“You brought Jason’s name to Lord Roberts’s attention?” Emily said and stared at Drummond. “You lured Jason to India? Why? I do not understand.”
“Because he desired to go!” Drummond bit out. “And I thought he could handle it. Alas, he could not.” He addressed Roberts. “Due to Viscount Weston’s abuse of opium, any information that has come to light in regard to his tenure with the company cannot be taken seriously. The man was not of sound mind.”
“That is a slanderous lie, one of many of yours,” Emily cried. “Jason never took the drug. We have sworn statements from his clerk and his valet affirming that. The two men who knew the viscount’s habits as well as their own. It was you who spread slander about Jason and ruined Bertram Marsh. You then blackened Jason’s legacy to undermine any accusations he made.”
His Athena. Brett grinned, almost pitying the whoreson.
“You then sought to damage Mr. Curtis to stop him from assisting me, hence the false charges against his company. You knew I was searching for more information, and you could not allow me to find any because it would prove you embezzled the money. You were the man Jason had implicated, and you murdered him to silence him!”
“What? Good lord, you are as mad as the rumors attest!” Drummond shot to his feet. Ashen faced, he appealed to Roberts, his voice shaking with rage. “You cannot listen to a grieving madwoman and her egregious accusations. She has never recovered from Viscount Weston’s death, therefore anything she says—”
“That is enough!” Brett leapt up and circled the table, his face but inches from Drummond’s. “Not one more slanderous word, or I will rip your tongue out of your mouth and silence you once and for all. Lady Emily has only brought to light the late viscount’s charges. His words, not hers, condemn you.”
Drummond visibly swallowed, a sheen of perspiration glistening on his brow. Every man had risen when Brett stood. After a taut impasse, Drummond clenched his jaw, his expression thunderous.
Wentworth, florid faced, did not retreat. “Lord Roberts, you cannot listen to this slanderous drivel. Good lord, Drummond is related to the Earl of Dayton, while this man is . . .” His gaze raked Brett with scathing contempt. “He is but a mere tradesman, a colonial, who—”
“Speaks the truth,” Lord Roberts said coldly. “Viscount Weston’s missing ledger along with his sworn testimony detailing Mr. Drummond’s culpability were turned over to my care yesterday.” He eyed Drummond, his tone cold. “Then there is the testimony of your former valet, a William Dean.”
“What?” Drummond gasped.
“Your valet has testified that you hired a sepoy to assassinate the viscount,” Lord Roberts continued. “When he failed to do so, you then provided the viscount with the opium that did succeed in killing him.”
“You cannot be serious!” Drummond barked. “These are lies, hearsay, and slander.”
“Yes, well, you would be more familiar with those than I,” Lord Roberts said, his eyes hard. “I deal in facts and the truth. Those are irrefutable, as is the evidence against you. You will be charged with embezzlement, but will hang for murder.”
A low moan escaped Drummond. He swayed on his feet and blindly reached out to clutch the edge of the table in a white-knuckle grip.
“As to the other matter, all charges against Curtis Shipping have been summarily dismissed. The customs officials have declared the imported cotton fiber to be of the finest quality, and the goods were accepted,” Lord Roberts said. “Mr. Curtis has the right to charge you and Lord Wentworth with libel for filing a false statement against his company.”
Looking dazed at the turn of events, Wentworth pressed his lips together, for once, wisely holding comment.
“No. I have no interest in Wentworth, and I plan to file another charge against Drummond—that of attempted murder,” Brett said, locking gazes with Drummond. “You penned the note from Winfred arranging to meet us at the Jolly Tar, and you hired two men to kill me. Both have been apprehended, and they, too, have implicated you. Pity you cannot hang twice.”
“You bitch!” Drummond suddenly roared at Emily, his face contorted with rage. “It is all your fault! From the very first, it was your fault.”
“What?” Emily gasped, recoiling.
