The Daughter of an Earl

by Victoria Morgan

  Hell. He was in trouble. However, as Emily had once so sagely said, a man deserved to live before he died. And by God, he hadn’t felt this alive in a long, long time.

  Chapter Seventeen

  LADY Sutton drew out the last plaintive, discordant, note on her violin and finally deigned to put her audience out of their misery. Emily blinked at Brett who exploded from his seat to give a resounding round of applause. She stood more slowly, wondering at his enthusiasm. The man must be tone deaf. It was the only explanation. She was not a connoisseur of classical music, but if that was Bach, she would eat her new bonnet. And that bonnet boasted at least a dozen ostrich feathers.

  “You enjoyed the performance?” she said beneath the thunderous clapping.

  “Despised it. God-awful. Worse butchering of Bach I have ever heard.” His smile was unwavering, his tone cheerful. “Sounded like a cat under torture. But that is maligning the pitiful beast who is doing no more than what this audience yearned to—lamenting his fate.”

  Bemused, she pressed him further. “Then why the enthusiastic response?”

  “Surely the Egyptians celebrated after the tenth plague and their suffering came to an end?”

  “You cannot equate Lady Sutton’s solo to a biblical calamity,” she admonished, but her lips twitched.

  “No? Would you not prefer frogs, lice, or locusts for an encore?”

  She laughed, but changed the subject lest they be overheard. “Is Melody musically inclined? I wondered, considering her name. If so, she might have played this afternoon.”

  They were in the Suttons’ music room, where a handful of guests had been invited to provide afternoon entertainment. They had attended the performance because Patricia and Viscount Weston were seated up front. Fortunately, most of the performers played with a mastery their hostess lacked. Guests were now making a hasty exit, no doubt hoping to avoid being put in the awkward position of showering false compliments on Lady Sutton, a charming hostess, but a truly dreadful violinist.

  Emily followed Brett down the row of chairs, hoping to catch Patricia before she disappeared.

  “My name is a product of my mother’s admirable, albeit futile optimism,” Melody said in answer to Emily’s query. “She harbored the misguided conviction that I was destined to be a pitch-perfect prodigy. After numerous instructors informed her that I did not possess an iota of musical talent and my tenth instructor quit, my mother finally put her hopes to rest and my listeners out of their misery.” Melody’s smile was wry.

  Clearly she did not suffer lingering guilt over her failure to live up to her name or her mother’s expectations.

  “But I am sure Melody could manage our hostess’s rendition of caterwauling. Couldn’t you, Melody?” Brett said, smiling at his sister.

  “Probably,” she sighed. “But you scooted me off the stage before I plumbed the full range of my potential. Miss Sutton needs an overbearing older brother to whisk her from center stage under the auspices of protecting her from misunderstood critics.”

  “I prefer protective to overbearing,” Brett said. “No one would dare interrupt Lady Sutton’s performance. A benefit your aristocracy enjoys is the privilege to indulge their proclivities, regardless of whether or not it is at another’s expense—such as the loss of their audience’s hearing, wallet, or patience.”

  “I fear you may have a point,” Emily said. They had wended their way to the back of the room, and when Melody turned to converse with another, Emily took the opportunity to address Brett privately. “You need to distract the viscount so I can speak to Patricia alone.”

  “What? Absolutely not. I have been tortured enough for an afternoon. No birds. I will speak to Patricia with you.”

  “Do not be absurd. You cannot accompany me. I am supposed to be inquiring about long-lost love letters. How do you propose I do so with you hovering like a hulking shadow? Or address an intimate subject in mixed company?”

  “Hulking, hovering shadow? Shadows do not hulk. I will hover. Quietly. If I am a shadow, she will never know I am there. People give little heed to shadows.”

  She fought to keep her voice level. “I understand you are still upset over my meeting with Drummond, but you have to learn to trust my judgment. I promise to keep an eye open for anyone wielding suspicious instruments. But I assure you, Patricia will not sit quietly should someone attempt to strangle me with their violin strings.”

  “You do that so well. ’Tis a gift,” he said dryly, a teasing light in his eyes.

