by Donna Hatch
She bit her lip as her cheeks pinked. “I admit, that was a lapse in judgment.”
“If you assume everyone is out to do you harm, and take precautions, you stand a better chance.”
“Is that what you do?” Her gaze probed deeply into his eyes as if trying to discover his secrets. “You assume people are out to hurt you?”
“Always.”
“You are a very lonely man, Mr. Amesbury.”
He took a step back. “Why do you say that?”
“You won’t let anyone near you. I suspect you’re so afraid that they’ll hurt you that you won’t let them love you.”
He laughed harshly. “There’s nothing to love.” He turned away, desperate to escape her probing and all the emotions she might stir from their safe hiding place. “I believe I’ll retire to my room until dinner. Thank you for the tour.” He strode to the open doorway, deliberately pacing himself so as not to run.
“I haven’t shown you the wings or the tower.”
“Perhaps another time.”
He left her alone and headed toward the stairs to his room, fully aware that he’d literally run away from a girl rather than face emotions and memories best left undisturbed.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Neither dinner nor the gentlemen’s conversation nor the musical entertainment revealed anything of interest to his case. Miss Fairley played the pianoforte with a great deal of precision and passion, and other guests performed as well. During the evening, Grant spoke to Miss Fairley no more than anyone else present so as not to arouse suspicion.
When at last the guests retired for the evening, Grant made a point of bidding everyone good night, seeking out St. Cyr, Dawson, and Mr. Fairley in particular to remind them of his presence in case they decided to invite him to any meetings. They extended no such invitation.
Alone in his dark room, he waited until all noises ceased before creeping out of his room into the corridor. Moonlight spilled onto the floor from a far window at the end, but all else remained in darkness.
A door opened nearby and candlelight shone on the carpet, illuminating the face of one of the guests. Grant flattened himself against the wall, his adrenaline sharpening his senses. The man holding the candle glanced both ways then moved to the room directly across from his. He scratched lightly on the door. Grant crouched ready to spring. A woman opened the door wearing only a dressing gown, her hair spilling over her shoulder. She smiled at her guest and motioned him in. They threw themselves into each other’s arms as the man used his foot to push the door closed.
Grant straightened, wishing he could rub the sight from his eyes. A fleeting instance of envy for the joy they were finding in each other’s arms flashed through his mind. But that sort of tryst always led to heartbreak, as he well knew.
He waited a beat, then stole forward, relying on his night vision to maneuver around sideboard tables and chairs along the corridor walls. After descending the darkened stairway, he paused, but no lights and no drowsing footman became visible. He crept toward the study. Light shone underneath the door. He paused. Voices murmured, coming from the study. As he drew nearer, the voices became distinct.
“—you said he wasn’t considered a contender.” Fairley’s voice remained low as if to avoid being overheard.
Grant almost rubbed his hands together in glee.
“He’s starting to gain some support. Some fear your views are too progressive. They aren’t convinced your solutions will really help a recovering economy.” Was that Dawson’s voice? They spoke so softly, Grant couldn’t be sure.
“How can we overcome this?” Fairley asked.
“We discredit him.”
“How?”
“Find a weakness, any weakness, and exploit it.”
The door next to him opened, and a figure in a gown stepped out. A feminine gasp propelled him into action. He moved to the woman, pushed her against the wall, and clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Shhh,” he hissed.
The woman made a tiny sound of distress and went still. Her heart hammered against his chest.
“What weaknesses does he have?” Fairley said. “He’s the most boring, perfectly upright man I’ve ever met.”
“Then we make up something. Suggest that he might be having an affair with an actress, or that he might have some involvement with the crime world. No outright lies, just enough to throw doubt on his character.”
“I don’t know…”
“Look, you and I both know you are the best man for the position. And you have numerous supporters. We only need to convince the rest that you’re the best man by showing how perfect you are, and suggesting some tarnish on Redding’s character.”
The woman moved, but Grant held her tighter, one hand on her mouth, the other across her collarbone area to pin both shoulders. He tried to focus on the voices in the study, but the womanly soft curves divided his attention. And she smelled heavenly—violets and vanilla.
Oh, no.
He studied her face. Wide eyes met his. Even in near-darkness, he recognized Jocelyn Fairley. He almost swore out loud. That was twice he’d attacked her. And this time, she’d know him; if he could make out her features, she’d made out his.
He removed his hand from her mouth and placed a finger on her lips to shush her. If she cried out, he would have no way to extricate himself. She blinked and kept silent.
The voices in the study broke the silence. “I don’t like it,” Fairley said. “We should stay focused on how my policies are an improvement on the prime minister’s, and leave Redding—”
“Trust me, whatever doubt we throw on him will be harmless and short-lived. I’ll take care of it. You just keep being charming and wise and pretend we never had this conversation. Later, we’ll discuss our plan to deal with the prime minister once and for all.”
“Very well. Then I’ll bid you good night.”
“Rest well.”