Brett froze. After a stunned moment, he shook his head, marveling that he had been blind to so obvious an answer, one that had been staring him in the face all along. He advanced on Drummond, who stumbled away from the table. “You planned it all from the very beginning. It was never about the money or the viscount. It was about Lady Emily. You wanted her for yourself.”
“That was his motive!” Daniel exclaimed, slapping his hand on the table.
Drummond glared at Brett and snarled, “You can have her! I was a fool. She picked Jason even though she was mine!” He thumped his fist to his heart. “I loved her first!”
Emily flinched and pressed her hand over her mouth.
“Good lord,” Taunton breathed.
“I had planned and waited for years. I had finally disposed of Jason, luring him to India, for God’s sake. I sought to console you in your grief, but you disappeared on some trip with your sister, forcing me to again bide my time. When you finally approached me, it renewed my hope. But you kept harping about Jason’s letters. I thought I had destroyed all the evidence against me.
“I had been so careful. I exiled myself in that blistering-hot, heathen country, working for a company that was imploding with corruption. It was so easy to poison the viscount tea’s, cover it up with the appearance of an opium overdose, and then bribe an official to corroborate the means of death.”
Emily had moved to Brett’s side. At this, she emitted a strangled cry. He reached over and gave her arm a squeeze, wishing he could do more. Wishing he could strangle Drummond for the pain he had inflicted upon her. Hanging was too good for the bastard.
“I had considered everything but Jason’s bloody honor. I should have known the man would keep his own private ledger with detailed accounts of his investigation. He was so maddeningly meticulous about his records and accounting. It is not surprising he found a way for you to finish his work from beyond the grave,” he snarled at Emily.
Wild-eyed, Drummond’s gaze darted over each of them.
All the men had also circled the table, following Drummond and his macabre confession as he edged toward the door.
“Stop!” Drummond’s hand shot up. “Do not come any closer. This is finished. None of it matters now. I am leaving. I have the funds to do so, don’t I? Do not try to restrain me.” His hand slipped into his jacket pocket, and he withdrew a pistol. He swung it over the group, his hand shaking, and sweat beading his brow.
The silver flash of the gun shattered Brett’s stunned immobility. He shifted in front of Emily, cursing when she struggled to shove him aside.
“You big lummox, you will not get shot over me again!” she bellowed, pounding his back.
Thankfully, Daniel and Drew moved in to flank him.
“You do not want to do that, Drummond. It is over,” Lord Roberts said evenly, holding his hands up as if to tame a wild animal.
Drummond’s eyes fastened on Brett, and a perverse smile curved his lips. “If I cannot have her, no one can.”
“You will have to go through me to get to her,” Brett declared, ignoring Emily’s shriek of protest.
“And me and Bedford,” Drew added. “With only one shot, you will not get away.”
Taunton stepped forward. “I may be old, but I can still stand up for my daughter, but I prefer to do it at the altar.”
“No!” Emily cried, and another pounding rained on Brett’s back.
He grunted, but held his ground.
“You are all mad. Do not move or I will shoot!” Drummond warned.
Brett’s patience with the mewling bastard snapped. He was done with the man. When Drummond brandi
shed the gun and his arm swung high, Brett seized the moment and lunged. He caught Drummond’s arm in a viselike grip, thrusting it upward.
A vicious expletive tore from Drummond as he fought Brett’s grasp.
Daniel and Drew rushed to aid him.
In the scuffle, the pistol fired, Emily screamed, and hearing her cry, Brett’s heart stopped dead.
He abandoned Drummond to Daniel and Drew, and whirled.
The seconds between the gun blast and his locating Emily safe in her father’s arms were the longest of his life. Heart hammering, he nearly collapsed with relief.
The bullet had cracked and splintered a strip of molding along the ceiling.
The two Runners, who had been posted outside to escort Drummond away, burst into the room. Drew and Daniel relinquished Drummond into their custody. The Runners then escorted Drummond’s defeated figure from the room, Lord Roberts following.
