Chapter 3
Three
Emerson stopped. He should have locked the door.
But if his host happened upon him—No. He was an idiot to have forgotten.
“I did not.” He’d already checked the drawers of the massive desk and found nothing but a few vowels in varying amounts.
The three drawers on the right-hand side?
Also, nothing. The other two held account books, but certainly not any incriminating evidence he was on the hunt for.
Thankfully, he’d pulled his black mask into place when he’d searched the bookcases. He should have stopped there, of course. Instead, he’d moved to the painting on the wall behind the desk. The largest one: a pastoral scene of a dog hunt, rifles poised.
It was by sheer luck he hadn’t yet pulled it from the wall. To his relief, the woman dressed as a lady’s maid had closed the door behind her, softly.
At first, he didn’t think she’d even noticed him. Hell, the back of her head had dropped against the hard oak with a thud her harsh breathing nearly drowned out.
Her black woolen skirt with its white sash failed in disguising enticing curves.
The white mobcap atop her head never showcased hair like hers—long dark waves that hung lose.
His hands tingled within his soft leather gloves with an urge to have her turn, allowing him to see how far those curls fell.
Made his fingers itch to run them through strands that gleamed like silk in the low glow of the room’s single lit lamp.
Eyes of moss flashed fire, and a hand splayed across a dainty bosom that warranted further inspection. “What are you looking for?” Her voice held a small tremor.
He considered her question, her demeanor, the upper crest diction that did not belong with the riot of curls or the scullery maid’s costume she wore. “I’m being blackmailed.”
She gasped. “By Shufflebottom?” An adorable scowl compressed her full lips into a straight line, making her chin appear more pointed as that was all that was visible beneath her diamond-tipped mask. “That dandified churl.”
“You know him, then?” Of course she did.
She and Shufflebottom ran in the same circles.
It was the accent, he decided. Glancing about, he spotted a tray of spirits and sauntered over to pour out two small glasses of brandy.
He brought one to his nose and sniffed. Nothing but the best in the house of a notorious marquis.
He held up the glass. “Shall we indulge in his hospitality?”
She eyed him with obvious suspicion. Smart girl.
Lady, he inwardly corrected. He wasn’t of the peerage after all.
Another thud sounded—she’d dropped what Emerson could only assume were shoes, though he hesitated to grant them the dignity of the term.
She glided in his direction. “Thank you.” It was said grudgingly enough to have him biting back a smile.
Her appearance put a damper on his search, and he likely wouldn’t have another such opportunity.
She took a large swallow of the brandy and let out a coughing fit that had her eyes watering. “I thought this was Madeira,” she choked out.
“In a brandy glass? No.” He sipped his. “Definitely brandy. Were the hounds after you?”
“Er, no.” She pulled a small, laced handkerchief from a hidden pocket of her frock.
Emerson took her glass and set it on the desk, then the hankie, noting the embroidered initials of RS and dabbed at the tears trickling from behind her mask. “Now, what has you so flustered?”
“The fop was after me.”
His fingers stopped, poised as if encased in marble…or seized by rigor mortis. “Shufflebottom is on his way…in here?”
“No, thank the heavens. I lost him in the crowd.” Her voice fascinated him. Modulated, educated. And, sadly, definitely nobility.
Emerson pocketed the handkerchief and let out a breath. With no ties to the beau monde, he had no entry into many of the upper echelon’s residences. Yet perhaps that wasn’t quite so true any longer. If Ben did happen to become earl—
Impossible. As the bastard son of Mr. Jaxon Massey, Emerson would still have no reason to rub elbows with lofty lords. He needed another way in. This enticing creature opened an interesting prospect.
The masquerade event had allowed Emerson to avoid dealing with the aristocracy. The nobs were a fickle, irresponsible lot who typically put the screws to the lower-class populous. Hence the case of the Marquis of Shufflebottom.
For the second time in as many minutes, the door flew back.
In a most discourteous move his father would yank his ear for, Emerson quickly snagged his RS lady’s maid, tugging her into his chest, and covered her mouth with his. He dove his gloved hand into the mass of hair he couldn’t feel but was certain would haunt his dreams for the foreseeable future.
Her lips stilled beneath his.
“What the devil is going on here?” Shufflebottom’s voice grated like rusted iron.
The full mouth under Emerson’s went instantly compliant, and her fingers stole beneath his domino, clutching at him.
