Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
Emerson followed his brother into the carriage and tapped the ceiling.
Ben cleared his throat. “So, Emerson…a cape? A crusader appearing out of nowhere?”
“I think that might be somewhat of an exaggeration,” he said.
“Oh, I beg to differ, brother-dear. Not based on Miss Lockhart’s reaction.”
Emerson winced. Just what he needed.
“And now that I think on it,” Ben went on, “Lady Stanford did not seem so surprised by the girl’s reaction.”
Of course she hadn’t, Emerson thought.
A choked laugh burst from Ben. “Good God, Emerson. Tell me Lady Stanford was not present as well?” He snapped his fingers. “Devil take it! That was the night of the Peachornsby’s ball, when I couldn’t reach her for the crush.”
Emerson pressed his lips together, refusing to answer, and turned his gaze out the window.
“By George the Third, I do believe the two of you are well matched,” Ben said with another chuckle.
The memory had Emerson stiffening his jaw against a smile. Well matched? Impossible. Lady Stanford was trouble wrapped in silk and stubbornness, and he’d do well to remember it. “You say Stockton never showed tonight?”
Ben shifted. “No. Which is especially peculiar. Usually where one of the four turns up, the other three appear like unwanted specters.” A small sigh escaped him.
Emerson grasped the change of topic with both hands. “Any notion where Stockton might have strayed from his flock?”
“I haven’t heard anything. Perhaps he’s been caught up at the tables somewhere.”
“Three thousand, twenty-two,” Emerson murmured.
“Pardon?”
“Shufflebottom holds a vowel from Stockton upward of three thousand pounds. Collier’s debt is even worse.”
Ben’s mouth gaped. “Never say so!”
“I saw them myself.”
Ben’s shock reverberated against the carriage walls. Then his eyes narrowed in thoughtful accusation. “The masquerade ball,” he said softly. “Suddenly, little pieces are locking into place. One by one.”
That was enough of that. Emerson hit his brother with a humorless smile. “I believe it’s time to have a little chat with Lord Stockton, don’t you?”
“You mean now?”
“What better time?” he said mildly. “Any suggestions on where to find him?”
Ben drummed his fingers on his knee. “He typically hits Boodle’s after a significant loss. Doubt he’d go to White’s. Too much of a possibility of running into his father.”
That worked for Emerson as well, as he was not welcome at White’s. He rapped on the roof and gave the order to Amir. “Best way to show a bully he’s failed,” Emerson informed his brother, “is to carry on as if nothing’s amiss.”
Oddly enough, Ben nodded but remained quiet.
Minutes later, the carriage rolled to a halt beneath Boodle’s sober facade. It’s frontage loomed above, respectable and unassuming, its lanterns casting a steady glow that illuminated not a hint of scandal—though Emerson knew well enough the weight of debts and whispered wagers cloaked within.
Inside, the vestibule was warm, the marble floor gleaming in candlelight. A porter bowed, his glance flicking over Emerson’s greatcoat before settling on Ben with more interest. No doubt he recognized a Massey of Hallandale.
Ben inclined his head with habitual ease, giving Emerson more insight into this brother he’d failed in getting to know.
The manservant’s regard shifted, polite but faintly cautious, toward Emerson.
He resisted an urge to laugh aloud. Illegitimacy clings, even when you’re dressed as a gentleman having just attended his first ton event.
Still, he surrendered his hat and gloves to the porter, then followed his brother into the coffee room.
The air changed at once—subdued, measured, like entering a chapel of masculine privilege.
Fires blazed low in marble hearths, their heat barely cutting the overhanging tobacco haze.
Gentlemen raised their bent heads from their newspapers.
Those that lingered at tables set with half-finished suppers also stopped and looked their way.
Newspapers lowered, permitting good long looks in their direction.
Whether it was because Emerson had accompanied Ben or the fact that Emerson deigned to enter their sainted sanctuary.
But Ben strode forward with a confidence Emerson could not mirror—not in this setting—his voice pitched casually. “Shall we try the card room?”
Emerson’s mouth curved without humor, and he inclined his head. “Lead on.”
They crossed the chamber. A pair of elderly peers sat at a corner table, their port untouched while their eyes tracked him with the steady curiosity of men scenting intrigue.
