by Mia Marlowe
That explained why she’d found Griffin in Teddy’s bed, but why on earth had they switched rooms in the first place?
It wasn’t the sort of thing she could ask the upstairs maid, regardless of how much the help knew at Devonwood House. She reached for the tea service and was grateful to find it contained rich chocolate instead. Tea was all well and good, but Emmaline didn’t share the English belief that it was the sovereign remedy for all ills. Hot chocolate was a much better candidate for that title.
Especially for the morning after she’d lost her virginity to the wrong man.
“Last I saw, your father and Lord Theodore was heads together huddled over their papers and such like,” the maid said as she began to make Emmaline’s bed. “Thick as thieves, them two.”
Emmaline glanced at the Tetisheri statue on the chifferobe. Even though she was in possession of the blasted thing, Teddy and her father had rubbings of the hieroglyphs on the base. They worked endlessly on the translations as if there really was a tomb and a treasure waiting to be found in the desert.
When the statue had first fallen into his hands, Monty had entertained no such notions, except for how he might use the tale to interest “investors.” The idea of a previously unknown female pharaoh of European lineage was too outlandish to contemplate, but Monty had embellished the fable so thoroughly, it seemed he’d convinced himself of it as well as Teddy.
“Will ye be wanting help dressing after ye break yer fast, miss?”
“No, I’ll manage by myself.” It would be difficult but necessary. When the maid emptied the pinkish-tinged water in the washbasin, she’d assume Emmaline’s monthly courses had come upon her. If she helped her dress, the girl might notice Emma made no provisions to staunch a flow. The help knew everything in Devonwood House, the countess had said. She couldn’t afford having them know she’d lost her virtue. “I need to see the earl as soon as possible.”
“Then there’s no call to rush, miss,” the maid said. “Himself already left the house this morning and didn’t say when he’d be back.”
The coward! Emma felt as if she’d been punched in the belly. She wasn’t relishing facing Griffin, but how could he absent himself when they had so much unfinished business between them?
She ignored the bangers and eggs, slathered clotted cream on a scone and bit off a larger bite than a lady ought. She chewed without tasting it. She’d screwed her courage to use the truth with Griffin.
How was she to keep it ratcheted to the sticking point if he wouldn’t cooperate and see her long enough for her to tell him all?
“Did his lordship say where he was going?” she asked.
“That he did, miss,” the girl said, obviously pleased to lob a cannonball of information from her gossip arsenal. “He’s off to Scotland Yard to see the Peelers.”
The police! A cadre of inspectors sniffing around was the last thing she and Monty needed. If her father were healthy, she’d be all for packing their bags and heading for the hills. Last she’d heard, there were still over two hundred hanging offenses on the books in Britain.
She’d be surprised if she and Monty hadn’t committed at least one of them.
The chief inspector was Sir Jasper Pennyfeather, a gaunt-faced, gray-haired fellow. With his prodigious mutton chops and half-rimmed glasses, he reminded Devon of a bespectacled Leicester Longwool.
“If you’d sent word that you required my assistance, milord,” Sir Jasper said, “I’d have been only too pleased to call upon your lordship’s home in Mayfair.”
That was exactly what Devon hoped to avoid. Not only would it upset his mother to have the Peelers nosing about, he didn’t think the official presence of the law would make his family any safer.
He wasn’t ready to face Emmaline or Theodore yet in any case. After last night, absenting himself from Devonwood House seemed the better part of valor, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Emmaline. Disjointed snippets of the tryst pushed to the front of his mind—the tender skin of her inner elbow, the bone-jarring way their bodies had come together, the way her breath hissed over her teeth and set his cock aching. Going to the police was merely a distraction, and not a very successful one at that.
“I thank you, Sir Jasper, but we will accomplish more if the perpetrator believes we have not sought your help. It may embolden him to commit a similar act in the future,” Devon explained. “When he does, I intend to be ready.”
“Very wise. The criminal mind is often brutish enough to be encouraged by perceived weakness in its victims.” Sir Jasper steepled his long fingers on the burled oak desk before him. “You say your butler got a good look at the fellow.”