Footsteps tapped on the floor from inside the room, growing louder. Grant grabbed Miss Fairley by the wrist and dragged her into the library with him. He pushed the door almost closed behind him, not daring to risk the noise of the latch. The same instant, the study door opened, and footsteps and candlelight passed by.
Grant waited. To her credit, Miss Fairley held her peace. Moments later, a second set of footsteps and candlelight passed by. The house fell into silence.
Miss Fairley let out her breath in a huff and whispered tersely, “When are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.” He reached for the door, but her voice stopped him.
“Then I’ll have to tell my father you were eavesdropping on what was obviously meant to be a private conversation. And then I’ll tell him you attacked me. Twice—the last time while you were searching his study in London.” She offered a tight smile. “And here I was starting to think even burglars put mint in their clothes presses and use bergamot-scented aftershave.”
Grant cursed silently. She knew. He swung back to her. “Then I might have to silence you.” He put his hand on her throat, not squeezing, but enough to let the threat be clear.
Standing motionless, she looked him steadily in the eye, no cringing or trembling or whimpering. “You aren’t an evil man, Grant Amesbury. You won’t hurt me, despite your threats. But your actions are suspicious, and I demand you tell me what you want with my father.”
Taken aback, he removed his hand, but stared her down, hoping to cow her. She didn’t flinch or blink. If anything she raised her chin. What the devil was he to do with the wench now?
He made a loose gesture toward the study. “You heard what they said. What do you think is going on?”
“They always discuss ideas of how to gain supporters, especially in the House. I admit, Mr. Dawson’s tactics sounded a bit…extreme, but…” She peered closely into his face. “What do you suspect?”
He turned away and paced the length of the room. He’d never been good with people,
women in particular. Hunting down and administering justice to criminals, like that lout who threatened Miss Fairley and her aunt with a knife, came naturally. At times, it was almost fun. But this sparring with words left him scrabbling for footing.
He fisted his hands. “Nothing. They’re obviously two upright, honest citizens.” He moved to the door.
She stepped in his way. “What are you looking for?”
“A little peace and quiet and no meddling females.”
She folded her arms. “What did you hope to find in his study in London?”
“The name of his tailor.”
She laughed sharply and shook her head. “I can help you if you’ll tell me what you think is happening.”
He let out a caustic laugh. “You? Help me?” He shook his head. He pushed her aside and stepped around her.
“Then I’m telling my father everything you’ve been doing.”
Angrily, he lashed out. “What if I suspect your father of a murder plot?”
She jerked back as if he’d struck her, her arms falling limply to the sides. She moistened her lips. “Then we’d hunt for clues together, and I’ll prove to you his innocence.”
“You’d get in the way.”
“I’ll get in the way regardless, but at least we can both search in the same places for the proof we’re each trying to find.” Confusion and hurt mirrored in her eyes. “What makes you think he’s involved in a murder plot?”
“I didn’t say I thought he was; I only asked what you’d think.”
“I see.” Her mouth pressed into a firm line. She straightened and tugged a sash more tightly about her. Only then did he realize she wore nothing more than a shift and a dressing gown, scant covering that taunted his imagination and revealed all too well her delicious curves. Her pale hair hung down her shoulders, framing her face—a foolish thing to notice at a time like this.
She opened the door. “Come. Let’s search his study. You’ll see there’s nothing incriminating.”
Grant cursed. Then cursed again. That blasted female was going to ruin everything.
She turned back and beckoned to him. He threw up his hands in surrender and followed her in. As he entered, she lit a lamp from the spill at the fireplace, every move jerky, indignant. Leaning over, she reached her hand underneath a drawer. A click sounded and a side panel on the desk swung outward. With swift, sure, angry motions, she opened the panel and retrieved a strong box. From another drawer, she retrieved a key she used to open the lock. She removed a stack of papers and dropped them on the desktop in front of Grant.
With her arms folded, she glared at him. “There you are. All his most important papers. If he were involved in any sort of conspiracy, he’d keep them hidden here.”
Grant shook his head. “If you know how to find it, he wouldn’t keep it here.”
“He trusts me not to go through his things, a trust I am now breaking. But if this will help clear him from whatever illegal act you think he’s involved in, then it’s worth it.”
To appease her, Grant picked up the stack of papers, sat at the desk chair, and held them in the lamplight. The girl perched at the edge of a chair with her arms folded, sending visual daggers through his chest.
He read the copy of Fairley’s will, all his financial information, the state of his properties, and the inventory of the family jewels. Grant learned more than he ever hoped to know about anyone. But nothing to suggest illegal activity.
When he finished reading the final document, he handed the stack of papers to Miss Fairley. “You can return these.”
She rose, took the papers, and replaced everything. After shooting him a murderous glare, she moved to another drawer, opened it, and removed another box. This, too, she opened. “He keeps his letters here.”
Her jaw clenched. Anger and hurt rolled off her in currents. He couldn’t blame her. She obviously adored her father, and Grant had accused him of being a villain.
He indicated the letters. “There wouldn’t be anything condemning in an unlocked drawer.”
“He has no reason to hide anything.”