And just like that, it was over.
Brett did not give a damn. He had eyes only for Emily. When her father released her, she flew into his arms, and he crushed her close. She was all that mattered. Safe, warm, and in his arms.
“What were you thinking? Stop trying to catch bullets with your hide or your head. I cannot bear it,” she cried and buried her face against his chest, hugging him tight.
She was perfect. He pulled her away and gripped her shoulders. “Lady Emily Chandler, I adore you.” Oblivious to their audience, he lifted her off her feet and swung her around, her laughter mingling with his. When he set her on her feet, he was unable to let her go, but curled his arm around her waist and beamed at her.
Drew stepped forward and bowed. “I trust you to keep him out of trouble, because now that my debt is paid, I have my own woman to woo. She thinks I am a lying, deceitful bastard, so it might take some time. But I have faith.” He winked.
Daniel slapped Brett on the back. “Congratulations again.”
A snort broke through the felicitations. “Taunton, surely you cannot sanction this. An earl’s daughter with—”
“The man she loves, and who has proved his worth by saving her life, not once, but twice after today. No approval is necessary. She has made her choice, and it is a wise one.”
Wentworth fumed, but eyeing the group that had closed ranks around Brett, he snapped his mouth shut and stormed out.
“My protector.” Emily tossed her arms around Brett’s neck. “Thank you for helping me win this battle.”
Brett ignored the quiet exodus behind him as the group gave them a moment of privacy. He pressed his forehead to Emily’s temple and smiled. “It is about time you surrendered to me.”
“And you to me. Now we can savor the spoils of war.”
“Another one of your brilliant plans, my love.” He leaned down to kiss her lips.
Best damn alliance he ever made.
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For the Love of a Soldier
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Chapter One
LONDON, ENGLAND
MAY 1855
SOMETIMES a woman runs out of choices.
Alexandra Langdon glowered at the door, willing herself to turn its brass knob. She didn’t belong inside the chamber. She risked discovery, expulsion, and scandal. Her stomach growled and reminded her why she was entering anyway. What did the pampered heirs inside their exclusive enclave know about hunger? The hollow, empty rumble of it. The slow, insidious gnaw of it. She had experienced it for so long, it was like a familiar adversary. One she vowed to conquer.
That is, if she could open the damn door and cross the forbidden threshold.
There was money to be had inside the gentleman’s card room. The Duke of Hammond hosted the grandest balls of the season. The cream of society attended, and while wives and debutantes danced the night away, husbands and bachelors sought refuge behind these doors. Rich men with fortunes to win or lose at the turn of a card. Alex just needed to possess the winning hand—and she would.
Her father had given her a gift and she planned to use it. It was the only thing he had given her. For this, she loved and hated him.
She shook her head, wiped her clammy hands down her black dress trousers, resisted the urge to readjust her masculine wig, and once again, crossed into forbidden territory.
The familiar smells assaulted her first, a mixture of cigar smoke, whiskey, and men. The noise hit her next, the murmur of conversations, the rumbles of masculine laughter, and the crack of billiard balls striking together.
Burgundy carpet covered the floor, and dark wood-paneled walls were crowded with the familiar paintings of foxhunts. Red-coated riders leaned over straining horses, galloping after their prey. Alex’s sympathies lay with the fox. She knew the desperation of seeking safety in hidden crevices, the terror of being hunted. Her lips pressed into a determined line. Like the fox, she needed to keep alert for fear of getting caught.
Alex stepped farther into the room, eyes locked on the card table in the far corner. A game had broken up and new players were claiming the vacated seats. One of those chairs was hers. If she reached it in time.
A group of men blocked her path. Her head barely topped their shoulders as she circled them, threads of their conversation drifting to her.
“Kendall is back.”
The name echoed, ringing familiar to her. It had circulated throughout the house since her arrival downstairs, voiced in hushed tones that reverberated through the guests like a rippling tide.
