“I’ll be down the hall if you should require anything,” Diane said into the silence, evidently reading her discomfort.
“That’s not necessary,” Emily returned. “Perhaps if I might just … whisper a name to you, Lord Haybury? And if you happen to know that the person to whom this name belongs is in London, you could nod? Or shake your head if this person is not in Town?”
The humor in Haybury’s green-eyed gaze had faded, the curved line of his mouth flattening. “I could do that, Emily,” he said aloud, and walked up to lean one hip on the arm of the chair in front of her.
While Diane watched, clearly curious, Emily took a deep breath, swallowed, and leaned close to the ear the marquis presented her. Even so it still took her a moment to form her mouth into breathing the word. “Ebberling,” she finally murmured, so quietly she wasn’t entirely certain he’d heard her.
For the space of several very hard beats of her heart the marquis stayed motionless.
You see, you ninny,
she told herself,
he’s going to shake his head and you’ll feel foolish, and then you’ll worry that someone knows the name for no damned good reason. Idiot.
Just as she’d begun to think that she would have to say the name a second time, Haybury straightened to look at her, though she wasn’t certain for what his keen, cynical gaze might be searching. Then, very slowly, he nodded.
The world went white around her. Her blood turned to ice. She must have fainted, because the next thing she could recall was Lord Haybury straightening from seating her in a chair, and Diane bringing her a glass of whisky. “Oh,” she stammered. “Oh.”
“What the devil?” the marchioness asked, her expression concerned. “What name did she ask you, Oliver?”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Well, I’m not going to tell you that, now am I?”
That answer calmed Emily more than anything else could possibly have done. Logically she’d known that Haybury would keep her secret; otherwise she never would have risked speaking the name. But knowing and hearing the proof of her trust being justified were two very different things. Even so, she couldn’t remain utterly silent. Three years ago she’d given her word.
“Diane, when you hired me,” she said slowly, taking a grateful sip of the whisky, “you asked me to promise you something.”
“I recall,” the marchioness returned.
“I don’t,” Haybury put in.
“You weren’t to be trusted back then,” his wife returned without heat. She lifted a gracefully curved eyebrow at Emily. “Shall I?”
Emily nodded. “If you please.”
“I promised Emily that I would never ask her about her past if she would promise to come to me if her past became her present.”
“Ah. And this person is of your past?” the marquis asked.
“Yes. I don’t know that he has any notion of making trouble for me at all, really,” Emily said, every word wrenching at her insides, “but if he were to … see me, or suspect I was anywhere about, I—it would not go well.” That was as nebulous as she could make it without outright lying to the woman who’d likely saved her life.
“Then he shall be banned from the club,” Diane stated without hesitating.
“I think that might make him suspicious.” Emily
knew
it would make him suspicious, in fact. Another stab of ice slid down her spine. She would have to leave the club, and then he would surely be able to find her.
“Do you think this person has an inkling that you’re here?” Haybury queried, walking to the open liquor tantalus by the door and pouring himself a glass.
“I’m not certain.” That answer depended on discovering whether Ebberling had hired Westfall, and whether she was the bauble he sought. “I don’t think he possibly could. I’ve taken steps to not be found.”
“Then we’ll keep you out of the public areas of the club for as long as this person is in Town. We will tell the other girls and the Helpful Men that they are not to speak your name, and that they are never to have heard of you.”
Emily twisted in the chair to face Diane. “As long as you’ll allow me to remain hidden, the rest won’t be necessary.”
Now Haybury was eyeing her again. “Emily Portsman isn’t your true name.”
“No.” She glanced at Diane again. “I told you that when you hired me, did I not?”
“You did. I’d forgotten. Might he ask after the actual you?”
“Very likely. But other than Sophia and Jenny, I don’t think anyone knows I’m not brown-haired Emily Portsman.”
The marchioness nodded. “Jenny is safe.” She grimaced. “I won’t demand it, but it would be easier if I had this man’s name for myself, and to give to her.”
For the first time in over three years, tears gathered in Emily’s eyes. Kindness. She’d known of it, but had rarely experienced it. And to hear it now … “Ebberling,” she said as clearly as she could, the word tasting foul in her mouth. “The Marquis of Ebberling.” And since she’d said it aloud, she needed to continue. “It would likely be better for everyone if I simply left. Then no subterfuge would be required.”
