Emma hazarded it was a trait Sebastian shared. And she herself.
She should stay out of the affair entirely, but curiosity got the better of her. “If ye were to know the gentleman’s name, wot would ye do?”
Sebastian cracked his knuckles. “Demand a bloody explanation from the fool.”
“Tis no wonder yer sister refuses to name him. Ye look like ye might kill the fellow. Arabelle is no pea goose.”
Turning on his heel, Sebastian returned to pacing about the room. Resigned she wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon, Emma slid further back in her chair. She ran her hand over the crewel-embroidered wool fabric. Tracing the blue thread of a daisy brought an image of Bronwyn to mind. Bronwyn had reassured Emma that she accepted the decision not to attend her debut ball, but Bronwyn hadn’t managed to mask the disappointment in her voice.
“I need your help.” Sebastian’s declaration brought Emma’s attention back to the man who looked like he had solved the world's problems.
“Fer wot?”
“I know Arabelle has some sordid plan for the Hadfield ball.” Waving a finger at her, he said, “You were invited. I need you to attend; help me to ensure Arabelle doesn’t embroil herself in some scandal and to ferret out the man’s identity.”
She had banished the idea of attending. Christopher would be there. It would break her to see him dancing with another after experiencing it herself. No. He needed to find a wife, and she needed… Well, she wasn’t sure exactly how to fix the emptiness in her heart that had taken up residence since Christopher departed from her store, but she’d find a way.
She glared at her host. “Ye’re a bloomin’ former Foreign Agent and the bleedin’ advisor to the King and the Prince Regent. Surely ye have access to resources that can assist ye.”
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. She imagined it was a look similar to her own.
Placing both hands on his hips, he said, “There is one thing that runs strong in the Hereford bloodlines…well, actually two: obstinacy and the stout ability to prevent anyone but of their choosing to come close. Arabelle trusts you. She might confide in you who the blighter is.”
The concern on Lord Hereford’s features was heart wrenching. Arabelle was lucky to have an older sibling concerned for her welfare. Sebastian’s gaze softened, and he asked again, “Will you assist me?”
Bah. The stubborn set of the man’s jaw told her she’d not be leaving until he received her promise to help. Their family did not need to weather a scandal. And Lord Hadfield would be displeased if Sebastian’s post were placed in jeopardy. In Emma’s heart, she knew even without those motivations, she would do anything to protect her family and the Herefords. Like it or not, we're family. “I will help you. But I’ll not be attending the bleedin’ ball, or at least not in plain sight.”
“Grand. Shall I ring for refreshments while we discuss how to oust the man from hiding?”
Returning Sebastian’s victorious grin with a smirk of her own, Emma said, “I be thinkin’ we need somethin’ a bit stronger than tea—wouldn’t ye agree?”
Chuckling as he made his way to the sideboard, Sebastian offered, “French brandy?”
“Ye got any Scottish whiskey?”
He turned to face her. “We definitely share a bloodline.”
“No need to remind me,” Emma mumbled. She rolled to her feet and crossed the plush carpet to stand before the fire. Holding her hands out, Emma soaked up the warmth. The room’s atmosphere transformed from intimidating to one she could become accustomed to—with time.
Sebastian handed her a tumbler with a splash of amber liquid. She needed more than the half-finger offered, but she accepted the glass and rolled it between her palms. Faced with the prospect of becoming a frequent visitor of the Hereford residence, Emma downed the entire contents of her glass. While it no longer sent tendrils of fear down her spine, it also didn’t hold any appeal.
Taking the empty tumbler from her hand, Sebastian said, “I did as you requested. I gave the funds bequeathed to you to the orphanage anonymously. However, I will have you know that I’ve recently had my own final will and testament redrafted. It provides for a small cottage by the sea, unencumbered to the Hereford title of course, and a modest amount of funds to be bestowed upon you, should I come to an untimely demise.”
Emma followed her nephew to the sideboard. “Why would ye do such a foolish thing?”
