Chapter 17
Seventeen
Benjamin dropped into a chair that sent up a cloud of dust in the less than desirable parlor.
Due to the amount of time it took for Sedgewick to assemble a few servants and Amir to scrounge for something edible, Emerson, with unrelenting prodding in Ben’s direction, ended up making up beds for the three of them to sleep in.
“God, this place is just as boring as I remembered it,” Ben said through a bout of sneezing.
“Think you’ve got the stomach for a little intrigue?” Emerson said. “I can almost promise there will be no blood.”
“Very amusing,” Ben returned in that sullen tone that annoyed the hell out of him. Ben rose from the dusty chair. “What did you have in mind?”
“Sedgewick mentioned Oscar’s use of the study, but said he’d taken to locking it. And before you ask, he also said he does not hold the key.”
Ben frowned. “Then how do you expect to get in?”
“Through a window above the wisteria tree, of course.” Emerson looked over his brother’s well-cut coat. “You might wish to change.”
Ben gave him a sidelong glance. “You’ve done this before.”
“Broken into locked rooms at my cousin’s estate?” Emerson shrugged. “Certainly not.”
Ben let out a huff. “Brilliant. Climbing trees. In the dark. What could possibly go wrong?”
“Your sense of adventure is truly overwhelming,” Emerson said, already turning for his own chamber to change. “Ten minutes. Meet me by the east wing stairs. Wear something you won’t cry over if it snags.”
Ben muttered something impolite under his breath and stalked out.
Emerson grinned, surprised at the sense of anticipation sweeping through him.
Ten minutes later, he emerged from the house to the old terrace with Ben on his heels.
A shimmer of memory whispered through him where Oscar and Ben were but tykes, dashing about playing soldiers from a different era.
Emerson had had to root them out like vermin from the burrow they’d dug.
He’d quickly set them to work refilling it before the gardener found them and was forced to tell the old man the boys had declared war in his prized gardens.
Quietly, they moved down the terrace steps to the study window under a muted moon that drifted in and out of the moving clouds. Emerson studied the twisted silhouette of the wisteria and the worn bricks of Hallandale’s east wall rising above him like a memory better left buried.
Ben looked as if he expected to be hanged. “If I fall and break something, I’ll haunt you to your dying days.”
“You’ll have to get in line,” Emerson replied, then tested the lowest vine. Still sturdy. “Follow me. And do try not to scream.”
“Only if I spot a spider the size of my hand.”
“Then we shall both scream.”
Ben let out a breath somewhere between a laugh and a curse, but he grabbed the vine behind Emerson.
Hand over hand, boot by cautious boot, they climbed.
The latch gave with a reluctant creak as Emerson pushed it open from the outside. The smell of old wood and paper wafted out.
He hoisted himself through the narrow window’s frame, then turned to offer a hand to Ben, who grunted and flopped onto the floor like a particularly elegant sack of potatoes.
“You’re heavier than you look,” Emerson muttered. “See if you can find a few candles.”
“I’m all bone and wit,” Ben wheezed, brushing at his now wrinkled attire. “I’m not one of your laborers from the docks,” he said. Shockingly, without heat.
Any retort Emerson deigned to come up with fell away as light exposed the room.
It appeared to have been untouched in months, if not years.
Books lined the walls, and not a single one was pulled or appeared out of place.
The desk stood like a monolith in the center, its blotter paper brittle with age.
The stale tang of dried ink was as familiar as it was unsettling.
A lamp with a scorched wick, unlit, stood on the corner.
Emerson took one of the candles and set the flame to the wick.
Next to the lamp, there was a glass of something that had gone to mildew.
“This wasn’t abandoned,” Ben said, eyes narrowing. “It was left.”
Emerson moved toward the desk. “Don’t touch anything yet.”
Ben raised his hands in exaggerated surrender. “By all means, Constable Whitmore. I’ll attempt to restrain myself.”
Ignoring him, Emerson crouched on the far side of the desk. Most of the drawers—shut. The lone open drawer gave credence to Ben’s statement. Someone—Oscar?—had abruptly retreated. Emerson reached inside and pulled out the closest thing at hand. He rose and moved to the light.
