From his seat across from Emily in the Ellington carriage, Peter studied her delicate profile as she peered out the window at the passing scenery on the way to Brimley Hall. He couldn’t help but note that she’d been silent ever since they had departed Knighthaven.
Anyone who didn’t know her well might have been fooled by the bland mask of her features into believing she was calm and composed, but the stiffness of her posture and the tightening of her full lips were clear indications to Peter of the disquiet that seethed just beneath the surface of that cool façade.
What could possibly be troubling her?
He couldn’t help but wonder if their encounter in the garden had something to do with it. Damn it, he had never meant to touch her, but the paleness of her features, the weariness in her eyes, had made him long to comfort her. And his good intentions had gone right out the window the moment she had leaned toward him with her mouth temptingly parted. Though he should be grateful that Deirdre had interrupted them, he found that he couldn’t quite manage to convince himself that tasting those sweet lips again would have been a mistake.
Had the incident left Emily as restless and aching as it had left him?
Feeling his body react in a predictable male fashion to the lustful direction of his thoughts, Peter shrugged off the vision of Emily in his arms and shifted in his seat, forcing himself to face her once again.
He schooled his own features into what he hoped was an unreadable expression and fought to keep his voice steady when he spoke to her. “Are you feeling all right? You’ve been very quiet since we left the house.”
He saw her hands tighten into fists in her lap, and she paused for a moment before turning away from the window to send him a veiled look from under lowered lashes. “I’m fine. Just concerned about Lord Brimley, I suppose. He’s been unwell for quite some time, but something like this…” She glanced away again, her jaw tautening. “Is it necessary for us to interview him now? I would hate to cause him any undue distress.”
Peter leaned forward, silently willing her to meet his eyes. When she finally did, he offered her an understanding smile. “I dislike the prospect as much as you do, but I’m afraid this is the only lead we have at this point, and it’s best that we speak with him while the incident is fresh in his mind. We can’t afford to leave any stone unturned. I assure you, I have no wish to cause the marquis any further harm. We’ll speak with his physician first, and I’ll be as gentle and brief in my questioning as possible.”
She gave him a timid smile in return, and the shy sweetness of it robbed him of breath. More and more often lately, the young girl he had once known was showing through that prickly exterior, making it difficult for him to distance himself from her in any way.
“I understand,” she told him, her voice whisper soft. “I do. It’s just that he’s been through so much already.”
The worry in her tone had Peter reaching out to her before he thought, his hand covering hers in her lap in what had been meant to be a comforting gesture.
He was immediately singed by the heat that arced between them.
Emily gave an audible gasp, and their gazes locked for a long, drawn-out moment. Time hung suspended.
And then the carriage lurched to a halt.
Breathing an inner sigh of relief, Peter removed his hand from its unnerving contact with hers and inclined his head in a brisk nod. “Right. It appears we have arrived.”
Before he could think of anything else to say to help alleviate the sudden tension that seemed to suffuse the very air around them, the door of the coach swung outward and Lord Moreland appeared in the opening.
“You’re here!” Ignoring Peter’s presence, the man reached inside for Emily, who rose from her seat and accepted his help in alighting. “The constable returned just a short while ago. He said you were on your way, so I’ve been waiting.”
“Oh, Adam, I was so sorry to hear about what happened. And your father…” Once Emily was on the ground next to him, she wrapped her arms about the viscount’s neck in a brief, sympathetic hug. “How is he?”
Peter, climbing down from the carriage behind her, felt his blood start a slow, simmering boil through his veins as Moreland returned her hug. The way the man slipped his arms about Emily’s waist seemed much too familiar, the look on that handsome face far too calculating for his liking.
“He’s doing as well as can be expected,” Moreland was saying in response to Emily’s query. When she drew away and would have taken a step back, he halted her with one hand at her elbow, guiding her toward the stone steps that led up to the large front door in a proprietary manner that set Peter’s teeth on edge. He was left to bring up the rear.
As usual, he thought darkly, falling into step behind them.
“The physician says he should recover,” the viscount continued as they entered the house. Pausing in the polished marble entryway, he gestured to a hovering butler, who hurried forward to divest the new arrivals of their hats and gloves before fading away into the background again. “If he will start obeying instructions and remain in bed. However, you know Father. He never should have attempted to confront the thief on his own, but he’s a stubborn old man.”
Peter could remain quiet no longer. “Exactly what was taken, Lord Moreland?”
The viscount frowned in his direction, but Peter refused to back down. He had an investigation to run, and it was just too bloody damn bad if this dandified snob didn’t like it.
Some of his determination must have shown on his face, for Moreland shrugged and relented. “A brooch that belonged to my late mother. Damned if I know how the bounder even found it. Father wanted to leave things in her room untouched, so it has remained in her keepsake box on the topmost shelf of her armoire ever since her death. He only rarely took it out.”