“I assure you, I am no fool.” He pulled the stopper from the decanter that housed the tasty malt whiskey that had gone down her gullet with ease. Both glasses received a finger and a half this time. “My lawyer assures me there shall be no gifting to another on your behalf this time.”
Bloomin’ stubborn Hereford blood. Emma took her tumbler and sipped the whiskey that doubtless cost as much as a gown or two. She didn’t want handouts or charity. Peering into the amber liquid, the same color as Christopher’s eyes, Emma was struck with an idea. “I shall have to consult me own legal counsel on the matter.”
With a nod, Sebastian said, “As you wish.” His all too quick agreement gave Emma pause. She replayed the last few moments over in her head. All of it seemed genuine, yet the skin on the back of her neck prickled.
Sebastian placed a hand on her elbow and guided her to the wing-backed chair she had occupied earlier. “Shall we begin discussing our scheme to deal with dear Arabelle?”
Settling back into the seat cushion that had molded to her, Emma replied, “Why do I suspect you already have a plan?”
“Because I do. All I need you to do is—”
Emma emptied her glass. It was going to be a long night of negotiations.
Chapter Fourteen
Weary, Christopher silently trod through the empty building. The idea of breaking his word for the first time ever didn’t bode well. He had told Emma he would leave her be, but that wasn’t going to be possible. He had to see her. A flicker of a flame seeped beneath the door frame of Bronwyn’s office. Landon would have his head if Bronwyn was still at it well past their agreed hours.
Christopher poked his head in. “Weathersbee. What the devil are you doing here?” He entered the office and confronted the older lord, whose spectacles were perched on the tip of his nose.
“Ah. Mr. Neale.” Weathersbee rose and gestured to the vacant seat, ignoring Christopher’s question.
Damnation, this was his office. His papa’s voice boomed—Always respect your elders.
As soon as Christopher was seated, the old man continued, “I met with Countess Hadfield this afternoon and believed it would behoove me to stay to review a few summaries.”
Christopher peered at the two stacks of files upon the desk. “A few, you say.”
Weathersbee removed his spectacles, letting them swing indolently between his forefinger and thumb. “Fascinating that case facts from decades ago are still relevant to current day matters, is it not?”
“Mayhap relevant but not at all practical.” Christopher’s wish for legal reform meant his papa had encouraged him to focus on the finer points of civil and business law. Christopher’s success had seen to it that Neale & Sons was considered the absolute best in drafting the complicated foreign trade agreements that led to many successful joint ventures by investors. Some of which had led to the restocking of the Hadfield coffers.
Folding his eyewear and placing them neatly on top of the short pile, Weathersbee said, “There are some other rather interesting matters the firm assists with. In particular, rather intricate agreements with foreign parties—Americans?”
Weathersbee was clearly no indolent titled gentleman. The old man kept current on world affairs and was extremely astute in reading his opponent's body language.
Christopher considered avoiding the tenuous topic of his aid to Lord Burke. But if Weathersbee was to be in charge of Neale & Sons while he was abroad, Christopher needed to trust the old man. “I assume you are referring to Lord Burke’s dealings with Mr. Suttingham. Americans are notoriously difficult, but to date, I’ve m
anaged to keep matters in hand.”
Weathersbee picked up his spectacles and replaced them upon his nose. “It will be rather difficult to fill the shoes of Countess Hadfield. She is a remarkable woman.”
Christopher inwardly sighed, relieved to have avoided discussing in detail Lord Burke’s association with the American merchant. Christopher grinned. “Aye. But I believe you are up for the task; otherwise, I’d not have hired you.”
The old man chuckled. “I do not wish to give you cause to question your decision, but now that I’ve paused, I believe it is time I seek out my bed.”