A handbill for King John, creased, worn, and frayed about the edges from the King’s Royale Theatre. His brow furrowed. It was dated 22 September of this very year. Curious.
Ben hovered over his shoulder. “Theatre memorabilia in Sussex? Odd. Wasn’t a prominent member of the peerage found stabbed at the King’s Theatre a few months ago?”
“Lady Stanford’s late husband,” Emerson said.
“That’s right. Baron Stanford. I’d forgotten. I believe he favored, er, really, er, young women. Look,” Ben said, snatching the handbill from Emerson. He ran a finger down the list of cast members and stopped at Lady Blanch. It was underlined. “This Florence Groves—she was killed as well.”
A chill stole over Emerson.
“Found bonked on the head at some house on Hope Street.” He handed the bill back to Emerson. “It was said she’d been impregnated by Stanford. Apparently, years before, Lady Bentick had been mad for Stanford. Even kidnapped Lady Huntley and shot her.”
Emerson stared at his brother. “Good God.”
Ben shrugged. “I have to keep up with the latest on dits. I might be a part of that set at some point. One must remain at the ready.” He moved around the desk and tried the other shut drawers. “Hmm. This is interesting.” He dropped into the chair behind the desk that let out an ominous creak.
“What?”
Ben shifted, reaching beneath the desk. “It’s hollow,” he murmured. “Here, beneath the center drawer. Hand me a candle.”
Emerson grabbed one and passed it over, narrowing his eyes as Ben tilted the flame and probed at the darkened wood. Even from his place across the desk, Emerson heard the soft click.
“It’s a false bottom,” Ben said. He glanced up, grinning.
“Father always said I was good at finding trouble.” He leaned forward then back, drawing out a slim leather folio, bound in cracked brown hide and sealed with a plain wax stamp.
“May I open it?” His eagerness and the very fact he’d asked touched Emerson.
“Of course.”
Ben broke the seal. Just on top lay a folded sheet of vellum.
Emerson detected a stain at one corner with something that might have been ink or water…or blood, but he wisely kept that notion to himself lest his brother pass out.
“The handwriting is neat,” Ben said.
“Read it aloud,” Emerson told him.
“If you’re reading this, I’ve failed to stop them.
I was warned—more than once. They mean to use the title to legitimize their work.
The scheme runs beneath London like rot beneath floorboards.
I’ve traced it to one house, but due to the occupant, it makes no sense.
It’s the great white townhouse on Russell Square.
The girl, Florence, was only one of many.
” Ben looked up sharply. “I don’t understand.
Russell Square. That’s Stockton’s family home. Or very nearby.”
Emerson took the paper and read on. “I saw her once in the corridor at King’s Theatre. She recognized me. Begged for help. I tried, but I was too late. And now I fear I’m next. The truth lies with the men who funded the marquis’s masquerade. Follow the money. Oscar.”
Emerson’s breath left him in a single, ragged gust.
“I was right,” Ben said quietly, his eyes fixed on the page Emerson still held. “He didn’t flee.”
“No,” Emerson replied. “He was taken. Likely the same night Miss Groves was killed.”
“But it was Lady Bentick who killed Miss Groves.”
Emerson refolded it and slipped it into his breast pocket.
Ben eyed him. “What now?”
Emerson extinguished the candle. “I must return to London.”
Ben’s eyes narrowed. “You mean we must return.”
“Perhaps you could remain here. Get the manor in order and do what you can to locate Oscar’s whereabouts.”
“Or I could return to London with you.” Ben straightened. “Good God, you think they’re still moving girls.”
“I think they’ve never stopped.” Emerson’s voice was low, deadly. “And I think the late baron’s wife, Lady Stanford, may be far too close to all of it.” He’d clearly placed her in peril in obtaining her assistance to find his blackmailer.
Ben’s brows rose. “The widow? Look, Emerson, it’s too dangerous to take the horses in the dark.”
Emerson didn’t answer.
“And people believe you the smart one?” Ben let out a sigh. “I’m coming with you, as clearly your wits have deserted you.”