The Daughter of an Earl (10 page)

Her gaze fell to the man rising from one of the chairs. He doffed his cap, crushing it in his hand. A foot shorter than Brett, he was a lean wiry man. His dark eagle eyes and sharp features held a cunning look as he shook Brett's hand.

“Caleb Little is the fourth son of Baron Little, and is a junior clerk, known as a writer in the East India Company. As such, he is familiar with the company and its operations.” Brett made the introductions. “Lady Emily Chandler.”

Little's features narrowed on her, but he dipped his head in greeting.

“Mr. Little, thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” she said. Brett took her cloak from her and hung it on a hook behind the door. He then gestured her to a seat and circled his desk, both men waiting until she was seated before taking their own seats.

A rush of excitement spiraled through her. She neatened the skirts of her carriage dress and clutched her gloved hands in her lap. After so long a wait, she desperately hoped that Little had something that would bring her closer to her goal.

“Have you any information?” Brett asked, diving right into the point of their meeting.

Little glanced at Emily and shifted uneasily in his seat, his brow furrowed.

“It is all right, Little. You can speak freely,” Brett added.

At Brett's prodding, Mr. Little gave a shrug and spoke in a gravelly voice. “Well, it took a while to find someone familiar with the viscount's work. Files under Weston's name and his colleague, a Mr. Drummond, have been purged. I did some snooping and could find nary a one, not even when I doled out a few bribes to look into classified material. Despite all Parliament's regulating acts to clean us up, enough quid lining the
right pockets still gets the job done.” He tipped his chin to Brett. “I will give you an accounting of monies spent, and you can deduct it from my debt. All in a good cause, of course,” he added soberly.

“Of course,” Brett said dryly.

Emily wondered if Drummond had a hand in the lost paperwork. After all, he had dispensed with the documents in Jason's trunk.

“But you met with a man familiar with the viscount's work?” Brett pressed.

Little nodded. “I did. The viscount was overseeing the sale of opium to the Agency Houses in Calcutta and arranging for the shipments to Canton.”

“Opium?” she said. Stunned, her lips parted. Jason had not mentioned opium in his letters, and the idea of him being involved in this sordid business disturbed her.

Little gave her a curious look. “Opium is our most lucrative trade now. Parliament renewed our charter, but they dealt us a bad hand when they took away our monopoly of the Indian trade routes. Those venues are now opened up to competitors like Mr. Curtis here.” He nodded toward Brett. “We then had to change our game and deal with the cards we had left—the monopoly over the tea trade with China. But it is a winning hand, because there is a fortune to be had in trading opium to the Chinese in return for the tea,” he boasted.

Brett shook his head. “China has banned the purchase of the drug, yet you still profit in selling it to them. Your company never ceases to astound me with its innovative means to circumnavigate the law.”

“Please, we do not use
our
company ships,” Little protested, his eyes wide, his expression one of cunning guile. “No, sir. We do not want to be caught selling a contraband drug. That would jeopardize our trading rights in Canton, which in turn would jeopardize our tea purchases.”

“Far be it from you to be caught doing something illegal,” Brett said, shaking his head.

“Exactly. So that's where your viscount and his man Drummond come in. The opium is produced in Bengal, sold
to the Indian Agency Houses in Calcutta so the East India Company is not buying or selling the product directly, and from there merchant vessels sell—”

“You mean smuggle,” Brett corrected, arching a brow.

Little shrugged. “I suppose, if you want to get particular about it. They unload the cargo in Canton where it is sold in return for tea, which is England's addiction, so it be a fair trade and everyone be content.” He splayed his hands.

“Particularly those in your company who are once again lining their pockets,” Brett said. “You do leave a destructive wake in your path, first plundering India's wealth, and now flooding China with opium addicts.”

Little smiled. “Now, then, being in trade yourself, you must understand there are winners and losers in every risky venture. It's a roll of the die.”

Brett narrowed his eyes. “You play a dangerous game that I doubt will end well.”

Emily edged forward on her seat. “Of course, it is dangerous. Viscount Weston was involved in illegal smuggling activities and is dead. Do you think the Chinese authorities sent agents over—?”

