Miss Browning,
The earl’s study. Midnight, to night. There will be a discussion it is in your best interest to accidentally overhear. The adjoining sitting room will be unoccupied at that time.
Yours most faithfully,
A concerned friend.
A concerned friend? She flipped the note over, but finding the other side blank, flipped it back and read again. What sort of concerned friend couldn’t be bothered to speak to her in person?
She didn’t recognize the choppy handwriting, but it was clearly that of an adult, which ruled out the possibility of another of Victor’s pranks. Perhaps it came from Miss Heins—she seemed the sort to leave notes. But she would have had to sneak into this room to do so, and Miss Heins didn’t seem to be that sort at all.
Baffled, curious, Mirabelle tapped the paper against her hand and debated. Crawl into bed and ignore it, or assuage her curiosity and go back downstairs? She stood there for a moment more before setting the paper on her desk and slipping quietly from the room.
What harm could there be in a little eavesdropping?
Unaware that their conversation was no longer private, Whit sat at his desk and waited while William fished something out of his pocket.
“Thought you might have an interest in this, after your help breaking up that counterfeiting operation last year.” William leaned forward in his chair to push a ten-pound bank note across the desk.
Whit took it and frowned. He didn’t need to examine it at all to see the forgery. “Not very good, is it? The print is smeared, and this sort of paper could be bought at any stationery shop in London. Sloppy work.”
William nodded. “The bank spotted it as a forgery before the poor blighter who’d brought it could even ask to cash it.”
“Not his doing, I take it?”
William shook his head. “Got it off Lord Osborn as payment for varied and sundry cooking supplies.”
“Lord Osborn? What the devil was
he
doing with a counterfeit bill?”
“Buying sugar and lard, apparently. More importantly, he remembers how he acquired it. He recently sold one of his older carriages to a tavern owner by the name of Mr. Maver.”
“A common enough name,” Whit countered even as a sense of foreboding washed over him.
“In Benton,” William added.
“Bloody hell.” He studied the bill. “And he was certain this was the bill used to pay for the purchase?”
“Dead certain. Said he remembered being a bit surprised the man had a ten-pound bank note at the ready.”
“One would think he’d give the note a better look, then.”
“Yes, well, Lord Osborn isn’t the sharpest blade, and I’ve heard his eyesight’s quite poor.”
Whit gave a noncommittal grunt in response to the statement. “You need me to speak with Lord Osborn, I take it?”
“No, I need you to become acquainted with the source. That bill was used to pay for a very large, very old debt of Baron Eppersly’s.” William leaned forward to tap his finger twice on the desk.
“That’s
where the trail ends, and where I believe it begins.”
Whit brought to mind what little he knew about his neighbor, Mirabelle’s uncle. Lord Eppersly had been a friend of sorts to his father. The closeness of their estates
and their mutual love of the hunt had thrown the two together by chance, and their love of drink had made irrelevant the fact that they had very little else in common.
Dashing, charming, and selfish to the core, Whit’s father had been a man to relish the attention of the beau monde and demimonde alike. He’d lived for the next ball, the next house party, the next scandal.
Lord Eppersly, on the other hand, was too noticeably unattractive, too slow of mind and tongue, and too low in title and wealth to be of interest to the
ton.
The indifference, as far as Whit could tell, was reciprocal. The man’s sole attempt at social interaction these days was centered on a select group of friends who joined him at his estate once or twice a year. If one was to believe the gossip, the men did little but eat, drink, and lie badly about their prowess in the hunt.
Whit knew the staff whispered that Lord Eppersly had become so remarkably fat and lazy in recent years that he no longer truly hunted, preferring instead to sit in a sturdy overstuffed chair on the back lawn and shoot haphazardly at any unfortunate beasts that wandered within range.
He set the note down. “You can’t possibly be serious.”
William frowned at him. “I assure you, I am. I’m told the man’s a living testament to overindulgence.”
“In food and drink,” Whit scoffed. “Not crime.”
“You’ve an explanation for why he should have a counterfeit note, I take it?”
“I suspect he obtained it the same way as Mr. Maver and Lord Osborn.”