“And who else would have occasion to know this?”
“Only those close to the family, and perhaps a few servants.”
Peter furrowed his brow in thought. As he had suspected.
Emily, who had been silent all this time, finally took a step forward and spoke up. “And nothing else was taken?”
“Not that we can ascertain. It appears as if the thief picked the lock on the library doors and came in that way. Passed right by my father’s safe and didn’t even touch it.”
Peter contemplated the winding staircase that led up toward the dark upper reaches of the house. “May we speak with the marquis?”
“You’re welcome to try. The constable has spent most of the morning doing just that, but every time he starts to get somewhere, Father drifts off into his own little world.” The viscount’s mouth tightened. “He’s tended to ramble quite a bit in recent years, but it seems worse since last night.”
“Oh, Adam, I’m so sorry.” As Peter watched, a shadow seemed to cross Emily’s face and her eyes glittered with unshed tears before she blinked them away and reached up to lay a hand on Moreland’s arm. “So very sorry.”
To Peter’s ears, she sounded pained, almost tormented. It was more than mere sympathy that showed in her expression. It was grief, stark and unflinching.
Had she truly been that close to the Marquis of Brimley? Or was her agonized reaction due to her relationship with Lord Moreland?
The viscount waved a hand at the stairs. “You may go ahead up if you like. The constable is waiting, and I’m certain he’s anxious for you to join him.”
Peter gave him a curious look. “You aren’t coming?”
“It’s difficult for me to see him like this. The physician has suggested that I hire a round-the-clock nurse to sit with him. Father has resisted the idea in the past, but now…”
When his voice trailed off, Emily gave him a gentle smile and moved closer to him in a way that had Peter clenching his hands into fists in order to resist the urge to pull her away from the man.
“I understand,” she said, her tone soothing.
“I only hope Father does.” Lord Moreland patted Emily’s hand, then sent Peter a hooded glare from narrowed hazel eyes. “You go on. I’ll be up in a short while.”
“Very well.” Emily turned to Peter, raising her eyebrows expectantly. “Mr. Quick?”
He sketched her a slight bow, unable to resist goading her just a bit after all the attention she had given the viscount. He knew it was childish, but watching her fawn over the man had been too damn aggravating. “After you, my lady.”
She pursed her lips and regarded him for a long moment, then swept past him on the way to the stairs. Peter followed, casting one last glance back at the viscount as he went.
Moreland stared after them, his visage devoid of emotion.
Peter shook his head. Maybe it was jealousy, plain and simple, but as Emily led the way up the stairs, he couldn’t help but feel that the man was hiding something.
The second-floor hallway was dim and hushed, the draperies covering the windows at each end drawn against the morning sunlight. Standing before Lord Brimley’s bedchamber door, the constable chatted with a balding, middle-aged man whom Peter took to be the marquis’s physician.
As he and Emily approached, the two men ceased their conversation and the constable nodded stiffly to them both. “My lady. Mr. Quick.”
The other gentleman was introduced as Dr. Billings, and after the customary pleasantries were exchanged, Peter posed his first question to him. “How fares the marquis? Is he well enough to be interviewed?”
The doctor surveyed them with disapproval, but gave his consent with a curt gesture. “I suppose it would be all right as long as you don’t take long and don’t over-tire him. But Constable Jenkins has spoken with his lordship at length and failed to gain anything of use from him, so I can’t see how it will do you any good.”
Jenkins’s smug smirk infuriated Peter. But he merely drew a deep breath in order to gain control of his seething temper, letting one corner of his mouth curve upward slightly in a superior smile that was certain to irritate the man. “You may be surprised, Dr. Billings.”
“Perhaps.” The physician frowned, his eyebrows lowering in a censorious fashion as he turned from Peter to Emily. “My lady, are you certain you wish to go in as well? I can’t help but believe it isn’t at all proper.”
If Dr. Billings had hoped to convince Emily to remain outside the sickroom, he had chosen the wrong words to do so. Peter watched as her shoulders straightened and she leveled the doctor with a chilly stare.
“Nonsense,” she informed the physician in a lofty tone, her violet eyes shooting sparks that had Peter stifling a chuckle. “The marquis is an old family friend, and what is proper doesn’t enter into it. Besides, I’m certain having a bit of company can only do him good.”
Dr. Billings puffed up in obvious displeasure, appearing disgruntled and rather affronted by Emily’s unwillingness to concede his point, but he backed down in the face of her determined ire. “Of course, my lady. As you say.”
With a sniff, she pivoted and swept off toward Lord Brimley’s room, and Peter followed, still grinning. That was his Em, he mused with a definite touch of pride and—-no matter how he tried to deny it—-more than a hint of possessiveness.