  “What?”

  “Making me feel like an idiot so that I have no choice but to agree with you, lest I prove the point by arguing otherwise.”

  “You are not an idiot. You are, as you recently admitted, protective. But Melody is right. That well-meaning trait tends to veer toward overbearing. I think it is due to having three younger sisters. If you only had one, things might have been different.”

  He looked surprised, then he laughed. “That is another talent of yours. I think there is a compliment in there until I realize you are using them to distract me from the point at hand.” When she only grinned, he blew out a breath. “Fine. I will discuss the edifying and most interesting Quinarian system of whatever with the viscount. For you. But you will owe me. And I will collect. I am tempted to ask Lady Sutton to give you a private performance.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You would not dare.”

  “Well, there are other ways in which you can thank me for my sacrifice,” he drawled. He dipped his gaze meaningfully to her lips, and then over the red flush she felt spreading over her breasts and up her neck. “One more thing. You would be wise to remember that the most dangerous instruments are not musical—or in plain view.”

  When Brett winked at her, she found herself tilting toward him before she straightened. “Go. Now. They are almost here.”

  “The Egyptians could not have suffered more than I,” he groused.

  “Poor you,” she crooned to his back as he stomped off.

  “Why poor Brett?” Melody said. “Where is he off to? He does look rather disgruntled. Is he worried about Miranda? She is with Julia and Daniel taking a turn of the gardens. Shall we join them? Or stay and rescue Brett?” Her eyes gleamed, clearly anticipating a sweeping rescue plan for her beleaguered brother.

  Emily had dispensed with one Curtis, surely she could deal with another. “Brett is fine. I promise, no rescuing is required.”

  Melody was still eyeing Brett. “He is looking more glassy-eyed than disgruntled. I can fake a swoon. I have used it before when he needs extricating from a woman’s . . . ah, that is, when he needs to excuse himself to attend to a pressing business matter.” Flustered, her eyes shot to Emily’s.

  “I understand,” Emily said. She had no doubts that Brett Curtis needed to be extricated from many a woman’s pressing business interests, but she did not feel sorry for him. The man dispensed charm like bees cultivating flowers, thus he created his own difficulties with women. She dismissed Brett, needing to concentrate on Melody, or rather getting rid of Melody.

  As Patricia paid her respects to Lady Sutton, Emily looped her arm through Melody’s and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Can you head to the gardens without me? My friend, Miss Patricia Branson, is about to join us, and I need to speak with her privately. You see, the man with whom Brett is conversing is her brother, Viscount Weston. I believe Brett seeks to garner the viscount’s goodwill because he is interested in Patricia.”

  Intrigued, Melody eyes widened. “What makes you think that?”

  “The viscount is an avid ornithologist”—at Melody’s blank look, Emily clarified—“a bird-watcher. As we both know, Brett has never given birds any heed. I suspect he is feigning an interest in them to get in the viscount’s good graces in order to court Patricia.”

  “Brett has not shown an interest in women of late, but you may be right,”
Melody said, wide-eyed. “He is clever like that, and he definitely has no interest in birds. Daniel’s cousin is an avid bird-watcher, and Brett called the man a nice enough chap, but a bit of a banal bird-obsessed bore.”

  Emily bit her lip at Melody’s indiscretion.

  “Her brother is a viscount?” An odd look crossed Melody’s features, and she gnawed worriedly on her lower lip.

  “Yes, Viscount Weston. He was my late fiancé’s younger brother.”

  “That makes his sister Lady Patricia?”

  “No, she is Miss Patricia Branson. Only the viscount holding the title goes by lord and his wife will be lady, but his offspring go by miss or mister.”

  “Goodness. I cannot keep all this straight. I would be in a horrible muddle if I lived here,” Melody said.

  “Then perhaps it is a good thing you do not. Is her title or lack thereof a matter of concern to you?” She glanced at Patricia. Their hostess appeared intent on holding her sole admirer captive, because she was now pointing out something on her violin.