“Find the proof. I want you to attend his hunting party—” William held up a hand to forestall an argument. “The baron isn’t a man who puts store in being helpful. Innocent or not, any information we acquire from him will have to be obtained with subtlety.”
“Subterfuge.”
William shrugged. “As you like. Have you developed a sudden aversion for it?”
“No, but I wonder about its necessity in this case. He may not care to be asked the questions, but if it means clearing him of a crime, I can’t imagine he’d refuse to answer.”
“He didn’t. Says he got the note from someone else—”
“Well, there you go.” Whit waved his hand. “Just what I—”
“He claims that someone was the Duke of Rockeforte.”
He dropped his hand. “Ah.”
“He’s either an idiot—which leaves the question as to how he could run a counterfeiting operation—or he’s simply confused. I want you to find out which. The hunting party starts at the end of the week.”
“I’ve not been invited. I can’t very well just pop over…” He trailed off at the sight of an envelope bearing the seal of Baron Eppersly. “How the devil did you come by that?”
“I pilfered it from your mail,” William admitted without a hint of shame. “It would appear the good baron is a creature of habit, or his secretary is. Either way, he’s sent the same invitations to the same people for the last decade.”
“It’s an invitation for my father.”
“It’s an invitation,” William said slowly, “For the Earl of Thurston.”
“Eppersly is likely to argue the point.”
“I doubt it. Too much bother for him. But send an acceptance, and we’ll see.”
Whit nodded. “What of Mirabelle?”
“What of her?”
“She’s expected at her uncle’s tomorrow,” he explained, though he was certain William was aware of it.
“So she is.”
“She can’t go. She can’t—”
“Of course she can,” William argued. “And she will. If you arrive, and she doesn’t, it will cause undo suspicion.”
“The baron will already be suspicious.”
“But not unduly so.”
“William—”
“I’m not taking chances with this mission. If you can’t investigate and keep an eye on the girl at the same time, I’ll find someone who can.”
The insult stung. “I can bloody well keep her safe.”
“Excellent. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m for bed. I’m leaving early for London tomorrow. Be back in a day or two.”
“Safe journey,” Whit grumbled, though at the moment, the vision of William taking a header off his horse wasn’t an entirely unwelcome one. In fact, it was pleasant enough to indulge in a moment longer before getting up to blow out the candles and leave.
He’d have to find a way to explain his acceptance of the baron’s invitation to his family, and to Mirabelle, but tomorrow morning would be early enough for that, he decided as he closed and locked the study door behind him. He didn’t expect any of them to be up at this time of night.
“Good evening, Whittaker.”
He straightened, slowly, and he turned, very slowly—hoping, with every heartbeat that passed, that he had imagined Mirabelle’s cool voice in his right ear. Praying that his overtired brain was merely playing tricks on him and by the time he finished turning around, it would have righted itself, and the hallway would be empty. He wasn’t all that tired, actually, but a man could hope.
Fruitlessly, it seemed, because there she was—standing half in and half out of the doorway one room over with her arms crossed against her chest and her dark eyes glowering.
He swore ripely and reached for her elbow, but she
dodged his grasp and stepped back into the room of her own accord.
“How long have you been sitting in here?” he demanded after following her in and shutting and locking the door behind him. “And not a word about the shut door. I’ll slip out the window if need be.”
“Give me the key to the door first,” she insisted.
Impatient, he dug the key out from where he’d shoved it in his pocket, and held it out to her. “There, now answer my question. How long have—?”
“Long enough,” she interrupted as she snatched the key, “to come to the realization that both you and William Fletcher are cracked.”
Though he hated repeating himself, he swore again. “You’re to forget what you heard. Do you understand? You’re to forget every word—”
“Stark, raving mad.”
He leaned down until they were nearly nose to nose. “Every. Last. Word.”
“No.” She said it quietly, but with a determination that made his stomach clutch even as his temper rose.
“You’ll be reasonable about this, imp—”
“Reasonable?”