Emerson, true to the gentleman he was not, swept his tongue into the sweetest mouth he’d ever tasted.
But she stiffened as if she’d never been kissed.
He stroked with an ever growing need that fired his blood to near anarchy over his own body.
Slowly, Emerson pulled away, meeting her stunned, wide-eyed gaze.
Her kiss was as innocent as that of a virgin, but her eyes spoke of a different kind of experience.
He wanted to rip away her jeweled-tipped mask.
See if her skin was as soft as her lips.
See her cheeks flushed with a blush. She was all woman. Jesus, how long has it been?
“Can I help you?” Emerson growled at the intruder, unable to tear his eyes from his captive.
“My pardons, sir. I thought I saw… It couldn’t have been. Carry on.” The door latched softly on his retreat, breaking the spell that seemed to have ensnared him and…her.
She jumped back, clearly embarrassed. The back of her wrist swiped at her lips. “What are you about, sir?” What should have been fury came out in a husky wisp that had desire twitching in his britches.
Emerson used amusement to hide the sudden onslaught of lust and said lightly, “I thought it was clear. I was saving you.” I was saving me.
Slowly, her hand lowered, leaving him a view of fully reddened kissed lips. “What makes you believe Shufflebottom is blackmailing you?” An absurd little spaniel with a raw slab of meat, she was. She sounded calm, but a flush rising up her neck told another story.
Questions tore through his mind with the speed of a runaway phaeton.
How high in the peerage did she place? Could she get him into other houses to search for his cowardly nemesis?
More importantly, would she? He stared into the depths of green eyes that rivaled a forest of sunlight dappling through leafy trees.
Could he trust her?
He was a merchant. Lived near the docks, as Ben so indelicately reminded him. But realistically, Emerson would never be able to locate the culprit on his own. He hated it, hated the nobility, hated the pit of chaos someone was determined to throw him in.
After the slightest hesitation, Emerson tugged the missive from an inner pocket and handed it to her, then made his way back to the spirits and poured himself another brandy.
The vellum wisped softly through the room.
“What does this mean that he has intimate knowledge of your cousin? Who is your cousin?” Demanding little thing, wasn’t she?
“Exactly what it says. Hallandale died.”
“Hallandale is your cousin?”
Impatience pricked him. “Yes, yes. Please, try to follow. I am attempting to explain.”
She huffed out her frustration and crossed her arms beneath her breasts.
It took him a second to force his gaze up. “My cousin, Oscar, has not been heard from in years. I am looking for him.”
“This note indicates that your brother may have done something to him. Would he?”
“So practical you are, my lady.”
“Just making certain I can follow,” she said with a smirk that tempted him beyond reason.
“A point well made,” he murmured. “He abhors violence.”
“Poison doesn’t necessarily require violence,” she pointed out. “Who is your brother?”
“Benjamin Massey.”
“And you are…”
“Emerson Whitmore. And, frankly, I could use your help.”
She strolled over to the spirits and found the Madeira and poured herself a glass. “I don’t know what I can do to help.”
“I take it you are part of the beau monde.”
“What of it?”
“I am merely a merchant of trade.”
She held up the missive. “Apparently, quite a successful one if someone believes you can be bought for fifty thousand pounds.”
“I don’t deny my success.” He wasn’t boasting, it was fact. “But I have no intention of paying blackmail, be it fifty pence or fifty thousand pounds.”
“I see.” She glanced at the note then back at him, then held it out. “It was nice of you to share this…er, highly delicate matter with me, but I don’t understand.”
He took the note, refolded it, and tucked it back in his pocket. “I need a way in—”
“In?”
“Peerages’ homes. You have all the signs of belonging.”
She stopped. “You wish to break into peerages’ homes?”
“That’s what I’m attempting to avoid.”
Curiosity lit her eyes like a beacon. “Like whose?”
“Earl Stockton’s for one.”
Her spine straightened. “Stockton.”
Every instinct in him sharpened. “You know something?” he asked softly.
Another blush stole up her neck. “I doubt it’s anything.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
“All right. Before Shufflebottom spotted me, I saw several men talking. It looked somewhat serious, so I, er, sort of crept over and eavesdropped. One of them was referred to as Stockton. Stockton referred to another man as an earl and his brother. Were they speaking of you?”
Emerson groaned. She’d obviously overheard Ben with the upstarts. He ignored her question. “What else?”