“I thought he had returned last fall.”
“Well, he’s in town. And word’s out that he’s here tonight.”
“Christ. Does Monroe know?”
“More important, does Monroe’s wife know?” Laughter followed.
“Only Monroe’s wife? What about all the other women?”
Alex had no interest in the antics of some Casanova. The room overflowed with them. Oiled hair neatly groomed, snow white cravats, and hands curled around crystal brandy glasses. It was no surprise that these men would be petticoat chasers. The sport didn’t give blisters, mess their hair, or soil their jackets. Bitterness washed over Alex as she sought to bypass the group, but their next words brought her up short.
“Last time he sat at a table, he lifted a fortune off Lambert and Eldridge.”
“Didn’t Samson challenge him to a duel?”
“Rumors have circulated, but unlike you, Peters,” a man drawled, “Kendall is mute on the gossip he generates, and Samson has disappeared.”
“Remind me to avoid Kendall’s table,” someone muttered.
A gambler and a rake. Her dislike for the man grew.
Dismissing him, she continued forward, intent on her goal. Two seats on opposite sides of the circular card table remained vacant.
She set her sights on the closest empty chair. As she neared it, she studied the four men already seated. She recognized the two viscounts conversing with each other, Lords Linden and Chandler. Lord Richmond, an earl, had been introduced to her once before. Lord Filmore was a welcome sight. She had lifted fifty pounds from the rake in their last encounter.
But that was over six months ago, and the money hadn’t gone far.
None of the gentlemen rose to greet her, nor did they draw back her chair. It always surprised her, but it shouldn’t have. They nodded, murmuring her surname in that familiar greeting men exchanged, dropping titles and first names.
Before she breached society’s rules and claimed her seat, she studied her surroundings. A mahogany bar lined the wall opposite her. Light from the chandelier danced off the crystal decanters and glasses littering the bar surface. A gilded frame mirror hung above the setup. Alex didn’t immediately recognize the stranger staring back at her. When she realized it was her own image reflected in the glass, she drew in a sharp breath.
/> A young man with brown hair, startled blue eyes, and a crisp white cravat tied about his neck returned her stare. A red flush climbed her throat and stole over hollowed cheeks. She tore her eyes from the reminder of her gaunt appearance.
Her blue jacket had needed to be taken in further, only the padding filling her out now. It was little wonder she sweltered and yearned to yank off her cravat and draw a cooling breath.
The disguise was a necessary evil if she wanted to play for these stakes. Card rooms existed for women. She could try her hand at the genteel games of piquet or whist, but no fortunes would be laid on the tables, no hundred-pound bets. She needed to be here where serious money could be won.
She lifted her chin in determination and braced herself to wish the man in the mirror luck, but her view was blocked.
A new player had claimed the remaining chair opposite her.
Her eyes rose from his pristine black evening jacket, tailor-fitted over a tall, muscular frame to study his face. This time, she did retreat a step. Not because the man was handsome, though his classic aristocratic features were striking. He had chiseled cheekbones, sensual lips, and an enviable mane of thick, raven black hair. The room held a banquet of beautiful men, and while Alex was aware of them, her hunger was directed elsewhere. There was something more about this man, something beyond a handsome face and figure.
It was in his eyes. They were storm-cloud gray, cold as slate and hard as steel. Alex couldn’t look away. They were hypnotic, riveting. He frowned, shattering the spell that had held her transfixed.
Weak-kneed, she circled her chair to drop into her seat. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.
He knew.
It was the only possible reason for the black scowl directed at her, for she had never seen the man before in her life. Her eyes snapped back to his but he turned away, dismissing her. He collected a brandy from the tray of a passing waiter and folded his tall, lean body into his seat. He set the glass on the table but did not drink from it, instead shoving it out of reach and turning to respond to a comment from Richmond.
The Daughter of an Earl Page 31