She laughed derisively. “You’ve accused my uncle of engaging in counterfeiting and then you have the audacity to begin a lecture on being reasonable? For God’s sake, Whit, you know very well he’s had nothing to do with this. He has neither the skill nor the connections, nor the intelligence to acquire either.”
“If that is the case, you may rest assured I shall find the proof of his innocence.”
She twisted her lips. “And yet, somehow, your words leave me feeling neither rested nor assured.”
“Mirabelle—”
“I’ll deal with this myself.”
He reared back. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’ll not have you sticking your nose in my family’s affairs. Stay here at Haldon. This is my problem, and I’ll handle it.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “And just how do you propose to go about handling it?”
“Same as you, I imagine,” she replied as if the answer was obvious. “I’ll find the proof of his innocence, or the lack of proof of his guilt, as is more likely to be the case.”
“You wouldn’t know what to look for or even where to look for it.”
“And you would, I suppose? Are you such an expert, then?”
“I’ve some experience with these matters, yes.”
“And why is that?” she asked softly. She tilted her head to the side and looked at him through suspicious chocolate eyes. “How is it Mr. William Fletcher has private knowledge of my uncle’s affairs, and why has he asked you to investigate the matter?”
He reached out to grip her chin in his hand. He tilted it straight again. “
That
is none of your concern.”
“You can’t command away my memory of to night’s conversation, Whit.”
“No, but I can influence your response.” His hand drifted to brush the lightest of touches along her cheek. “And I could replace it with other, more interesting, memories.”
She knocked his hand away, but not before he saw the flash of heat in her eyes. “That’s insulting to both of us.”
“It wasn’t intended to be,” he said honestly. He wasn’t interested in insulting, he was interested in extracting her from this mess. “I can’t let you have your way in this, Mirabelle.”
“You needn’t let me have anything. My presence at my uncle’s party is required regardless of your feelings, and there’s no point in the both of us sneaking about. There’s no reason for any of this. My uncle a counterfeiter? It’s absurd. Your mother would agree with me, like as not. She’d…” She stopped in her rant to glare at him. “What are you going
to tell her? She’d never believe you’ve a sudden itch to better know your neighbor.”
“I’ll tell her that you’ve invited me along.”
“And not her?” she asked with a derisive laugh. “Or Kate or Evie—?”
“To a hunting party?”
“It’s no more ridiculous than my inviting you. It’s not
my
party, is it?”
“I know how to concoct a believable story when need be,” he informed her.
“You know how to lie, you mean,” she corrected. “Are you in the habit of deceiving your mother about these sorts of things?”
“I am in the habit of keeping her separate from business that need not concern her.”
“As you would me.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Yes.”
“One could argue that as your mother, anything you do concerns her, and I can certainly argue that a plan to spy on a member of my family concerns me.”
“It does concern you,” he said gently. “I’m not attempting to dismiss what a charge of counterfeiting would mean for you. The damage it could cause the family name.”
She blanched, but when he stepped forward with the intent to comfort, she shook her head and changed the subject. “It will never work. Your mother isn’t going to believe for a second I invited you to my uncle’s hunting party, and my uncle isn’t going to believe you’ve taken it into your head to suddenly become neighborly.”
“As I said, I’ll handle it.”
“It makes more sense for you to stay here and let me—”
“To you perhaps.” He cocked his head at her. “Do you know what I think?”
“No,” she ground out, “but I know how rarely and how poorly. It’s something of a biannual event for you, isn’t it?”
“In a good year,” he responded, unwilling to let the argument slip into the old pattern of traded insults. “I think you’re hiding something.”
“Are you accusing
me
of being a counterfeiter now?” she scoffed.
“You know better than that. Why don’t you want me to go, imp?”
“Because it’s none of your affair,” she snapped quickly.
“It’s more than that,” he said softly. “You haven’t mentioned a single word on your uncle’s behalf except to say he’s incapable of being a criminal. Not a word about his honor.”
“I’m not fond of my uncle, it’s no secret. He is my family, however, and it’s my place, not yours, to clear his name.” She spoke assertively, but her eyes darted away from his, and that telltale sign had his own eyes narrowing in suspicion.