  “It is just that . . . well, Brett vowed to never give his heart to another English aristocrat. He said that if the featherbrained female . . . ah . . .” She flushed and hastened to continue. “That is, if a woman cannot accept a man on his own merits, rather than judging them on their ancestral pedigree, he wants nothing to do with the shallow-minded lot. I believe those were his words. I overheard him muttering that to Daniel years ago. Despite his slurred words, he was emphatic. Of course, he did not notice me, being under the influence of strong drink. Daniel was half dragging him, half carrying him upstairs to his chambers.” Melody wrinkled her nose.

  Emily doubted Brett would feel as protective toward his sister if cognizant of this breach of confidence. But it did explain Brett’s deep-seated disdain for the English peerage. Not only had an aristocrat trampled his heart, but the woman had also rejected him for being an untitled American. Her rejection was cruel, shallow, and most damning of all, unforgivable.

  She recalled the words he had tossed at her in the Earl of Dayton’s library when she had sought to seduce him. You are the daughter of an earl. Sister-in-law to a duke. I am an untitled American who works in trade. There can be no alliance between us. Not in your world. Bitterness had been etched in them. Her heart twisted.

  Brett was right. There could never be an alliance between them, but not for the reasons he stated. The true reason had nothing to do with who he was, but all to do with who she was. A damaged woman.

  Their alliance was no longer just about getting caught. It was about not hurting each other. About protecting each other so that when this wonderful interlude that they shared wound to an end, they could walk away unscathed. She and Brett carried enough wounds.

  “You do not have to look so worried,” Melody said. “If Patricia is amiss all is well. Brett is only averse to getting involved with a member of the aristocracy.”

  Melody snapped Emily back to the present. She frowned at Melody’s reminder, but Patricia was heading toward them, so she had little time to contemplate them—or if they held a warning. “Let me handle matters from here. I will meet you in the gardens later.” Melody had a gift for the dramatic, but she was a terrible actress and Patricia would see right through any glib excuse she gave to leave them some privacy.

  “Oh, I wanted to meet—”

  “Later. I promise.”

  Melody looked conflicted, but then with a wink that was so like her brother’s, she dashed off.

  “Who was that? I did not mean to interrupt you,” Patricia said. She approached slowly, her gaze following Melody.

  “Brett Curtis’s sister. I shall introduce you later, but she was overdue to meet the rest of our party,” Emily said and caught Patricia’s hands in hers. She held her smile steady as she stared into Jason’s blue eyes and such heartrendingly familiar features.

  Jason and Patricia shared the same spun-gold hair, a distinctive catlike slant to their eyes, and full lower lips. Jason used to quip that Patricia was his softer side.

  “It has been too long,” Patricia said and smiled wistfully. “As I missed your visit, I was delighted to receive your letter. Truth be told, I was perishing from boredom, waiting for Tristan to leave his books and birds long enough to escort me to town.” She rolled her eyes. “I was plotting to travel on my own when your letter arrived and gave me something to occupy my time instead of nagging Tristan to get organized. You averted fratricide. Do not laugh, it was a near thing.”

  “I am glad for my sake, but more important for Tristan’s, that you have arrived safely,” she said, and then glanced around the room, ensuring they had it to themselves. “Let us sit.” She directed Patricia to one of the rows of chairs.

  Once they dispensed with the social inquiries after family and mutual friends, Patricia’s eyes gleamed, and she leaned forward. “So about those missing letters, dare I presume they are love letters?”

  “Why else would I wish to retrieve them?” Emily said, and bit her lip, hoping she looked appropriately abashed. For good measure, she cast another furtive glance around the empty room.

  “Jason was such a romantic,” Patricia sighed. “They must have been quite delicious to warrant a hidden compartment in his trunk.” She stared off dreamily into space.

  Delicious? Emily recalled pestering the ever-patient Burke for the mail, her heart racing at the familiar slant of Jason’s hand on the envelope. He was not a demonstrative writer, but in the beginning, they had been lovely—until they segued into the business about the discrepancies in the accounts.

