The Daughter of an Earl

by Victoria Morgan

  “I told you one of us would get killed,” Brett muttered beneath his breath as he made a timely pivot out of Jonathan’s path. He stripped the sword from her brother’s hand, and swung him up and over his shoulder. “You are right. She is not mad.”

  He imprisoned Jonathan’s legs against his chest. Holding her squirming brother tight, Brett executed a shallow bow. “My apologies,” he said to her. “It is not you that is mad, but rather your course of action. Before you embark upon it, I simply ask that we discuss the matter more thoroughly.” He slapped a hand on Jonathan’s rump. “As for you, young man, I applaud your coming to your sister’s defense, but next time give the poor fool a chance to apologize before you dismember him. Not all of us are unrepentant blackguards, and a man has a right to redeem himself.” His gaze met Emily’s.

  She pursed her lips, but did not respond.

  “Fine. I won’t stab you. What’s Emily’s going to do?” Jonathan said.

  Brett shifted Jonathan around to perch him on his shoulders. “Go to a ball in the city where she will be forced to dance with a bunch of stuffed-up, overdressed popinjays. They will step on her toes and pen poor poetic tributes to her beauty. Is that not mad?”

  “She will not! She never goes to balls. She doesn’t like them.”

  Emily flushed, feeling exposed. Brett did not need to know these private details that Daniel and her brother were so cavalier in sharing. She glanced away from Brett’s scrutiny. Let him make of their words what he would.

  “Well, she has changed her mind. She appears to be intent on her course this time around,” Brett said.

  “You will have to go with her. I will loan you my sword, and you can protect her feet from all those popin . . . whoever they are.”

  Brett’s eyes met Emily’s. “I will do so if it is the only way to protect her. However, I have a similar aversion to balls, so I am hoping I can persuade your sister from her course.”

  She bristled at the glint in his eyes. He did not understand her or what this quest meant to her. It put them on equal footing, because she never knew what he was going to do next—even as she desperately wished that in this matter she did. That she would not be venturing forward alone. “My mind is made up. But by all means, take all the time you need to form your own decision.”

  “Your sister is nothing if not determined.” Brett shook his head. “But then, so am I.”

  Her confidence momentarily wavered, but she shored it up. Brett Curtis might be able to persuade most people to do his bidding, but she was made of sterner stuff. Had to be for Jason’s sake.

  She would not fail him again.

  Chapter Six

  BRETT pressed his knees into the horse’s flanks and leaned low. He let the wind whip over him, cleansing the rage vibrating through him. He had asked her to wait, and she had not. It was a simple request. But she was not a simple woman.

  Lady Emily was complicated and conniving.

  He urged Remington, the handsome chestnut he had procured from Daniel’s stables, into a gallop. If she continued on her quest, she was going to get her fool self killed. And then he could say that he had warned her.

  He gritted his teeth, well aware that he sounded like a petulant boy who had not gotten his way. Well, he had not. She had left without him to visit her fiancé’s family.

  His ears rang with Julia’s voice prattling on about how pleased she was that Emily had reconnected with the late viscount’s brother and younger sister because before Jason’s death, they had been close to the family. Julia surmised that enough time had passed so that Emily felt strong enough to rekindle old friendships.

  He snorted. Did Emily think him a fool? She wanted something. His bet was on assistance from the brother. What was his name? Tristan? What kind of fool name was that for a man? Clearly, Emily never intended to discuss anything further with Brett, but he refused to be deterred.

  His work forced him to deal with truculent mill owners and cantankerous customs officials. This provided him the experience needed to deal with one stubborn, feisty beauty. She might look like a delicate, porcelain doll, but she was Athena—which put him at cross-purposes with the goddess of warfare, strategy, and heroic endeavor. It did not bode well for him.

  He crested a ridge and a short distance down the road, he spotted the blue and gold of Taunton’s sleek four-wheeled coach. A footman in Taunton’s blue livery sat on the back rumble seat.