“The house was dark, but my man Baxter may be able to give you a partial description. I’ll send him round to see you this afternoon.”
“Excellent.” The inspector pulled out a sheet of foolscap and dipped his pen into the inkwell in preparation for taking notes. “Now, if I may, milord, with what valuables did the thief abscond?”
“None. He was interrupted before he found what he was seeking.”
Sir Jasper blinked in surprise. “Have you made a thorough search? Surely the silver or—”
“Our thief left the silver and other easily portable wealth alone. I have reason to believe he was after something specific. A rare Egyptian statue, to be exact.”
“How very odd. Most burglars look for something of value they can convert quickly into cash.” Sir Jasper removed his spectacles and cleaned them on a white handkerchief. “Not that your Egyptian piece isn’t valuable, but how would a thief dispose of something so easily identifiable?”
“I’m convinced he already has a buyer for it,” Devon said. “Have you had any reports on parties who might be interested in this sort of thing?”
Sir Jasper’s eyes narrowed, further reinforcing his resemblance to an aging ram. “Let me think. Seems to me . . . ” He left his thought dangling midair as he rifled through his desk drawer for a folio. He spread the folder before him and leafed through the loose pages. Each sheet had a sketch of a suspect, his criminal specialty, and a brief synopsis of his previous thefts.
Devon peered at the sheets upside down as Sir Jasper mumbled the criminals’ preferred targets. “Italian art, uncut jewels, gold chalices . . .”
“Chalices?” Devon asked.
“Gold ones.”
“That’s a rather narrow field of interest.”
Sir Jasper shrugged. “The Cathedral Bandit is a specific sort of thief. Perhaps you’ll allow your Egyptian statue is pretty specific as well.”
“You have me there,” Devon conceded. “There’s no accounting for it. No matter what a man has, it’s likely another man will want it sooner or later.”
“Human nature.” The inspector continued flipping through the pages. “No, we have no record of a thief who specializes in Egyptian artifacts, though I suspect we’ll see it soon. Seems the whole world has gone mad about the silly things. Oh, I do beg your pardon, milord. I didn’t mean to imply—”
Devon waved away his apology. “Think nothing of it. My brother is the one who’s interested in Egyptology.”
I’m only interested in the Egyptologist’s daughter.
As the inspector turned over the last couple pages, one of the sketches caught Devon’s eye.
“Wait.” He lifted one hand to signal a halt. “Let me see that last page again.”
Sir Jasper leafed back and made a scoffing noise. “Hello. What are you two doing in here? My apologies again, your lordship. This page was misfiled among the burglars.”
He turned the sheaf around so Devon could see the artist’s rendering of two perpetrators.
“Reverend Fairchild and his daughter Eleanor aren’t thieves in the strictest sense, you understand,” Sir Jasper said. “They’re more what the Yanks call ‘snake-oil salesmen. ’ Seems they peddled a number of fake relics on the Continent last year. More than a few folks in France were upset when it turned out their pieces of the True Cross were likely
splinters from a tavern barstool instead.”
Devon looked down at the pair on the page. The man’s face was not as lean and he wore a full beard. Devon might not have recognized him, if not for his cohort. The woman’s face was a pixyish oval, with features too angelic for anyone to suspect they masked a life of crime.
Part of Devon wasn’t surprised.
“Now if you had a reliquary holding a swatch of Our Lord’s grave clothes or the skull of John the Baptist in Devonwood House, the Fairchilds might be involved,” Sir Jasper said as he replaced the renderings of Emmaline and her father in the correct file. “But to my knowledge, this pair hasn’t ever dabbled in Egyptian gewgaws.”
They have now, Devon thought with growing irritation. How could he have been so easily duped? When they’d first arrived he’d sensed a hidden agenda in the Farnsworths or Fairchilds or whatever the hell their name really was. At the time, he’d assumed they were trying to seal a fortune-hunting match between Emmaline and Teddy. Now it seemed clear that she and her father and their Egyptian statue were total frauds. They were after as much of the Devonwood wealth as they could swindle.