Weathersbee rolled his shoulders and arched his back. The old man didn’t possess the body of an overindulgent lord. His solid chest and muscled arms bespoke of someone who regularly partook in physical exercise. Like his papa and Landon, before he inherited, Christopher avoided the sporting clubs the lords typically held memberships to. Fencing and bare-fisted sparring were of no interest. Christopher preferred activities that involved more than two participants—cricket had been a favorite pastime at Cambridge. His recent correspondence with the mercenary but wealthy tobacco merchant, Mr. Suttingham, included a rather interesting passage on a game that was fast developing into a favorite pastime across the pond—baseball. Communications from Christopher’s ever-increasing number of associates from the New World continually piqued his curiosity. The idea that a man was judged by his character and efforts and not his heritage was alluring. Before Landon inherited, Christopher had seriously contemplated emigrating to the New World. A chance to establish a life for himself out of the shadows of his successful older brother. Those dreams were dashed when the responsibilities of the firm his papa had worked hard to establish fell upon him.
Weathersbee stood next to Christopher, hat, gloves, and coat already donned, ready to leave. “Care to join me for a late supper?”
“That sounds like a grand idea.” It would be nice to share a meal with another for a change.
They left the office, and Weathersbee’s coach rolled to a stop out front. Before entering the vehicle, Christopher scanned his surroundings and nodded to his Network guards. They were never fond of changes in his routine. Christopher had already determined he was no longer happy with his decision to remain apart from Emma. But first, he’d fortify his nerves with a brandy and a beefsteak from Brooks’s.
* * *
Weathersbee speared a potato and raised his fork to his mouth. “You seem rather distracted this eve.”
“I apologize. My mind is a whirl at present.” Christopher had crafted a number of phrases he wished to share with Emma, but none seemed appropriate nor adequate. “My thanks for the invitation to supper.” His half-eaten beefsteak no longer held its initial appeal. In fact, his stomach was clenched tight in knots at the prospect of seeing Emma again.
“Perhaps I could assist. After all, I am in your employ to do such.”
“The issue is of a personal nature, not one related to Neale & Sons.”
The man’s brows lowered. “Ah. I see this has to do with a woman. Having never married, I do not claim to have any idea how to deal with the creatures.” Weathersbee took another bite of his meal. He took his time chewing and swallowing before he continued, “However, it is my humble opinion that a man should brave rejection and hurt rather than be left to wonder if his regard might have been returned by the woman he loves.”
“So, you braved rejection and have remained unmarried.”
“No. I was a coward. I feared my lady love’s rebuff, and by the time I garnered enough courage to ask for her hand, she’d already chosen another.” Weathersbee placed both knife and fork down and grabbed for his glass of brandy. Leaning back in his chair, he added, “Don’t dither, Mr. Neale. Go seek the woman you love.” He raised his glass to his lips, but over the rim of the glass, the old man’s gaze never left Christopher.
He shouldn’t pry into the man’s private affairs, but the question rolled off Christopher’s tongue. “Why did you not marry another?” Damnation. The flash of pain in the old man’s eyes was precisely what Christopher wished to avoid.
“There was no other for me.” He downed the remainder of his drink and placed the glass upon the table. The blaze of the fire and the three candles upon the table provided more than sufficient lighting for Christopher to study Weathersbee’s features as they transformed from relaxed to tortured to resolved before he said, “Regardless of the number of days, months, or years that have passed, there hasn’t been another woman’s image who invades my thoughts day and night.”
Blast it all. From the moment she blazed right past him on his brother’s front steps, there hadn’t been a day Christopher hadn’t thought of Emma. “I shall heed your advice, Weathersbee. No more dawdling.”
“You are a good and honorable man, Mr. Neale. Far more perceptive than I’d given you credit for.” The footman had refilled his glass, and Weathersbee rose it in salute. “The woman would be a fool not to return your affection.”
Striding out the private dining room of the gentlemen’s club, Christopher glanced about at the number of men littered about in chairs, partaking in idle chatter with a drink in their hands. Why did they remain here and not return home to their women? Recognizing a few of the lords as he passed them on his way to the front door, Christopher sighed. These gentlemen had wed out of duty rather than for love. None of them possessed that innate aura of pleasure and satisfaction which emanated from Landon and his married set. Under his breath, Christopher mumbled, “I’ll be damned if I make the same mistake as Weathersbee.”
Launching himself into the night air, he hailed down a hack. “Eastside, sir. Ms. Lennox’s establishment.”