  “Whoa, there! Halt the carriage!” He slowed Remington to a canter and then to a trot as he shortened the distance between them. He drew abreast of the coach and reined in to dismount while the carriage rumbled to a stop.

  “Mr. Curtis! Sir?” The driver’s eyes widened.

  “My apologies for the abrupt interruption, but it is imperative I speak with Lady Emily before she continues her journey.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course. Is anything amiss—?”

  “No! My apologies, I should have said that straightaway. There is nothing wrong—”

  “You! What do you think you are doing?” Lady Emily demanded. She had flung open the carriage door and beneath her bonnet, her eyes blazed. “Henry, ignore this man and continue on!”

  She made to slam the door, but Brett caught the handle, yanking it open.

  “Devil take you! What are you about?”

  “Joining you,” Brett said and seeing Taunton’s footman circle the carriage, he tossed him his reins. “Please hitch Remington to the back. I shall be riding in the carriage.” He made to vault inside, but Emily’s hand was firm and hard against his chest.

  “No, you most certainly will not!”

  He heard a giggle, and peered around Emily to see Agnes, her hand covering her mouth as she struggled to suppress her laughter. At least someone found this amusing. “Ah, Agnes, my dear, would you mind exchanging places? I am sure there is room for you on the rumble seat with that strapping footman . . .”

  Emily gasped and now both hands slapped his chest. Warmth surged at the intimacy of her touch. It was as if a lit candle were pressed to dry wood, so sudden did the heat ignite.

  Emily inhaled sharply and then yanked her hands away and addressed Agnes. “Remain where you are. Mr. Curtis is mistaken. He will not be joining us and is leaving posthaste.”

  “On the contrary. The mistake was yours in not speaking to me before you left this morning. Agnes can stay, but we have unfinished matters to discuss and you did demand my discretion on this subject.” He waited for her to respond, and when she did not, he continued with a shrug. “If you insist on my not riding with you, then I shall be obliged to continue the conversation here. Now, I do not think I made myself clear yesterday about why I opposed your—”

  Gasping, she clapped her hand over his mouth.

  The scent of a floral perfume wafted from the teasing strip of bare wrist that peeked out between her leather glove and her jacket sleeve. He inhaled deeply, and a madcap desire to laugh bubbled up within him. His lips curved and at the intimate movement, Emily snatched her hand away, her eyes wide pools of blue.

  Flushing, she turned her back on him and murmured to Agnes. After a moment, an amused Agnes slid forward to exit the carriage. He stepped aside for the maid, but caught the delighted smile she flashed the footman, who withdrew the carriage steps and offered her his assistance.

  Agnes retained the footman’s hand in hers while he escorted her to the rumble seat. Brett grinned and made to step into the carriage, but Emily still blocked him, her brow furrowed and lips pursed.

  They were at a standoff. Through sheer force of size, he could resolve the matter, but being a gentleman, plowing through her was not the most civilized course of action. Not that he would not like to toss her over his shoulder and carry her home.

  “Henry, please continue. Mr. Curtis will be joining us for a portion of our journey.” She eyed him like the interloper she clearly considered him to b
e, and then withdrew to settle in the forward-facing seat.

  He climbed in, and took the seat opposite.

  She arranged her skirts around her, folded her hands in her lap, and regarded him with a look of strained patience.

  “Let me again offer my apologies for my choice of words yesterday,” he said, keeping his tone conciliatory. “As I said to Jonathan, you are not mad, because it is not madness to seek to redress a wrong that you believe happened to Jason.” When she opened her mouth to correct him, he lifted his hand and amended his words. “Fine, know happened to him. That is an honorable quest, and I admire your desire to pursue—”

  “Good, then I suggest you allow me to do so unimpeded. We have both made our opinions clear, so I do not see that we have anything further to discuss.”