“He was not directly involved in the smuggling per se. The merchants that off-loaded the opium in the factories in Canton handled that aspect.” At Brett's arched brow, Little shrugged. “Might be splitting hairs and all that.”

“What happened to the viscount?” Emily asked. “They said he got ill, and it was very sudden. And then . . . then he was gone.”

Little again turned to Brett for guidance.

“I suggest you answer her,” Brett said. “That is, if you want me to forgive your debt. I should get what I purchased. My clients do.”

Little frowned. “I do not know the details. The information I have comes from a friend and cost a fair bob to get. The viscount's death was hushed up because it would be difficult for his family. But a select few in the company heard that he got ill. Ill from the opium, that is. Rumor has it that the drug killed him.”

Shocked, Emily froze while her mind screamed in denial, and a wave of dizziness gripped her. Darkness hovered at the edges of her thoughts, threatening to engulf her.

No! Not Jason. Never.

Every fiber in her body protested it, and her conviction gave her the strength she needed to push forward. She violently shook her head. “No! That is a lie. It is not true. I
know
Jason. I
knew
him. That is not something of which he would partake.”

“Lady Emily—”

“No!” she cried. “You did not know him. It is a horrid, vicious lie, and the company has some nefarious reason for spreading it, but it is not true.” She glared at Little as if she could force the man to take back his words.

Brett stood and circled his desk. “Thank you, Caleb. I appreciate your assistance.” Brett escorted the man to the door, and turning back, he came to kneel before her. “I am sorry, Emily.” He caught her hands, enfolding them in his.

She lifted her eyes, blinking furiously through her tears. She clung to his hands. “You do not understand. A year before Jason sailed, he was thrown from a horse and broke his arm. He refused to take laudanum when the doctor came to reset it. Not one drop. He barely imbibed alcohol. He liked numbers, coherency, said liquor addled his brain. That is why he agreed to pursue this investigation, to apply his accounting skills. The government was looking for men with public educations to better the company's reputation.” She was babbling, but could not stop. “He—”

“Shh, Emily.” Brett's tone was gentle, soothing.

In the back recesses of her mind, she noted that he had dropped her title.

“This is
one
account from one man,” he continued.

“Well, it is the wrong one!”

“Then we will get the right one,” he said simply. “We will find out the truth. I promise you.” His eyes bored into hers, reassuring and warm.

She held his gaze, and when he squeezed her hands, she believed him. She drew a deep, shuddering breath.

“I am on your side. And for what it is worth,
I
believe you,” he said as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “We will get your answers.”

She caught her breath at the intimate gesture, dropping her gaze from his as her heart pounded.

She did want answers. Now more than ever she needed the truth to combat this slanderous lie blackening Jason's memory. Until today, that quest had been enough for her, but as her eyes lifted to Brett's, she feared that was no longer all she wanted.

Another need arose. The need for something more.
Someone
more. Someone who was passionate and . . . and who believed in her.

Someone on her side.

B
RETT
met his sisters, Emily, and Taunton in the foyer of Keaton House. Brett and the women were dressed in their finery to attend Lord Dayton's ball. The women's gowns were a bright mosaic of color, but Brett only had eyes for Emily.

She was a vision in blue satin that had some intricately embroidered lace net overlay. He swallowed as his eyes dipped to the pearl necklace that draped almost provocatively over the creamy swells of her breasts, teasing him above her décolletage.

He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Ladies.” He bowed deeply. “Your beauty humbles me. You will be the belles of the ball and put every other woman to shame. Perhaps you should stay home, thus saving them from being ignored.”

Melody laughed gaily, and moments later, someone poked him in the back.

“Pray tell, dear brother, what color is
my
gown?” Melody teased from behind him.

“Green?” Brett guessed, winking at Emily, who covered her mouth to stifle her laughter.

“Just as I suspected.” Melody circled back in front of him and grinned. She wore an off-white frilly thing, embroidered roses sprinkled over it, and a pink sash cinching her waist. “Your eyes never left Lady Emily, but I forgive you, because she is stunning.”

“You may be right. I find that I am rather . . .” He paused and looked at Emily again. “Distracted this evening.” He admired the flush coloring Emily's cheeks and seeping down the slim column of her neck. He yearned to press his lips to the alabaster skin there and feel her pulse race. To let his mouth slide further over the rise and fall of her . . . Taunton cleared his throat, and damned if Brett's face did not burn.

