Bedeviled By The Baroness (Rebel Lords of London #7)

Chapter 1

One

Agitation shook Emerson Whitmore’s hand.

“Did you kill him?” He picked up a decanter of amber liquid and poured out a finger of whatever handy spirit it happened to be to keep from strangling his half brother, Benjamin Massey.

The man was a disaster waiting to happen, yet shockingly was still alive and in one piece.

A note penned on expensive vellum suspiciously resembling—resembling? —blackmail was seared on his brain.

Greetings, sir.

There are those who might take an interest in your cousin’s failure to present himself upon his father’s death—and how conveniently that omission places your brother within reach of the title.

Once such matters are set before the magistrates, they have a way of proceeding further than a gentleman might wish.

Fifty thousand pounds ensures my silence.

Oh, it was definitely blackmail, and secured within the inner pocket of Emerson’s practical waistcoat.

It seemed to burn through his shirt, scorching his torso.

The barb was perhaps taking things a tad too far, since his half brother had an aversion to blood.

But Emerson wouldn’t put anything past those upstarts Ben ran with.

Ben’s eyes flashed fire even as he dusted imaginary lint from the shoulder of his excellently cut wool coat.

A far cry from Emerson’s own serviceable brown, since most days he could be found in the sooty confines of an old warehouse near the docks where Whitmore’s Wholesale was housed.

“I’m offended you think me capable of such an atrocity,” Ben bit out.

Emerson snorted, effectively masking the depth of his irritation.

He had half a mind to toss the missive in the fire and wash his hands of the deathbed promise his father had extorted from him in looking after Ben.

But guilt had a way of digging beneath one’s skin even if it felt like pouring salt in an open wound.

“Don’t sound so hurt. Your deviousness knows no bounds. ”

Resentment fleeted Ben’s expression. “Your faith in my character is sadly lacking, but then it always has been, hasn’t it?”

Emerson grimaced. Not always. Benjamin was a charming enough fellow, a trait acquired from their father that had bypassed Emerson somehow. Perhaps something to do with his brother’s aversion to blood. He shook his head, holding back a pulse of amusement that would not be appreciated. Ah, well.

Where their father had been inherently honest, Benjamin’s acumen to truth was almost nil.

Occasionally, Emerson’s sympathies stirred—how could they not when their father had not trusted his younger son with the simplest of tasks?

Emerson suspected had he not been brought into the household, Ben would have flourished, but after the death of Mrs. Massey, their father had been vastly overwhelmed.

“You aren’t even listening to me.” Ben’s exasperation jolted Emerson back to the issue at hand.

Insinuating Ben had disposed of their cousin Oscar, the current earl of Hallandale, when no one had seen him for what amounted to an indeterminate length of time was low, even for Emerson.

“I visited the old earl before he died. He said he hadn’t seen or heard from Oscar in an age.” This last was issued with Ben’s annoying smugness, spoiled the effect by frowning. “He’s probably dead.”

According to the note in Emerson’s pocket, that was very likely the case. “I don’t believe ‘probably’ would pass muster before the Committee on Privilege of the House of Lords,” Emerson informed him dryly.

His half brother rallied. “If the powers that be don’t locate the heir, you know very well I’m next in line for the earldom regardless.”

“Unless”—Emerson paused to ensure he had his half brother’s full attention—“Oscar has sired an heir of his own.”

Ben froze.

“I see that possibility hadn’t occurred to you.

” Emerson pulled on his cloak of courteous indifference, the one that had served him so well from childhood through the time he’d left the farm and moved to London and opened his business that had led him to great prosperity.

Mr. Whitmore. A title Emerson much preferred.

He shuddered at the thought of belonging to the peerage.

It was enough to having him break out in hives.

“Nevertheless, Ben, you must cease going about calling yourself Earl of Hallandale. Neither Parliament nor the Crown will look favorably on it should something have happened to Oscar. The current earl.” This he added, in the event Ben proved too dazzled by the title so near at hand.

“We shall see.” Ben began his ritual of fidgeting, shoving a hand in the pocket of his coat, out, then in again. A sure sign that Emerson had pricked his brother’s conscience, if not having tugged at a thread of apprehension.

Emerson poured himself another glass of his excellent brandy.

After a slight hesitation, he poured one for Ben as well offered it to him, who, of course, disregarded the gesture.

Emerson sighed. “Look, Ben, just don’t go harrying off doing things at the whims of those whelps you run with.

They don’t have your best interests at heart. ”

Gorman, Stockton, Collier, and Lampert were the quintessential bored lords Emerson detested.

He could only imagine what set in motion Ben’s hair-brained impatience of claiming the title so quickly.