  He clenched his jaw to bite off his sharp retort, his temper rising. “You think I am a hindrance to your plan?” he scoffed. “Aside from the dangers inherent in a murder investigation, do you have any idea of the obstacles you face should you present your accusations to the East India Company? Do you have a plan? Or are you going to blithely waltz up to their offices and demand answers to your questions? Call for an inquest into a death that is now nearly four years old?”

  She stiffened, and a mottled flush stained her cheeks.

  Undeterred, he continued. “Do you think you will get anywhere without evidence? You cannot possibly have thought this through. I am only asking you to do so if you want my assistance.”

  After a moment, her reply was delivered in a tone that dripped with honey sweetness, and her expression was a mocking portrait of wide-eyed innocence. “You mean I cannot simply bat my eyelashes and ask nicely for the answers I demand? What if I shed a pretty tear or two? Are you certain they would deny me then? The daughter of an earl? Even if I pleaded ever so politely?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Sarcasm does not become you.”

  Her expression cleared, and she shrugged. “Then stop patronizing me. It does not become you and insults me.” She eyed him with scorn. “With three sisters, you should know that as much as men like to believe otherwise, women do have a brain in their heads, and we are quite capable of using it. I have had a year to consider this matter, and I do not take it lightly. I am well aware of the obstacles, and the . . . the dangers that I face.”

  She lifted her chin. “But perhaps I have made a mistake. Not in continuing this discussion with you, but in initiating it in the first place, because I refuse to spend time with someone who condescends to me. More important, who believes I am a vacuous, featherbrained female. One who would confront the East India Company without a thought, a plan, or evidence to back up my accusations. I have given this matter serious consideration. It has been all I have thought of over the last twelve months. Keeping me company when no one else would.” Her voice finished on a hitch, and she turned to gaze out the window and draw deep, even breaths.

  He opened his mouth to protest, and then closed it. She had a point, and he had to concede it. He had been an arrogant arse, but it irritated him to be called on it. Sighing, he lightened his tone. “Featherbrained female? I was thinking more along the lines of obdurate, headstrong, and stiff-necked.” Athena, goddess of war—but he kept that to himself.

  She turned to him and after a moment, she, too, relented. “Omit headstrong, replace obdurate with determined and stiff-necked with strong, and I accept your apology.”

  “Obdurate. One who stubbornly refuses to change one’s opinion. Obdurate stands.”

  She eyed him silently, and then shrugged. “It does not matter. Your opinion is of no consequence to me.”

  He laughed. “You have made that clear. However, if I am going to assist you, you are going to have to be prepared to hear it. In business, the best alliances are forged when there is an equal exchange of ideas. When two people can express their opinions in a constructive manner that is beneficial to both parties.”

  As the import of his words sunk in, a flash of hope blazed in her eyes. “You . . . you are considering assisting me?”

  “If I cannot change your mind, you leave me no choice. Who else is going to make sure you do not get your beautiful, obdurate head lopped off?” She might be intelligent and have a plan of action, but she was still a doe waltzing into a den of foxes. Such confrontations never boded well for the doe.

  He could swear that he saw the flame of hope flare brighter. Then her lips curved into a smile that stole his breath.

  Her smile was disturbing for its rarity. Like a falling star, you had to catch it quickly before it disappeared. At least, it was rare for her to shine it on him. The surprise of it had turned him as addled as Daniel was when Julia entered a room. It could prove problematic, because he needed to be sharp-witted to stay one step ahead of her. Silence settled between them, with only the rumble of the carriage wheels and a distant giggle from Agnes filling it.

  “Thank you. I accept your gracious offer of assistance . . . and . . . and the dubious compliment.”

  Her words shattered his thoughts, and he cleared his throat. “Just one question: Why me? Why not Daniel?”

  “Julia would never forgive me if I involved Daniel in this. Not after all they have been through to arrive where they are.”

  “Ah, now I understand. I am expendable.”