Ben stopped. “Good evening, Lord Martindale.”
The marquis came to his feet. “Ah, Mr. Massey.” He looked Emerson over, which sent the hair at his nape rippling with indignation. “You must be Mr. Whitmore.”
Emerson swallowed his surprise. “I am.”
“I hear congratulations are in order.”
What?
“Your betrothal to Lady Stanford. Lord Stanford was a buffoon and she deserves better. One can hardly blame the woman for flouting mourning the reprobate.”
Dumbstruck, Emerson found himself at a loss for words.
“I was at the Harlowe event when Lady Ingleby spread the word.” Lord Martindale chuckled. “Of course, that’s putting it mildly.”
A snort escaped Ben.
Imagining Rose’s reaction had him swallowing another groan. “Thank you, my lord. I shall pass on your felicitations.”
Again, Martindale laughed. “Oh, I’m sure that won’t be necessary, sir. My wife and several of her cronies are likely to storm Stanford House the moment the fashionable hour hits.”
“We welcome Lady Stanford to the family,” Ben said unable to stifle his amusement. “If you’ll excuse us, sir, we are on the hunt for Lord Stockton.”
“Ah, sad case, that.” His bushy brows furrowed. “Those youngbloods should reconsider the company they keep.” He gave an embarrassed cough. “I, er, believe you’ll find Stockton in the library, er, drowning his sorrows.”
“Of course,” Ben said, smiling. “We shall check there.”
Emerson inclined his head toward Martindale and followed Ben where they bypassed the card room and entered the library.
It was perhaps the most respectable library Emerson had ever seen, save his own in Ratcliff Cross.
The shelves stretched floor to ceiling and were filled with parliamentary debates, volumes of the classics, and histories of wars past. Leather wing chairs were arranged in clusters in and about the room.
There were a few older gentlemen sitting near the marble fireplace.
Some talked quietly among themselves, others held newspapers where the rustle of turning pages was as prevalent as the tick of the great clock standing tall against a far wall that posted the time as well past one in the morning.
The ambiance was pleasing with its dark wood walls and fragrance of worn leather, to the forest-green velvet draperies held back by gold-colored braided cords with fringed tassels.
But someone noticed him. A tall figure rose from a cluster near the fire, eyes narrowing with sly recognition. “Whitmore,” the man drawled, drawing his companions’ attention as neatly as if he’d rung a bell. “I’d not expected to see you at Boodle’s.”
The words were courteous, but the tone—edged with curiosity and faint disdain—set every nerve on alert.
Emerson smiled faintly. “Then it is my pleasure to surprise you,” he told his old rival, Captain Middleton of the Woodlark.
Frankly, it was a wonder the man still lived, given rumors of some of the cargo he carried.
The rustle of papers ceased. From the cluster near the fire, two figures drew notice—Stockton slouched inelegantly in his chair, glass dangling from unsteady fingers and the other, the Marquis of Shufflebottom sat upright, keen-eyed, his expression sharpened with the satisfaction of a spider drawing a fly close to the web.
“What interesting company you keep, sir,” Emerson murmured.
The captain quickly dropped back into his chair and took up his whiskey.
Emerson turned his attention to Ben’s former companion.
Stockton’s cravat was loosened, and his waistcoat askew. He attempted to rise but managed only a half sneer. “Well, if it isn’t the Honorable Mr. Massey. And”—his bleary gaze slid past Ben to Emerson—“the bastard Whitmore. How very…unexpected.”
Beside him, Shufflebottom rose with unhurried grace, his smile far more dangerous than Stockton’s drunken smirk.
“Ah, Mr. Whitmore.” He inclined his head, mock courtesy dripping from every syllable, belying the ruffles adorning his wrists and cravat.
“I believe I recognize you from the depths of my office.”
Emerson felt Ben’s curious gaze, but Emerson didn’t take his own from the worst of the peerage Emerson could recall. And that was saying something, given his feelings regarding all of nobility.
“I now realize the jewel you held in your arms was the delectable Lady Stanford. All that glorious hair…”
Emerson’s fists tightened so fiercely, his knuckles cracked. He took a step forward, but Ben’s hand gripped his upper arm. “Not here,” he murmured.
