condescending tone from your voice, Lord Durnham. And start considering that I may be right.”

His mouth fell open. He forced it closed again. “Dead? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Have you heard from any of them?” The challenge in her voice was unmistakable. As was her conviction.

Edward did not doubt for a moment that she truly believed
they were dead. “No, I haven’t. They are due to report to me tonight.”

“Well, you’ll be in for a long wait.” Her voice trembled. “If you know of their families, I would appreciate it if you would give me their addresses. And then both you and I will be contributing a generous sum to their widows.” She lifted her head, and glared at him as she spoke the last sentence, expecting him to protest.

“If a crime has been committed, and you know of it, why haven’t you reported it?” He stood, too, suddenly, and she froze, almost shrinking away from him. It disturbed him.

“I know only that they are dead. I do not know where they died, or the hand that killed them.” She did not look away as she spoke, and even though he knew she was lying, and she knew he knew, she did not so much as flinch.

“You would protect their killers?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” She turned away, looked out the window, her back stiff.

“If they are dead”—and he was suddenly beginning to believe they were—“they were agents of the Crown, and their deaths will be investigated.”

“Agents of the Crown?” When she spun to face him, her face was white. “Why? Why did you do it? What could you possibly wish to know about me you could not just have asked?”

“Would you have answered?”

She bit her bottom lip. “No.”

“But you told my sister.”

She stiffened in surprise at that, her eyes going wide, and Edward shrugged. “She would not tell me, either. So do you blame me for trying to find out on my own?”

Charlotte crossed her arms over her breasts. “If those men weren’t dead, if they could have made their meeting with you tonight, they would have told you nothing you could not easily have found out for yourself. What you probably already know. They were asking in all the wrong places, and if they had asked in the right ones, they’d still have ended up dead.”

“How do you know this?” Edward had to force himself not to swear. “How could you possibly know where they asked their questions?”

“I have a little army around me, Lord Durnham.” She smiled, but it was cold, and searingly alone. “No one comes near me or asks about me who isn’t vetted, and checked, and either allowed to go on their way … or not.”

Edward stared at her. “Who does this?”

“My old lover. The boy who sat watch over me while I slept as a child, who fought off anyone who tried to touch me, and who was sent to Old Bailey because he struck out at someone who did me harm. The person to whom I owe my life.”

“Why are you not with him, then?” The question exploded from him, because he did not want some other man to have this claim on her. It was wrong that she appeared free, able to give her affections where she chose.

“He wants that very much. But I … I do not love him that way. I never did. To me, he has always been my family.”

“But you called him your lover?” He knew this was the
most inappropriate conversation he had ever had, and yet, he had to have the answer.

She dipped her head. “I think I can be forgiven, Lord Durnham. I certainly have forgiven myself, if there is anything to forgive. I became Luke’s lover because it was the only thing he wanted, and it seemed wrong to deny him when he had done so much. I was twelve years old.”

S
he had shocked him, which made her anger at him even stronger. Did he live in such a cloistered little world, this ignoramus? She had thought him more real, more insightful, more grounded than the idiots who attended the balls and soirees of the ton.

If he spent just one hour in the rookeries, or half an hour talking to the boys imprisoned in the Bailey, or the Hulks, he would know boys took lovers, had girls who kept house in the small corner of a room they might have for themselves, girls who tried to keep their little place, pay the rent on it, while the boys were in prison.

When you had to earn your living like an adult, go to prison like one, too, then you behaved like one in all areas of your life. Even if you were only twelve or thirteen. That was how it worked. That was how reputation and pecking order were established.

“Would you please leave.” She eventually turned from the window, away from the horses walking placidly by in the high summer heat, to face him.

He hadn’t moved. Was still sprawled in his chair, his eyes closed, a frown etched deep in his forehead. But she’d seen the look on his face as she’d told him about Luke. There was shock there. And something else. Horror. Whether for her, or for Luke, or simply the situation, she didn’t know.

Shouldn’t care.

“Where are you from, that you are mixed up in this?” He didn’t open his eyes.

“The rookeries, just like Luke. I’m no lady, Lord Durnham.”

“You pretend to be.”

“She does not pretend.” Catherine stood in the doorway, and her eyes were hard when they looked at Durnham. He sat straight in his chair at the sound of her voice.

“My Charlotte is more lady than most of the overdressed, overstuffed women of the ton, Lord Durnham. And I will not have anyone in this house who says otherwise.”

Durnham’s lips thinned. “You are right. What I said is inexcusable. I should have more control over my temper and I apologize.”

Catherine stared him down with cool, cool eyes. Walked past him and sat at her usual spot. “You sister is tending Ned in the nursery. Perhaps you’d like to go to her?”

He rose slowly. Reluctantly. He had been maneuvered out of the room, and did not like it one bit. He gave a half bow and left.

Charlotte let her shoulders slump, and heard Catherine rise behind her, felt the cool, soothing touch of her hands on her neck.

“Luke is going to kill him.” She leaned forward and let her forehead rest against the sun-warmed glass of the window.

Catherine touched her cheek and leaned over her. Kissed the top of her head. “You will have to stop him. This is not the usual witless idiot. Lord Durnham strikes me as a man who is very dangerous. Maybe as dangerous as Luke. And he has powerful connections.”

“The way Luke is now …” She shuddered. “I’m not sure that won’t make him more eager. He seems to want to die.”

“No.” Catherine stepped back. “He thinks if he is rash enough, you will offer yourself up to stop him.”

Charlotte flinched, and turned slowly. Was that what he was doing? He had certainly done it before, and she had been young enough to fall for it. To be manipulated. “I should leave,” she said, and stood. “I should leave to go somewhere else. I would like to go to Italy, or France, but with the war, that’s obviously impossible. Perhaps the Lake District, or Scotland?”

“You think that will stop him?” Catherine tapped a long, slender finger to her lip. “Would he leave Lord Durnham alone?”

Charlotte shook her head. “No. He would still kill him. If I could get a promise from him not to, though, maybe I should leave.”

“You would trust his promise?”

Charlotte looked across to Catherine and nearly wept. “I would once have said yes. Now … I don’t know.” She wanted to run, or ride, there was so much boiling inside her. She
hugged herself. “His injury is worse. He could barely walk to me last night without crying out. His lips were almost white with pain. I wonder how much of his rage is fueled by agony. Bitterness.”