The driver nodded, and Christopher bounded into the vehicle. Relief that he was finally on his way to see Emma was slowly replaced with apprehension. There had been whispers at the office of her restricting visitors to family and clients. He was neither family nor a client.
His head lolled forward as he placed elbows upon his knees and clasped his hands together. He’d been an utter dolt for stating he’d leave her be. If the office gossip of her eyes being red and puffy was true, he’d beg her forgiveness for causing her to hurt. He wanted the opportunity to make things right.
The hack rolled to a stop. Jumping out of the vehicle, he flipped a crown up to the driver.
His greatest fear became a reality as Simon, one of Emma’s guards, approached and said, “She’s not at the shop.”
He must have heard wrong. “It’s one in the morn. Surely Emma is safely asleep in bed.”
The blasted footman simply stared at him and shrugged. At another step towards Emma’s shop, Simon shifted and blocked Christopher. “I assure ye, sir, she’s not abed yet.”
“Where is she then?”
“I can’t tell ye. Would ye like fer me to hail ye another hack?”
Christopher shook his head and turned to begin the trek back across town to his townhouse.
Damnation. Where the hell was Emma?
Chapter Fifteen
A gust of wind pushed at Emma’s back, forcing her to reach for the nearest solid tree trunk.
Blimey, it was cold. She tugged her cloak tighter about her. Glancing about, Emma searched the tree line for signs of Christopher’s night watchman. She needed to time her approach with the change in guard. If she was caught, the Network would be abuzz. Gossip Christopher nor Emma could afford. Scanning the sky, Emma located the three-quarter moon set low to the south. Blast! She’d missed her chance—it was well past the midnight hour. Even after employing all the counterargument tactics Bronwyn had taught her, Emma couldn’t convince Sebastian to alter his will. The man was a stubborn mule. Narrowing her eyes to locate the men on patrol, Emma slowed her breathing. She’d have to outsmart the Network guards.
Hugging the shadows, she crept through the gardens, bobbing and weaving around the neatly manicured hedges. She approached the back terrace, pebbles crunching beneath her slippers. She froze and scanned the area once more
for the bloomin’ guard. Two large black blurs moved fast in her direction. She picked up a stone no bigger than a small apple, and she threw it as far as she could in front of her. Emma dashed back to sneak down the stairs to the kitchen doors. Heart racing, Emma slipped through the entrance and rested her throbbing forehead against the inside kitchen wall. That was too bleedin’ close.
She needed to see Christopher, regardless of whether he wished to see her. For four blasted days, she’d waited and wished Christopher would change his mind and come seek her out. But oh no, ever the gentleman, the man had kept his bloomin’ word.
Pushing away from the door frame, Emma waited a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. The cold, empty kitchen was daunting compared to the last time she had visited during the bustling early morning hours. A strange yearning to stay rooted Emma to the spot. She should move. If she was caught, Emma would have to explain her actions to the Network elders. Would they believe her if she told them the only reason for her late-night visit was to seek out legal advice? No. They’d likely see through her flimsy excuses and wait for her to confess—she missed Christopher, and despite all the reasons she had formulated to stay away, she couldn’t.
Emma willed her feet to move. She slipped past the footmen in the foyer and mounted the main staircase leading up to the upper floors. It would have been safer to use the servants' passageways, but whether it was courage from the drink Sebastian provided or Emma’s desire to test her skills of going about undetected, she didn’t care. It was the quickest route to her destination—the master bedchamber. The effects of the whiskey had Emma’s mind foggy. However, scourging her memory for talk of the layout of Christopher’s townhouse, she did recall Christopher’s preference for sunsets. Looking down the corridor, Emma headed for the largest chamber that would face west.
Quietly opening the door to the chambers she hoped belonged to Christopher, Emma slipped into the room and paused for a moment. Without the aid of the moonlight, she carefully moved further into the pitch-black room. The familiar scent of Christopher, a mix of musty papers, ink, and wood. She was clearly in the right place. She stepped forward—
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