Once inside the bedchamber with the door closed behind them, however, Emily’s militant mien suddenly abandoned her. She came to a halt at the foot of the large, four-poster bed, and the same shadow that had crossed her face downstairs settled over her features once more, making her look pale and shaken.
Peter longed to hold her, to comfort her with the strength of his arms around her, but he resisted the urge and instead did nothing more than brush her arm in an all too brief caress.
“Would you like to speak to him first?” he asked in a whisper. “It might better prepare him for my questions if you were to smooth the way.”
She bit her lip, then gave an abrupt nod in response.
The chamber was dark and still. As the curtains were tightly drawn, the only illumination came from the faint glow of a lamp on a nearby night table, and the only sound that could be heard was the raspy breathing of the room’s frail occupant.
Emily moved to stand next to the bed, sinking down to sit on the edge of the mattress in a careful motion.
“Lord Brimley,” she murmured, leaning over the elderly gentleman, her visage a mask of concern that Peter could read even in the dimness. “Lord Brimley, can you open your eyes?”
The figure on the bed twitched, then mumbled something incoherent before heavily veined eyelids fluttered open. They unveiled a pair of rheumy hazel irises, bloodshot and clouded with age.
“What—who—” the man gasped, his gnarled hand flying up off the mattress in alarm, palm outward as if to ward off an enemy.
Or a thief.
“Lord Brimley? It’s all right. You’re safe.” Emily caught the marquis’s hand in hers and spoke in a soothing tone as Peter crossed the chamber to stand at her elbow, trying his best to remain as unobtrusive as possible.
Brimley released a gusty sigh and seemed to calm a bit, those eyes struggling to focus on the person seated next to him. “Ah. Victoria, is that you? It’s been so long since you came to see us. Lavinia will be glad you’re here.”
Peter felt Emily stiffen, but there was no trace of tension in her voice when she spoke again. “No, my lord. It is Emily, Victoria’s daughter.”
“Emily?” The man appeared confused for a moment, then his wrinkled countenance brightened. “Why, Emily, how you’ve grown. You’re the picture of your mother.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She paused for a moment and glanced up at Peter before continuing. “Adam tells me you had a bit of a run-in with the Oxfordshire Thief last night, and there is someone here who would like to speak to you about it.”
“Someone here?” The marquis squinted up at Peter and his brow lowered in a fierce expression. “Here now! Who are you? If you’re one of my son’s creditors, I can tell you right now you’ll get nothing from me! Nothing!”
Creditors?
As Emily rushed to reassure the elderly man, Peter found himself examining his surroundings with much more interest than he had before. Upon entering the room, he hadn’t taken in the rather shabby state of the once expensive rug and furnishings, the lack of ornamentation and decorative knickknacks that most master suites in luxurious homes usually boasted. But he made note of it now with particular attention to detail.
Was it possible that the Marquis of Brimley and his son were in dun territory? He’d heard that the latter had quite a reputation in London for being a high-stakes gamester, but had the viscount actually managed to deplete the family coffers with his taste for the city’s finer gambling establishments?
“Mr. Quick isn’t a creditor, Lord Brimley,” Emily was explaining, sounding vaguely nonplussed. “He’s a Bow Street Runner, and he is here to ask you about the thief who broke into the house last night.”
“Ah. The thief. Caught the blighter in the act, I did. Would have had him, too, if my old bones hadn’t given out.”
Peter’s heart gave a skip, and he couldn’t resist finally entering the conversation. He took a step closer to the bed, drawing the marquis’s attention back to him. “Did you get a look at him, my lord?”
“I did, as a matter of fact.” Brimley shook his head in a mournful manner. “He stole my Lavinia’s brooch, you know.”
“We know, and I am most sorry for your loss.” Trying not to sound too impatient, Peter nevertheless couldn’t help prodding the man a little. “But the thief, my lord. What did he look like?”
“It was too dark to make out much. He was a rather young fellow. Thin. He had a cap pulled low over his eyes, but I could see blond hair sticking out from under it.” The marquis rolled his head on the pillow to stare up at Emily. “Blond hair just like yours, my dear.”
Blond hair?
Peter hated himself for considering it, felt like a traitor that the thought even crossed his mind, but it hovered at the edges of his consciousness, tormenting him with the possibility.
Could Benji have been the one he’d been looking for after all?
He wanted to dismiss the idea out of hand, but somehow he couldn’t seem to do so. The boy’s behavior had been all too strange lately, and added to Lord Brimley’s description of the thief…well, the matter boded further checking into.
“Yes.” The marquis was still talking, his gaze growing dreamy and unfocused as he continued to peer up at Emily. “Blond hair just like yours, Victoria. You know, Lavinia has missed you dreadfully since you and Ellington made the decision to reside in London year-round.” His eyes drifted shut, and his voice started to trail away. “She’s kept…every one you…ever sent her…”
A frown marred Peter’s face. Obviously, the elderly gent was rambling again and believed he was speaking to the late Countess of Ellington. He had no idea how to reply, and Emily appeared just as stumped and at a loss as he felt.
