Chapter 14
Fourteen
Emerson sealed the missive to Rose then sent for Amir.
“You rang?”
“Don’t be insolent,” Emerson snapped. “Get this to Lady Stanford immediately.”
“Tonight?” Amir said, surprised.
He stopped. Should he? Yes. “Immediately.”
Amir took the note with a raised brow. “I thought she was attending a dinner at the duke of Ryleigh’s residence.”
“She’ll be home eventually, won’t she?”
“You appear agitated, miku im.”
“Take it. Tonight.” Then he added, “Please.”
Amir inclined his head, grinning, and departed.
Emerson groaned. He had no call to take his frustration out on his friend.
A friend that had saved his life on more than one occasion.
Of course, Emerson had returned the favor.
His thoughts moved from Amir to that cryptic message in Ryleigh’s desk.
The age of intended victims has raised. Their purpose, however, remains the same. Time grows short.
He had to warn Lady Stanford that her brother was up to his noble neck in something dire. How deep was the question. The duke was powerful, and that did not bode well. For anyone.
Benjamin strolled in. “You’re still up?”
Emerson didn’t bother explaining his earlier exploits. “You’re in early.” Emerson bit back another more sardonic remark regarding Ben’s so-called friends. “I’m having a brandy. May I pour you one?”
“I suppose.” His sulking tone set Emerson’s teeth on edge. He poured out glasses for each of them and handed one off.
“Where are your friends?”
“The country.”
“You weren’t invited?”
“I chose not to go.”
“Why is that? I thought you were joined at the hip.”
“Don’t be crass.” Ben threw back the contents of his glass, slammed it on a table, and stormed from the room.
Wincing, Emerson held up his own to toast the empty room. “Cheers to you too, brother.” He really should curb his sarcasm until Ben got to know him better. At the least, allow Ben to work through his resentment toward him.
~~~
Ben stalked up the stairs of the old and lavish house. Why couldn’t Emerson ever, ever be wrong? He stormed down a wide corridor into the “suite” of rooms he’d been assigned. Assigned! The word sickened him. Made him feel like a lad of ten and still attended Eton.
He went to a plush chair in front of the fire and plopped down.
The heat from the embers in the hearth licked his face.
Ben leaned forward with his elbows on his thighs and pressed his fingertips into his temples.
The problem was that Ben’s so-called “friends” raised the hair at the back of his neck.
At school, Gorman, Lampert, and Stockton had harassed him mercilessly.
As an heir to viscountcy through indirect blood, Collier had joined the fray once they’d left Cambridge.
Being perilously close to inheriting an earldom had changed their attitude toward Ben entirely. In the beginning, Ben had been secretly flattered by the attention, since over the course of years he’d been endlessly tormented by pranks that had exposed his aversion to the sight of blood.
Recently, their attention—or perhaps intentions—had begun to leave a bad taste in his mouth. And as much as the desire to be an earl clawed through him, the acceptance, the ability to rub elbows with those he’d been shunned by, Ben couldn’t help wondering about Oscar.
The last time Ben and Emerson had seen their cousin, they’d been fishing on Hallandale lands.
Back when Oscar and Ben were so reed thin, even at the age of sixteen, a strong wind could have knocked them over.
Not Emerson. He’d been, and still was, as stout and mean as a seasoned bull always on the lookout for trouble.
Quick reflexes with never much to say. Watchful.
Always in control, while Ben was impulsive, hated the sight of blood, and still too thin.
He hated himself.
He hated Papa for treating him like a child. No, he’d treated Ben as if he hadn’t had a brain or was an invalid. From the moment Emerson had moved in with them at the age of twelve—and Ben seven—it had been clear from the onset that their father had preferred Emerson.
In an instant, Papa had had all the time in the world for Emerson. Had taken him everywhere to meet the tenants and work the fields. The few times Ben had been along, he’d been relegated to the kitchens with the farmers’ wives and the younger children.