  She flushed. “Of course not. You built Curtis Shipping from the ground up. That demonstrates determination, ingenuity, and intelligence. You also supported Daniel when he needed your help, even when, as now, you were aware of the dangers in doing so. More important, you are canny, persuasive, and clever. I can use those attributes in pursuing my goal.”

  Pleased that she had given him a thought after having spent the last year dismissing him, he found himself straightening in his seat.

  “You can wheedle, connive, bully, and—”

  “Thank you. I think,” he said dryly. She had been talking to his sisters.

  “And you are an American.”

  That caught him off guard. “And that is helpful to you because . . . ?”

  She waved her hand airily. “Americans are arrogant optimists who are not cowed by our peerage. That is, your reverence stops short of letting a high-ranking title interfere with your goal . . . or rather, my goal.” She beamed.

  “And Daniel always cursed my lack of respect for your aristocracy. Little did he know it is an asset. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.”

  “I take it that you have a plan?”

  “Of course. I am going to do as you suggested and obtain the evidence I need to prove my case before I present it to the proper authorities.”

  “And where exactly do you plan to get this evidence? Jason’s family just happens to have been safeguarding it for you all these years?”

  She sighed. “I agree to hear your opinion, because you recommend that it is in my best interest in cultivating an alliance. I will defer to you on that, as you are more experienced with collaboration on business matters. In return, you must agree to curtail your patronizing tone. It offends, and you would be wise to defer to my expertise on this matter, as I have too often been at the receiving end of it.”

  There was a glint of warning in her voice. She looked so prim and proper in her cornflower blue spencer jacket, but her soft exterior hid a spine of steel. He dipped his head. “I will try. So this evidence?”

  “When Jason . . . when he . . . ah . . .” She wavered, but then cleared her throat and forged ahead. “When Jason passed, his valet escorted his personal effects home. There was a trunk that contained his business ledgers, journals, and documents, as well as his correspondence. I believe that in this material, and with the letters I have, we will be able to glean more information about Jason’s investigation. It should tell us which accounts are involved, and allow us to determine the name of the person or persons responsible for overseeing those accounts.”

 
He nodded. “That is a good beginning. His family has this trunk and will be willing to relinquish it? Or at least allow you to peruse its contents?”

  “I do not see why not. You see, upon his death, it was delivered to me, so it is rightfully mine.” She lifted her chin and dared him to refute her ownership.

  “I see.” But he did not. If it was given to her, how had it come to be in the viscount’s family’s possession?

  “My father had it turned over to the Bransons,” she said, answering his unasked question. “He thought the sight of it upset me.” She glanced out the window again. “I was . . . I was not home to stop him. After Jason’s death, Julia took me to the Lake District for a few months. She thought a change of scenery would be a good idea. You see, Jason grew up in Bedfordshire, so there were . . . there were many memories—”

  “I understand,” he rescued her, hating to see her flounder. Steel was strong, but if enough heat or duress was applied to it, it could bend or break.

  He was beginning to grasp how deep her grief had been. She had reforged herself, but there were still cracks. She hid them beneath her poised veneer, but if one looked closely, they were there.

  More buried secrets.

  Brett regretted he had not viewed them earlier. Her triumph over her grief added to her courage—and strength. She would need both to achieve her goal. But perhaps having already conquered her demons, she feared no more. Admiration for her suffused him, and something else. Desire.

  He tamped it down. He could not go there. They had enough with which to deal without further complicating matters. “Fine. Then we shall find out if they are willing to let you recover the trunk.”

  “Yes, that is where I am heading now. I will let you know what—”

  “No.”

  “No, what?” she said, bristling.

  “I am going with you. That is another one of my stipulations if you want my assistance. I agree to help you and not breathe a word of your agenda to your family, even though when they learn what you are up to—which, if you succeed, they will—I am putting my life at risk. Your father has a handsome set of Manton dueling revolvers that he—”