“Ladies, you all look lovely and will be sure to turn every gentleman's head,” Taunton said. “Fortunately, my heart is weathered enough to withstand such a siege of beauty, but I do pity the young bucks. They will be undone.”

Brett frowned at his sisters' shared looks of delight, not liking the idea of a roomful of men's attentions on the pair, nor on Emily. Conflicting emotions warred within him. He was torn between his protective instincts toward his sisters and a spurt of possessiveness toward Emily.

Mine
.

The word ached to burst from his lips, so he was relieved when Burke, Taunton's ever-efficient butler, appeared with the woman's cloaks and curtailed this train of thought. However, after spending so much time with Emily, it was inevitable he would feel protective toward her.

They had become allies, if not . . .
friends
.

A nagging voice pointed out that a friend did not imagine kissing the pulse at the base of her throat, or caressing the round curves of her breasts, or—

He should remain home and put some distance between himself and Emily. After all, he rarely participated in these formal affairs of the ton, aware it was not his name that garnered most of his invitations, but his bank account. He
blamed his sisters for corralling him into playing chaperone, and wished, not for the first time, that he had brothers.

“Shall we go? I believe our carriage awaits,” Emily said.

Alas, as her
friend
, he should keep an eye over Emily, particularly as she braved a roomful of randy bucks. It was the least he could do. He stepped forward to offer her his arm. After a brief hesitation, she accepted his escort and allowed him to guide her out.

He glanced quickly behind him to see Taunton escorting his sisters. Devil take him, he had completely forgotten them! He was no better a chaperone than the absentminded Agnes. Guilt stabbed him.

It was going to be a long night. He prayed to God he survived it.

A
FTER
ARRIVING
AT
the Earl of Dayton's and dispensing with their cloaks, they moved to join the receiving line. Brett dismissed the curious looks directed their way along with the rising tide of murmurs, more interested in the change that had stolen over Emily during the carriage ride. She had become unusually quiet, and a white pallor had replaced the lovely flush that had stained her cheeks earlier.

He frowned when her eyes drifted over their audience, a slight tremor in her fingers as she neatened her skirts. She then clasped her hands tightly before her. He caught a flicker of wide-eyed panic before she dropped her gaze.

The display of raw nerves was at complete odds to everything he knew of her. She was his strong, brave goddess of heroic endeavors.
His Athena.

Emily lifted her chin. “These affairs can be overwhelming. I do hope your sisters enjoy themselves.”

He frowned, disturbed at her show of bravado. Similar to yesterday when he had witnessed her pain, he wanted to shield her from whatever darkness shadowed those luminous blue eyes. Unable to act on that forbidden instinct, he changed course.

“You have a point,” he said. “Melody?” He tugged on his sister's sash. She tossed him an impatient look, but he spoke in an avuncular tone. “Lady Emily was commenting that these affairs can be overwhelming. As you are a shy, retiring thing, I wanted to let you know that there is still time to turn around—”

“Ah, Brett, you have such a droll wit.” She waved her hand airily. “I now understand why the ladies are always tittering behind your back. Isn't that right, Miranda?”

“Yes, he is endlessly amusing,” Miranda drawled, looping her arm through Melody's. “Let us hope it keeps him entertained far, far away from us.”

“Droll?” Brett furrowed his brow. “Is that a new vocabulary word you have learned? I am surprised it is in your primer.”

“Children, children,” Lord Taunton interceded. “You are worse than Jonathan at war. Please, weapons down and best behavior.”

“Of course.” Melody smiled sweetly, then narrowed her eyes at Brett and mouthed,
Behave
.

He stuck his tongue out, earning a horrified laugh from her, before she turned her back on him.

“I see my concerns are for naught,” Emily said, shaking her head. “But I am glad that you have a care for their welfare. They are lucky to have such a concerned older brother.”

Her sarcasm delighted him, but the return of color to her cheeks pleased him more. “I tell them so, but they do not appreciate me. Cannot fathom why.” Emily's laughter was a sweeter note than any the orchestra had played. She was better, but he would monitor her closely, make sure those shadows stayed away.