It was this stupid anemia that made him appear so pale. He hated that too.
He needed to talk to someone, but who? He dropped his head in his hands. The problem was that he didn’t trust anyone.
Except Emerson.
How galling was that? The one person he could go to, he hated with a passion.
Ben unwrapped his cravat and tossed it aside. There was nothing for it, he had to talk to his brother—half brother, blast it all. He stomped from his suite, noting the silence from Emerson’s rooms, and headed back down the one flight to the library.
“Ah, you’re back. Are you going out after all?” Emerson inquired.
“No. I decided I must speak with you.”
An audible sigh touched the chamber, yet Emerson’s gaze grew alert, if wary. “Of course. Shall I pour another brandy, then?”
“No.” Ben dropped into the nearest chair.
A second later, Emerson lowered into its mate. “All right. I take it this has something to do with the upstarts?”
“I’m worried for Oscar.” Ben spoke hurriedly lest he lose his nerve.
Emerson’s gaze sharpened. “Did you learn his whereabouts?”
“No. But…” He stared into the fire before facing his brother fully and heaving in a deep breath. “I never was friends with them at school, you know. They were horrid. Always setting some bloody carcass on my bed.” He shuddered.
“Not with actual blood, I hope.”
Ben’s jaw tightened.
“Good God,” Emerson breathed. “Why did you never say anything? I would have—”
“Exactly why I didn’t.” Ben turned his gaze back to the fire. “I suspect it was my reaction to the blood that sent the dormitory into frenzied hyenas.”
“Christ.” Emerson rose from his chair and went to the windows and stared out. “And now you are possibly the next Earl of Hallandale and as such will outrank them.”
“Yes. Lately, they’ve taken to visiting… Shadwell and Limehouse.”
~~~
Emerson spun, violence writhing through him. “What business could they possibly have—”
“There are a couple of, uh, opium dens. Lampert visited more than one on his Grand Tour and took pride introducing them to the group.”
“Ben, I know you don’t like when I caution you—” Emerson started, speaking gently.
Ben held out his hand, palm up. “No. I don’t. It’s the reason I’m here tonight. I tried it one time, and I admit it was not for me.” He shook his head with a sharp motion. “It was on that occasion that Stockton made a comment that has me concerned.”
Emerson’s insides shook. London’s East End was a den of London’s worst. He forced himself to slow.
Poured himself another brandy. Benjamin might not require one, but Emerson couldn’t remember when he’d been crazed with such savage fury.
He took his glass and went back to his chair. “All right. I’m listening.”
In that moment, Ben resembled a mature young man Emerson didn’t quite recognize.
“Stockton spoke as if he already knew my fate. The others laughed uproariously. There was a sick feeling in my stomach, and I sobered almost instantly, though I spent the rest of the evening pretending I was as soused as they.”
“And you’re confiding this to me because…”
“I didn’t know who else to talk to,” he said somewhat begrudgingly.
Emerson swirled the amber contents of his glass, bereft of words.
His chest constricted with some unseen force he couldn’t identify.
The silence grew awkward, and he grasped for something, anything to say.
“I’m being blackmailed.” The words slipped from his mouth as if he had just drunk a pint of fish oil.
“What?”
Well, he couldn’t shove the words back. “Someone sent me a note implicating you in a nefarious deed. I’m in the process of trying to find the blackguard.”
Amusement fleeted across Ben’s face. “Ah, the ransom would break the bank.”
A small rusty laugh erupted from Emerson, surprising himself. “Abominable,” he agreed.
Ben’s demeanor turned serious. “Any luck in finding him?”
“No. It’s a slow process.” Emerson sipped his brandy. “Perhaps you and I should make a visit to the Hallandale estate. We might learn something there.”
“All right.” Ben spoke slowly, almost hesitantly. “If you think we won’t kill one another.”
“That is not amusing,” Emerson said, without the typical animosity banding his chest. And, to his surprise, a touch of said amusement pulsed through him. “We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”