His neck grew hot as he went through the motions of a cordial parting with the inspector.
He strode into the gray day, heedless of the rain pelting him like needles. He was struck by another thought that made him even angrier.
Had Emma’s trip to his bed simply been part of their fraudulent scheme?
To Emmaline’s delight, Monty felt up to a game of whist in the parlor that afternoon when the dripping sky kept everyone inside. He was so much his old self, he suggested playing for money instead of thimbles. She shot him a glance of reproof, but she didn’t scold. She was too relieved that the doctor’s pungent plasters had given Monty’s chest such ease, his mind was bent in its usual larcenous direction.
Besides, Theodore was Monty’s partner instead of Emma, so he had to rely on dumb luck and clever play instead of stealthy signals and palmed cards to best Lady Devonwood and Louisa. Even so, Emmaline settled herself in the corner, ostensibly reading, but in reality, watching him like a hawk. Their situation was too precarious for him to jeopardize it over winning a silly card game. Fortunately, Monty seemed to realize that as well, cheerfully losing several hands in swift succession.
She still hadn’t seen Griffin. He didn’t return home for luncheon and she despaired of his coming home for supper either. Her belly roiled with uncertainty about seeing him again without the gentle mask of night.
The truth took a measure of courage Emmaline still wasn’t sure she possessed. It wasn’t as if she’d had much practice with it after all.
Baxter appeared in the arched doorway, but didn’t enter the room. While the play at the card table was going fast and furious, the butler simply stared at Emmaline as if he might communicate with his thoughts alone. He gave a jerk of his head, indicating she should follow, and disappeared down the hall.
Emmaline closed her book and slipped out of the parlor, nearly running into Baxter when she turned the corner.
“Oh, very good, miss,” he said. “One was afraid more forcefulness would be required.”
“Why were you afraid of that?”
“Because his lordship ordered one to fetch you, but one doesn’t think you particularly want everyone to know you’ve been summoned by him. Especially given his mood.”
“His mood?” Hers wasn’t improved by the fact that Devon had sent Baxter to retrieve her like a spaniel collecting a bloody wood duck for his master’s game bag.
“Oh, yes, miss. On a proper tear, he is.” The normally imperturbable Baxter actually wrung his hands. “One don’t think one has ever seen him quite like this . . . oh, one begs your pardon. One ought not say any more.”
“Oh, really? Why is that?” Like any tale tattler, Baxter liked to be coaxed.
He straightened and looked down his nose at her. “As you know, one tries to be the soul of discretion.”
“A difficult task to be sure, since you know everything that happens in this house,” she said.
He fixed her with a pointed glare. She wondered if he’d been lurking in the hallway last night and seen her slip out of Theodore’s room and back into her own.
“One is not privy to everything, Miss Farnsworth.” He turned and led her along the hallway at a briskly efficient pace. “But one has been known to be uncannily accurate in one’s guesses. Be forewarned. His lordship is extremely displeased with you.”
“Oh, he is, is he?” Hackles rose on the back of her neck. She was the one who’d lost her virginity and Griffin was displeased? She stomped after Baxter, thinking it just might be time for another well-placed knee to his lordship’s groin.
Baxter stopped before the door to the library. “Do you wish one to announce you, miss? If one is there, well, a third party’s presence always encourages his lordship to temper his responses.”
It was kindly meant, but she couldn’t accept. What she and Griffin had to say to each other was not fit for another’s ears. She squeezed Baxter’s arm instead.
“Thank you, Mr. Baxter, but I believe I’ll take my chances. Lord Devonwood has nothing to be upset with me about and I refuse to be bullied,” she said. “It’s time someone bearded this lion in his own den.”
“Very well, miss. If you say so.” He opened the library door.
When Emma caught sight of Griffin’s face, his expression was blacker than the storm clouds roiling outside and his eyes matched the iron gray of the sky. Her courage faltered a bit and she began to wonder if perhaps Daniel had regretted choosing the lion’s den, too.