The Earl of Dayton was a jovial, big barrel of a man, and was charmed to have them as his guests for the evening.

“Thank you.” Emily dipped into a curtsy. “I look forward to catching up with Charlotte. Dare I hope I can steal her away from her fiancé, Lord Haversley, is it?”

Brett's attention perked up at the name, and he caught Emily's knowing glance. He had forgotten about Haversley and his betrothal to Dayton's daughter, but she had not. He gave her a grateful smile.

“Of course. Haversley is in one of the gentlemen's card rooms, so Charlotte should be somewhere about. She mentioned that she has not seen you since your triumphant first Season a few years ago. She will be delighted to know that you have finally abandoned your country hiatus, as am I. It was much too long, my dear. Much too long.” He smiled at Emily.

Emily's smile wavered briefly at the light chiding, before she lifted her chin and moved on.

The introductions finished, they made their way into the ballroom. The room was awash in light that danced over the glittering gems adorning the women's gowns and their elaborate hairstyles. An orchestra played a lively quadrille, while couples whirled and glided as they executed the intricate dance steps. Clinking glasses, rumbles of conversations, and trills of laughter accompanied the music.

Miranda and Melody wore matching expressions of awe and delight. He ignored them, his attention on Emily, having noticed her pursed lips at Dayton's reference to her hiatus. He recalled her absence from society, and her flight to the Lake District to flee all that reminded her of Jason.

Her fiancé had been a fortunate man—to have been loved so very deeply. Years ago, Brett had believed a woman had felt as strongly for him, but he had been proved wrong. Resentment toward the viscount flared, a man who'd had everything, but turned his back on it to travel to India. The man had been a fool.

“While I chaperone your sisters, you can steal some time to speak to Haversley,” Emily said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Maybe I should stay. Melody can be—”

“Exactly. While she is being so, she does not need your scowl scaring away potential dance partners.” At his wary look, she added, “My father is here. I promise, his scowl can rival yours should the need arise. Please. It is the least I can do to aid you in your search.”

He hesitated, but his need to speak to Haversley tugged at him. He would return quickly. He needed to keep an eye on his sisters, but as the music washed over him, he yearned
for something else. He wished to hold Emily in his arms. Refused to let the evening end without partnering her on the dance floor. For a few moments, he could pretend that he, not Jason, was the fortunate man.

A
FILM
OF
cigar smoke permeated the card room, and the chorus of masculine voices drowned out the music. Brett had met Haversley at a few other social events, so his gaze shifted over the players looking for his bright shock of ginger hair. Finding his target, he wended his way toward Haversley's table, nodding to acquaintances and snatching a drink from a passing footman.

Fortunately, he did not have to wait long for Haversley's luck to run dry and his hand to fold. “Haversley, a drink to drown the bitterness of your loss?” Brett said. He handed Haversley the tumbler of whiskey as he moved away from the table. “Fifty pounds is steep.”

“Curtis.” Haversley greeted him with a nod and accepted the drink. “Which is why it was time to leave.”

“Smart man.”

“No, a cowed one. My fiancée will have my head if I remain. I have a fondness for my head, prefer it attached to my neck,” he quipped.

Brett laughed. “Actually, I wanted to speak to you about my cousin Prescott and your mutual interest in a painting.”

“Ah, yes,” he drawled, smiling. “A. W. Grant's
Adrift at Sea
. I gave it to my brother, payment rendered to cover a portion of an outstanding debt I owed him.”

A gambling man. Little wonder his fiancée did not want him overstaying his welcome in the card room.

“Your cousin learned of it and tracked me down, demanding to know where I had purchased it. He did not believe I had picked up a Grant original in an obscure antiquities shop in Kent. Said it was nigh impossible.” Haversley snorted. “Had the gall to accuse me of paying for a forgery and offered to buy it off my brother.”

“A forgery?” Brett said, unable to mask his surprise.

“Indeed. I told my brother, but Thomas refused to sell to Prescott. You see, my brother sees himself as a connoisseur of art, and so your cousin's claim was of grievous insult to him.” Haversley shrugged. “Admittedly, my brother can be a pompous arse.”