  She frowned. Jason clearly wanted to share with her what he was involved in. If Jason had discovered Drummond was the guilty party and found friend to be foe, she wondered if Jason had questioned whom he could trust. She could only imagine his despair—and loneliness. The thought chilled and shamed her. Searching only for words of love, Emily had ignored any warnings of danger that Jason had voiced.

  She wondered if Jason had felt betrayed when she did not respond to his shared confidences. Perhaps betrayal was too strong a word. She could only hope that her present course of action could make amends for her thoughtlessness.

  “Emily, are you all right? You look pale.” Patricia caught her hands and squeezed them. “Forgive me. This must be painful for you.”

  Emily’s smile was sad. “It is, but I do wish to reclaim Jason’s letters because I will always cherish them, as well as all he shared of us in his diaries.” To lighten the moment, she added wryly, “Admittedly, I also would be mortified should they fall into another’s hands.” She grinned, but paused when Patricia did not share her amusement, but shifted in her seat, looking uneasy.

  “That is true. However, the thing is . . .” Patricia began, but then paused, and worried her lower lip.

  “Is what? What is the thing?” Patricia’s unease transferred to Emily, and she tightened her grip on Patricia’s hands.

  “Do not worry,” Patricia said, hastening to reassure her. “All is not lost.”

  “Patricia, please speak plainly. Do you have the portfolio or not?” Emily struggled to keep her voice even, but her voice climbed with her increasing disquiet.

  “I am so sorry, Emily. There was nothing there,” Patricia said sadly.

  Devastated, Emily’s lips parted. Her grip fell limp and she drooped in her seat.

  “It is all right, Emily, all is not lost,” Patricia said quickly. “I have a plan to find out where they might be.”

  Emily could only stare blankly at Patricia, blinking at the excitement that brimmed in her friend’s eyes.

  “I have enlisted help. Someone who worked with Jason at the East India Company and who already possesses most of the contents of Jason’s trunk. More important, he can gain access to any files, ledgers, or a portfolio which he does not already possess but which might still reside at the East India Company.”

 
“Who?” Emily breathed. But God help her, she knew.

  “Me.”

  Chills suffused her, and she froze.

  “See? Mr. Drummond is here. He will help you to find this missing portfolio. I promise you. All is not lost.” Patricia stood and clasped her hands together. She beamed at Drummond as if he was the answer to their most fervent prayers.

  Once Emily could hear herself think over the roaring in her ears, she summoned a wan smile for Patricia and braced herself to face her nemesis.

  Chapter Eighteen

  LADY Emily, we meet again.” Drummond dipped his head, appraising her coolly.

  “It must have been fate that had Mr. Drummond crossing my path,” Patricia said. “I was worried about telling you I could not find your letters. Then I ran into Mr. Drummond, and I recalled Tristan asking him about some business papers of Jason’s that Tristan had turned over to Mr. Drummond. Mr. Drummond called on us a few weeks ago and was kind enough to inquire after you. Is that not providential?” Patricia beamed approvingly at Drummond.

  It took Emily a moment to recover her voice, and she had to moisten her dry lips to respond. “Yes. In fact, Julia and I ran into Mr. Drummond yesterday.” She rose on unsteady legs.

  “Yes, and we discussed Jason’s posting in India,” Drummond said. “Lady Emily appears quite determined to understand all that his work entailed, despite my advising her that it is best to let the past remain where it belongs—safely in the past.”

  “So you are aware of the particulars of what Lady Emily seeks?” Surprised, Patricia shifted her gaze between them.

  “My apologies, but this revelation about missing personal correspondence must have eluded me,” he said coldly.

  Emily refused to cower under his narrowed-eyed scrutiny. She did not know if she could salvage this situation, but she had to try. There was no need to feign the flush that rose to her burning cheeks, but her trilling laugh was forced. “Really, Mr. Drummond, a lady dare not share such personal confidences with a gentleman.” She paused, challenging him to contradict her. “And aware of your concerns about my queries, I turned to Patricia for assistance on this trivial, but more delicate matter. I hope you can understand my predicament and can forgive me for not being completely forthright with you.” She spread her hands helplessly, looking suitably chagrined.