“Every one of what, my lord?” she asked, and Peter could hear the curiosity underlying her tone.
“The…letters.” Lord Brimley’s words were slow in coming and barely audible, and his eyes remained closed.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what letters you’re speaking of.”
When the man said nothing further in response to Emily’s statement, merely offered another unintelligible mutter, she reached out to touch his arm, her sudden urgency catching Peter by surprise. “Lord Brimley? What letters?”
“That’s enough!”
The barked command came from the direction of the door, and Peter looked back over his shoulder to find Lord Moreland standing in the entrance to the room, arms crossed over his chest, as he took in the scene before him. Dr. Billings hovered at his elbow. Constable Jenkins was nowhere in sight.
Reacting without hesitation to the viscount’s aggressive stance, Peter swung about and placed himself in front of Emily, leveling the man with a deliberately challenging stare. “Is there a problem, my lord?”
A muscle flexed in the man’s jaw, and Peter took a grim satisfaction in knowing that he was capable of piercing through that cool façade and pricking Moreland where it counted.
But before he had more than a second to bask in that knowledge, Emily got to her feet and moved forward to stand next to him, her swift action telling him more clearly than words that she was hoping to circumvent the confrontation that was brewing. “I’m sorry, Adam. I didn’t mean to pry.”
Her eloquent apology did the trick. The viscount’s face softened and he turned to her, dismissing Peter with one last frosty glare. “Please don’t apologize. I’m sorry for reacting the way I did. But I’m afraid I’ll have to call a halt to the questioning. After last night, I’m sure you can understand why Father needs his rest. And as you may have noticed, he’s not quite himself. I can’t see how he could be of much help.”
“Actually, my lord,” Peter interjected with particular relish, keeping his eyes fastened on the man’s profile, carefully gauging his reaction. “Your father just provided us with a rather good description of the thief.”
“Really?” Blond eyebrows shot upward and the viscount subjected Peter to an enigmatic scrutiny before facing Emily again. “I’m glad to hear that he’s been of help. But I believe it’s time to let him sleep.”
“Of course.” Emily tucked her arm through Peter’s before he could say a word and tugged him toward the door. “Come along, Mr. Quick. I’m sure we have other things we’ll need to accomplish while we’re here.”
Dr. Billings bustled by them to check on his patient, grumbling under his breath, and Peter cast one final look back at the bed. Lord Brimley was already snoring, his thin chest rising and falling under the covers, as his son led them out into the hallway and shut the door.
Once in the silent corridor, Lord Moreland stopped and raked a hand through his hair before facing Emily, his gaze skating over Peter as if he weren’t even there. “Emily, would you mind joining me downstairs in my study for a moment? There is something of a rather personal nature I wish to discuss with you.”
“I—I don’t know.” Emily regarded Peter questioningly over her shoulder. “Perhaps Mr. Quick might need my help.”
To Peter’s observant eye, the viscount’s practiced smile seemed suddenly forced. “Nonsense. Mr. Quick is a Bow Street Runner, after all. I’m sure he can handle himself. Isn’t that right, Mr. Quick?”
Moreland’s query, posed to him in such an unexpected manner, caught Peter a bit off guard. So the man was actually going to acknowledge his existence, was he?
He met the viscount’s stare with an arch one of his own. “Oh, I assure you, my lord, I can handle myself just fine. And there is little left to do but take a look at the late Lady Brimley’s bedchamber and speak with the servants.” He raised an eyebrow. “If that could be arranged?”
“Of course. Mother’s room is right next door to Father’s.” Moreland gestured at the door to the right of Lord Brimley’s. “Feel free to look around all you like, though the constable has already given it a thorough going-over. And on our way downstairs I’ll have a word with the butler and see if he can’t gather the staff for your…interrogation.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Emily still looked uncertain as she examined Peter’s features. There was something in her expression he couldn’t quite read. Something almost pleading. But pleading with him for what? He had no way of knowing. “I still don’t—”
The viscount interrupted her by putting a hand on her arm in supplication. “Please, Emily. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t very important. It won’t take long, and you’ll be able to rejoin Mr. Quick shortly.”
Her gaze went back and forth between the two men, full of equal parts consternation and concern. But she finally gave a reluctant nod. “Very well. If Mr. Quick is certain he doesn’t need me…?”
Now, how to answer that?
“I’m certain.” He fought to keep his face expressionless, and after a moment, Emily allowed the viscount to lead her away.
Peter felt his heart give a particularly brutal squeeze as he watched them start down the stairs, their heads bent close in conversation. He hated the mere thought of the two of them alone together, but he was well aware there was nothing he could do about it.
Emily was not his to dictate to. Not his to protect.
But convincing himself of that was another matter.