Chapter 21
Twenty-One
“What do we know of Amersham?” Emerson asked Amir.
“Hmm. A charming little backwater hamlet in Buckinghamshire where the teacups judge you and the hills are steeper than the conversation. A fine place to sprain an ankle or one’s reputation, depending on your goals.”
“Humorous.” He thought of Rose and all that hair that had hung scandalously down her back at Shufflebottom’s masquerade. Damn, if spraining his reputation—or hers—didn’t suddenly appeal. “How far is it?”
“Two to three hours northwest of here,” Amir promptly responded. “You’re not truly considering a ride, are you?”
A great sense of exhaustion descended over Emerson. He let out a sigh. “I am actually. First, return me to Manchester Square. I must clean up and rest lest I end up falling from my horse and breaking my neck. See what you can learn on Lady Stanford’s connection to Amersham.”
Amir arched a brow, lips twitching. “Shall I ransack the village registry, charm the local vicar, seduce a gossiping spinster?”
Emerson shot him a smirk. “Very droll.” Then added with his own irreverent jab, “Whatever gets us answers without you ending up in shackles or someone’s bed. Unless it’s strategic.”
Amir inclined his head. “Understood. Subtle chaos only.”
“Just to be clear. There is no need for you to travel to Buckinghamshire. There must be someone in London to explain her connection to the hamlet. Her brother is a blasted duke.” Emerson shook his head.
He had no intention of allowing Amir to go after Rose.
That duty fell to Emerson alone. He climbed in the carriage and sank into the swabs.
What the devil could have driven Lady Stanford to Amersham? The image of the note he’d drafted to her, demanding she see him, and his failure to show lauded a boulder of guilt on his head. Surely that would not have sent her running for the hills…literally.
It couldn’t have. She had made an appearance at Hope House this very morning.
Her butler hadn’t said a word. But then, he wouldn’t have, would he? As well he shouldn’t. Still, Lady Huntley’s comment left him unsettled.
By the time Emerson reached Number Ten Manchester Square, dark clouds were flattening the sky, turning the pale facades of the square into a black-and-white etching that could run in The Gazette.
Emerson disembarked, again, without awaiting a footman to lower the steps, jumping down.
He climbed the porch steps by two to the front door.
Yates, ever efficient, had it open by the time he reached it. “Welcome home, sir.”
That word again. Home. He wasn’t certain it fit.
Inside, the air was clean. Warm against the chill of the October day. A fire already lit in the library. The sort of fire that was tended, not fought.
He tugged at his cravat as he entered and closed the door behind him.
For a long moment, he stood alone. No blackmail notes. No titles. No brother. Just him. He poured a glass of brandy and contemplated the weight of choices that couldn’t be made with his fists.
He chose a chair before the fire and sat.
A minute passed. Then five.
The door creaked open, and he glanced up.
Ben appeared in the arch like a sulking ghost. His hair was windblown, his boots scuffed.
“I take it you’re not returning from a garden party. Thought you’d be sleeping.” Emerson redirected his gaze to the fire.
“You’re still dusty.” Ben took the chair opposite, collapsing into it with the boneless resignation of a man who knew his own drama wouldn’t change anything. “Did you find her?”
Emerson stilled. “Her?”
“The scullery maid from Shufflebottom’s party. Are you daft?” Ben let out a snort then took a deep breath. “I came to ask if your offer still stands.”
Emerson blinked. “Would you mind being more specific?”
“The offer to teach me your business…” His voice trailed away as if suddenly unsure. “I don’t wish to learn Oscar is…is…”
“Expired,” Emerson said softly.
Ben swallowed. “Yes.”
A silence passed between them, gentle, not empty.
Ben exhaled. “They’ve moved on, you know. Gorman and the others. Left London for the country. Which means something is up,” he finished on a growl, frowning.
Emerson set down his glass. “And you didn’t go with them.”
“I thought better of the company…for once.”
He leveled Ben a hard stare, unsure how or what to respond.
His brother’s gaze moved to the fire, his chin jutted out. “They never really wanted me, Emerson. Not as I am. Just the title I might have inherited.”
A sense of pride stole through Emerson. “Then you’re not the fool I’d believed you to be,” he returned softly.
Ben’s gaze shot to him, stunned.
Emerson pushed his untouched brandy toward his brother. “Here. Growing up is difficult. You need this more than I.”
He took the glass, his gaze dropping to the contents. “You realize, don’t you, it was Stockton who showed up at Hallandale?”
“I suspected it was one of the upstarts.” Emerson stood, intending to pour himself a brandy.
“You’re sure?” Ben asked quietly. “About the warehouse, I mean?”
Emerson stopped, then sat back down. “Of course. I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.” He leaned back. “It won’t be easy, you know.”
Ben smirked. “I don’t expect it to be. You’re not an easy man. But you are a successful one.”
That earned a huff, not quite laughter, out of Emerson.
Ben swirled his drink. “So. What of your blackmailer?”
Yes, what of his blackmailer? How was he to enter peerages’ homes without assistance? He speared Ben with another hard look. “You say ‘the children’ left London?”
Ben winced. “Must you refer to them so?” But the question was rhetorical. “I heard they went south.”
“South. What the hell is south?”
Ben shrugged, stretching out his legs and crossing one ankle over the other. He folded his arms across his chest, still holding on to his half-drunk brandy. “They put it about White’s they were headed to Lewes for the Autumn Cup. Everyone who is anyone knows Newmarket is the place to be this week.”
“What’s this week?”
“Newmarket’s Second October Meeting,” Ben said.
“Stockton’s been tracking a stallion with winning bloodlines.
Collier’s sunk a fortune into some unknown gelding—Swindler’s Luck or some equally damning name.
Gorman is along for the ride, naturally.
Always is when there’s coin involved and no consequences.
Lampert’s gone too.” A huff of irritation erupted from him.
“Idiots. The lot of them. I ought to have seen through those jackanapes from the start.”
The conversation was ridiculous. Emerson needed to make the trek to Amersham.
Along with a good dose of sleep. “Well, if they went to Lewes, they’re sure to be disappointed.
There’s no Autumn Cup. Not this time of year.
Hell, the stewards barely run a card past the equinox.
Anyone who knows horses would never bother. ”
Ben twirled the stem of his glass and laughed. “Serves the bastards right—er, apologies, Emerson.” His face turned a particularly interesting shade of red.
That drew a quick smile from Emerson. “Never mind. I am a bastard. In the literal sense.” After a short pause, he went on.
“You’re too smart for those asses. None of the four could spot a proper racehorse if it trampled their valet.
” The fact they’d headed south niggled at him. “Do they attend races all over?”
“Sure. Said it was the ‘social thing to do.’ Hell, I used to attend with them.” Ben sipped the brandy. “But between you and me, they don’t care for turf or titles unless there’s something worth pocketing on the other side.”
Emerson stood and crossed to the window. The clouds hung low, and fat drops of rain began plopping against the panes.
“How opportune,” he muttered, not sure if he referred to the inconvenient rain or his elusive scullery maid.
Within an hour, Emerson sat in his chamber, boots discarded and shirt unbuttoned at the throat, staring into a low-burning fire. The quiet was welcome.
A soft knock on the door preceded Amir’s entrance.
Emerson straightened. “What did you learn?”
Amir leaned against the doorframe. “Your woman is visiting her sister. Mrs. Antonia Tatton—née Abernathy. Seven months along and currently nesting in a respectable house just outside Amersham proper.”
Emerson exhaled slowly, some of the tightness leaving his shoulders. “So not a mystery. Just family.”
“It would appear,” Amir confirmed.
Perhaps he’d time to rest then. For a moment. Only one.