While Emerson would love nothing more than disentangling his half brother from around his neck, his promise to Papa ensured Ben’s well-being.

“You’ll look after him, Emerson.” It wasn’t a question. “Benjamin’s not as tough as you. He requires a strong hand. My cousin would just as soon as toss him in the gutters.”

It was always the same. Take care of your half brother. I took you in after your mother died. You owe us. “Of course, Father. But you know he won’t like it.”

“Bah, I vow, someday he’ll appreciate you.”

Emerson blinked. That day had yet to arrive. “You should return to the farm.”

Ben bristled as if he’d been prodded with a barbed rod. “I sold the farm.”

Emerson stared at his brother, wondering if he’d spoken a foreign tongue, yet the words were indeed English. “What?”

“I sold the farm.” He fidgeted again. “I had every right.” He not only sounded defensive, his fists clenched at his sides and his body lean forward as if poised for attack, rather than fending off an attack.

A red haze sheened Emerson’s vision, and his jaw tightened. He fought off the irrational rash of fury and said calmly, “I hesitate to ask but where the devil are you living?”

“Stockton was generous enough in allowing me to reside with him.”

That was a surprise. “At his family’s home in Russell Square?” And unlikely.

“No. He’s let rooms off Gracechurch.” Ben downed the entirety of his brandy and looked about, his nervousness on full display. “Look, Emerson, I haven’t time for this nonsense. There’s a masquerade ball I have every intention of attending. Now, if you are finished with your interrogation?”

“Not quite.”

“What?” he demanded. His patience had clearly reached its end.

But then, so had Emerson’s. “I think you should move here. With me.” He couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.

But Papa had been adamant about looking after Ben, and the least amount of trouble his brother could expect living in Gracechurch was being run down by some reckless hackney.

The most was gadding about with Stockton and his ilk at some of the worst Hells in London.

Ben’s mouth gaped. “Here? With you? Why, this is just steps above the docks,” he sputtered. “Actually, from the docks.”

Emerson surveyed his cherished library, overflowing with books in the floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases.

The warm fire blazing in the grate. The Hepplewhite settees and chairs of the highest quality due to his fleet contacts and investments in the East India Company.

Something that had netted him generous profits despite “trade” being considered vulgar in Society.

Ratcliff Cross suited Emerson’s purpose to perfection.

The house was large with good bones. Granted, the grounds were surrounded with tall, bricked cement walls and topped with iron pike tips, and were not in what anyone would consider a fashionable neighborhood.

Still, it wasn’t the slums, and it certainly wasn’t the docks.

Most importantly, it was ideal for Emerson’s concerns.

“Why not?” Emerson asked him. “Come assist me in the office and earn a decent living wage. At least until we learn whether Oscar has met his demise or has an heir in the wings.”

Ben snorted. “I think not.” He pulled out the watch fob he’d received upon their father’s death and flipped it open. “I must go.”

“Who’s giving this masquerade you are attending? Dammit, Ben, you aren’t accustomed to the seamier sides of London. You could be robbed blind and tossed like so much rubbish in the Thames.”

“Your greatest desire, I take it. It’s in Mayfair.” An evasive reply. “I shall be fine.” Ben turned on his fashionable bootheel and was gone, leaving Emerson still holding the brandy he’d offered.

The outer door opened then shut in a relatively calm manner, which meant Amir had been able to save the windows on either side from shattering. He appeared in the arch of the library seconds later, white teeth gleaming in his brown face. “Tea?”

“No, thanks.” He glanced down at the glass he’d offered Ben, then tossed back the contents.

“What of the other matter?” Amir said. Truly, he was much too familiar. Friends. A petty nuisance of late.

Emerson smirked. “Are you inquiring of the little matter of Ben being accused of murdering our cousin and me paying to keep him from being strung up?”

“Obviously, the extortionist doesn’t know you at all.”

“Or knows me too well,” Emerson muttered. “What do you hear of a masquerade being held in Mayfair tonight?”

“The Marquis of Shufflebottom’s. Known as a dandy of the first order.”

“Gambling?”

“Of course.”

“Courtesans?”

“Likely.”

“Blackmailer?”

Amir stopped, amusement tipping his brown lips. “Not that I’ve heard. However, he was involved in a scheme for trafficking children a couple of years ago.”

“Dear God.” Emerson pinched the bridge of his nose.

Not only could he picture his brother touting his nonexistent title as the new Earl of Hallandale about the beau monde, landing them both in Newgate, there was also the distinct possibility that Ben was up to his pale, skinny neck in a plot not of his own making.

“Well, hell. It appears I’m bound for Mayfair.

What do I have in the way of a costume?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Perfect. I’ll wear black.”