CHAPTER 24
Griffin scowled at her, gripping the back of his chair till his knuckles went white. If she were a man, he’d have throttled her by now. No one lied to him with impunity.
His intent must have shown on his face because she blanched, her face draining of all color in a few heartbeats. Then she gathered herself and lifted her chin. “Mr. Baxter informed me you wished to see me.”
Putting on a brave face, eh? Brava, Eleanor Fairchild.
“The old boy was being diplomatic. I demanded to see you.” He never raised his voice when he was truly angry. Instead it sank into a low purr of silky menace. Most people seemed to find it far more unsettling than a loud tirade. “It’s a good thing you were prompt to heed my summons. I despise being made to wait.”
Almost as much as I despise liars.
Unfortunately, his body wasn’t as put off by this particular liar as his reason was. The rise and fall of her breasts demanded his attention, and he couldn’t help remembering how sweet the hard tips had been between his lips.
Seemingly unfazed, she sauntered toward his desk, her hem swishing against the marble floor. “Then we have an accord, Lord Devonwood. I, too, despise waiting and you’ve kept me in that unhappy state all day.”
“I kept you?”
“Yes.” She leaned across the desk and poked the center of his chest. “Didn’t it occur to you that after last night there might be things we need to discuss?”
Words, words, words. At least, when a man attacked him, he knew what to expect, be it fisticuffs or business machinations. A woman could discuss a man to death.
Griffin scoffed. “Is this the part where you play the injured virgin and demand I marry you?”
Her eyes flared while rain drummed against the tall library windows. Then she narrowed her gaze as if she were stepping into the storm without the protection of an umbrella. “No. I entered that bedchamber of my own accord. I do not hold you responsible for the outcome.”
“How very enlightened of you,” he said in a tone dripping sarcasm.
Her eyes filled and her chin quivered a bit. “Why are you being so . . . so hateful?”
If she let the tears fall, he’d be hard pressed not to soften. A weeping woman was his Achilles’ heel. He could’ve kissed her when she decided to glare at him instead.
“My feelings toward you are not hateful,” he said quietly.
“Last night was proof of that.”
Her cheeks flooded with color. He’d have traded a year in paradise to know what part of their lovemaking was scrolling through her mind at the moment.
“Because of last night I realized something,” she said. “Something I owe you.”
Despite his resolve to stay upset with her, Griffin felt the fire leave his chest and settle in a lower part of his anatomy.
“You gave me a gift last night,” he said huskily. “You owe me nothing.”
“On the contrary, we both owe each other something.”
Here it comes. She has demands, after all.
“We owe each other the truth,” Emma said.
“The truth?” Griffin had just seen her truth in Sir Jasper’s files. He came around the desk and hitched a thigh on its edge, crossing his arms over his chest. “This ought to be entertaining.”
She cocked a puzzled brow at him, then laced her fingers as if she were about to give a scholarly recitation. “I suppose I ought to start at the beginning.”
“Perhaps you should start by giving me your real name, Eleanor.”
Her mouth formed a perfect “O,” then she clamped her lips shut for the space of ten heartbeats.
Reconfiguring her tale, he decided.
“I was born Emma Potts.” Her eyes glinted like a fox, hard pressed by the hounds. The muscles in her throat worked as she swallowed before she forced more words out. “Monty is not really my father, but in all the ways that matter, he has been one to me since I was very young. I go by Emmaline Farnsworth to please him.”
“So Eleanor Fairchild was what you called yourself to please him when the pair of you were cheating folks in France a while back?”
She blinked slowly. “Apparently my estimation of Scotland Yard has been too low in the past. They are remarkably well informed.” The hunted expression faded and she fixed him with a direct glare. “And now, so are you. Tell me. Do you have all the women you bed investigated by the police?”
“I didn’t go there with that in mind. I went to report last night’s burglary,” Griffin said. “However, now that we’ve broached the subject, the fact that you are wanted in Paris might have been something you should have brought up in conversation, don’t you think?”