Grant capitulated. Sometimes people left things in plain sight, thinking no one would notice them. So he read the letters. When he got to the third one on the stack, he paused and re-read it.
At our next meeting we’ll discuss how to deal with the prime minister. He’s not as safe in his ivory tower as people suppose. Others are willing to help us.
Your servant,
D
He held it out to her. She snatched it out of his hands. With a glance over the letter, she let out a huff. “This could mean anything.”
“It could mean they’re plotting to kill the prime minister.”
“No, of course it doesn’t. Why would they?”
“So Parliament would have no choice but to choose another candidate to recommend to the Prince as Prime Minister and First Lord of the Treasury. Since no one thinks Redding is a viable alternative, especially if they smudge his reputation so he has no support in the House, they’d only have your father’s name to bring before the crown.”
“That’s preposterous. You’re reading too much into this.” But her brows pulled together, forming a tiny pucker.
“Am I? Are you willing to risk standing idly by and watch the prime minister get murdered?”
“But…” she waved her hands helplessly, “this letter is dated a week ago and nothing has happened.”
“They are setting the stage. Plots of this kind take time.”
She lowered the paper and stared straight into his eyes. “Who are you?”
At that moment, it didn’t seem to matter anymore what Jocelyn Fairley knew. For the first time in his memory, secrecy and isolation and loneliness bore down upon him in an unbearable weight. While one part of his mind screamed at him to be silent, the larger part craved to unburden itself. To her.
He leaned back in the chair. “I’m investigating your father as a favor to Bow Street. They got wind of a murder plot and have reason to believe your father is involved. My task is to determine if your father really is part of the conspiracy. We must expose and stop those involved.”
She stared at the paper in her hands and let it fall onto the desk. “This isn’t proof.”
He leaned forward and stared her in the eye. Her desperation touched his heart and he gentled his voice. “Miss Fairley. If your father is innocent, I will be happy to clear his name. But if there really is a plot, I must discover everyone involved and bring them to justice. You wouldn’t want an innocent man—the prime minister—to be murdered, would you?”
Her eyes opened wide. “The prime minister?” Her brows wrinkled and she drew a long breath. “No, I certainly don’t wish anyone to be murdered, least of all the prime minister.” She chewed her lips, an action that captivated him. Full, and shapely, they promised sweetness.
Her voice dragged his thoughts back where they belonged. “If there is a plot, I vow my father is not involved.”
He admired her devotion to her father but he’d already seen how clouded a woman’s judgement could be regarding parents. “Miss Fairley, I trust you will keep this conversation strictly confidential.”
She nodded soberly. “I give you my word I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone—not even my father. And I will help you find whoever it is so you can protect the prime minister.”
He resisted the urge to swear. With her underfoot, hampering his investigation, he might learn very little. Still, if she were willing to help him gain access to places like this locked desk with perfect for hiding papers, he might discover something. If Fairley really were as guilty as the evidence he’d gathered so far suggested, Grant would ensure he faced justice in spite of the consequences to his innocent daughter. Grant squelched any thoughts of Jocelyn Fairley devastated and alone and branded the daughter of a traitor.
Chapter 12
The morning after Grant Amesbury’s startling revelations which led to a sleepless night, Jocelyn picked up h
er favorite hat she always wore with her plum riding habit and handed it to her maid. The older woman fastened it over her chignon nestled against the nape of her neck. Despite the fitted jacket of her riding habit, Jocelyn shivered, chilled right through to her heart.
The idea that someone would suspect her dear father of anything as evil as plotting to commit murder, especially of a government leader, left her icy. All night, she wrestled with the implications. Grant Amesbury was wrong—perhaps not about an assassination plot—but certainly about her father being involved. This morning, a renewed determination seized her to prove it to him. Not only would that serve the purpose of protecting her father, but the sooner the authorities ruled out her father, the sooner they would search for the real conspirators.
She thanked her maid and left her chambers to meet her guests. As she swept down the stairs, her gaze flitted over those gathered in the great hall. Grant Amesbury drew her attention. He stood like a shadow between Mr. Dawson and Lord St. Cyr, eyeing everyone with the alertness of a watchdog, his head tilted as if dissecting every word that passed between those assembled.
Several current members of the cabinet made up the house party, but that meant nothing. Most of them were long-time family friends. Certainly they all knew each other from their association in the government. Wanting to gain their support enough to bring her father’s name to the new king for his approval had nothing to do with any conspiracy. Her father certainly didn’t want the position enough to kill to attain it. He was a good, honorable man who would never commit murder.
Amesbury’s gaze flicked to her face and traveled down the lines of her habit. His handsome but hard face remained as impassive as stone. No recognition, no appreciation, no emotion of any kind. Perhaps she’d been wrong, and he had no heart and therefore no emotions.
She lifted her chin. She would prove her father’s innocence and remove all doubt. If the Amesbury bounder wouldn’t listen to reason, she’d take the matter to the magistrate of Bow Street and make him see the truth before it went as far as any formal questioning. She would do whatever it took to remove all doubt from Grant Amesbury’s mind as to her father’s innocence.