But crossing boundaries appeared to be the marquis’s method of aggravation. “Boodle’s grows quite the colorful company of late,” the marquis said.
Taking heed of Ben’s subtle warning—of which Emerson promised to revisit at a later time—he loosened his shoulders and flexed his fingers.
He glanced at Stockton, so tempted to offer his own knowledge in the disaster befalling the idiotic upstart.
But to do so would put Rose in more danger than she was already in and would force a cold stop in locating his blackmailer.
Clearly, the fact that Stockton was in Shufflebottom’s orbit explained the rumors of debts more clearly than any scrap of paper ever could. Stockton might be drowning, but Shufflebottom was the man pressing his head beneath the water.
Ben inclined his head coolly. “My lord. Stockton.”
Stockton gave a short, sharp laugh, spilling wine down his sleeve. “Come to gloat, Massey? Or to offer advice on how one should run a hand at hazard? By all means, sit. Shufflebottom and I were just debating the worth of a man’s word.”
“Was just curious why you didn’t appear at Harlowe’s soiree with Gorman, Lambert, and Collier,” Ben said lightly.
Stockton waved his glass, sloshing wine onto the carpet. “Didn’t feel the need for company tonight. And, certainly not for some charity subscription. Besides, those idiots chatter like old women when there are cards to be played.”
Ben frowned and shot a sly glance at Shufflebottom then back. “There was a card room, old boy.”
Shufflebottom’s chuckle was soft, but it curled the edges of the room. “Another might be that certain gentlemen choose their company more carefully these days. Nothing so tedious as loyalty when a man finds himself…pressed.”
Stockton’s head lolled back against the chair. “Pressed? Pah. I’m as free as the wind.” He belched into his cravat, to the disgust of the older peers nearby.
Emerson’s gaze narrowed. Free? Hardly. He could see it now—Shufflebottom had Stockton by the bollocks and showed no remorse in tightening the vice.
Each squeeze was a pressure forged of paper and ink and lack of blunt.
A considerable lack of blunt. The reason Stockton had not followed his cronies to the benefit was seated right here.
Shufflebottom kept him close, bleeding him of coin and God knows what.
The marquis’s eyes flicked back to Emerson. “Of course, the freedom of some gentlemen is more…delicate than others. Reputations are so easily ruined. A lady’s, especially.”
Emerson ground his teeth. Rose. Every word was deliberate.
Every insinuation calculated. He longed to drive his fist into that smug smile, to hear the crack of bone and wipe the sneer away.
Did this fop truly think to threaten him?
Had Shufflebottom somehow learn that Emerson had rifled through his safe?
Was he the nob blackmailing him? He took a step forward, but again Ben manacled his arm.
He glared at his brother as suspicion gnawed at Emerson, but his eyes fell on Stockton, the pathetic sop.
One enemy at a time, he told himself.
Ben inclined his head with chilly composure. “Enjoy your evening, gentlemen. Emerson?”
Shufflebottom lifted his glass in mock salute. “Do give Lady Stanford my warmest… felicitations.”
Emerson strode forward and yanked Stockton by the collar from his seat where he was nearly passed out, so far in his cups he was.
“W-what!” The word emerged slurred and nearly indiscernible.
“What do you think you’re doing, Whitmore?” Shufflebottom demanded.
“You’ve taken advantage of this pup enough for one night. But it hasn’t been just one night, has it, my lord?”
“You’ve no idea who you’re dealing with.” Shufflebottom’s voice was hard as marble.
“I know exactly who I’m dealing with.” Emerson spoke low and precise. “A libertine and a cheat.”
“He owes me money, and he’ll damn well pay. One way or another.”
“You’ve had your fun. Send the vowels to me.
It’s time you dealt with someone who knows your ilk.
” Emerson turned on his heel with Stockton in tow and nodded to Ben.
Huzzahs followed them from the room to the vestibule, where the chattering escalated to almost numbing until his ears still hummed after stepping outside.
He tossed Stockton in the carriage, simultaneously ignoring Ben’s raised brow before following him inside, and berating himself for taking on what was sure to be an ungrateful charity case.