“My dear,” Haybury said, glancing at his wife and then leaning down to plant a kiss on Emily’s forehead, “if there’s one thing we do better than running a gentlemen’s club, it’s subterfuge. You will remain here.”
“But you don’t even know why he’s looking for me. If he’s looking for me.”
“But I know you,” Diane countered. “Not Emily or Jane or whatever your given name is.
You.
And that is sufficient for me.” She clapped her hands together. “Now. This began after you … conversed with Lord Westfall. Is he involved?”
“Do we get to ban him, at least?” Haybury seconded, obviously attempting to lighten the mood. “I haven’t banned anyone since Fenton and Greaves, and we had to let Greaves back in.”
“I don’t know for certain if Westfall is involved,” Emily replied. “I do think that if he is, banning him now would make him look directly at me.” She squared her shoulders. What in the world had she done, sleeping with him? And why did she still wish to do so again? “I would prefer to discover a bit more about him before any further action is taken,” she said, half to herself.
“You don’t wish to avoid him, then?” Diane sounded dubious.
“Just the opposite, actually,” she returned, something electric traveling down her spine. “If he does know something, and if he is working with Ebberling, I mean to discover it. Without him discovering anything at all about me.”
“That’s a dangerous path, Emily,” Haybury warned her quietly.
“My life has been a dangerous path. If I’m not to run, then I need to know where the pitfalls and traps lie.” And that, at least, was the absolute truth.
“I don’t like it,” the marchioness said, finally giving in and pouring herself a glass of whisky, as well, “but I do understand. Go carefully. And while I hate to add to your troubles, there is one rule at The Tantalus Club.”
Emily nodded again as she drained her glass. “Don’t injure the club. I know. And I won’t. If that should become likely, I will leave. I swear it. But if I retreat from Westfall now without knowing precisely what he might be up to, I will
have
to leave.”
Once her employers had assured themselves that she was completely recovered, they allowed her to return to the employees’ private part of the Tantalus. She hadn’t told them everything, and it meant a great deal to her that they hadn’t asked. They trusted her, and she would not betray them. No matter what.
That decision didn’t explain, however, why, despite the worry and the dread over Ebberling’s abrupt arrival in London after three years away, she was looking forward to her next meeting with the Earl of Westfall. And not because of the sex. Well, not entirely because of the sex. If she was to be destroyed, she meant to learn all the facts first. Westfall might be innocent in this, or he might only be playing at innocence while he sought Rachel Newbury. He wouldn’t find her. What he would find, however, was a great deal more than he had likely bargained for.
* * *
“You’re a hypocrite,” Laurence announced from the balcony overlooking Teryl House’s foyer.
Nathaniel continued shedding his gloves and hat, handing them over to Franks. “And why is that?” he asked, the rather pleasant mood he’d been in beginning to dissolve.
“You had sex with that Emily chit, after you bellowed at me for doing the same thing at university.”
“I didn’t break any rules,” Nate returned, shrugging out of his caped greatcoat and retrieving his cane from the butler. “And you are nineteen. So shut up.”
“Well, that’s not your usual brilliant argument.”
“Isn’t it? Perhaps because I’m tired and my foot hurts.”
“‘My foot hurts?’” Laurie snapped back at him. “Of course your foot hurts. You—”
“Had a horse step on it,” he cut in before his brother could announce to the entire household that he put a button in his boot to make himself limp. Half-wit.
“Yes, a horse. A stupid horse stepped on it. Which isn’t my fault, I’d like to point out.”
As Nathaniel climbed the stairs, Laurie retreated in the direction of the library, though Nate doubted his brother meant to go read a book. No, he wanted a chance to yell in private. Very well. “In the library. Now,” he said aloud, to be certain Laurence would keep his mouth closed until then.
Once they were ensconced behind the thick oak doors of the large Teryl House library, Nathaniel walked to the fireplace and sat in one of the comfortable chairs there. Those in his business did not share information lightly; the ones who did were generally not alive long enough to learn from the mistake. But, as he kept telling himself, he wasn’t in that business any longer. It still trailed him, and would for the remainder of his life, but he was now an earl, a respectable and very visible member of the aristocracy, and an older brother who had neglected his sibling for a great deal too long. The fact that it was for Laurie’s own safety didn’t signify—the deed had been done.
“Sit down,” he said, when his brother seemed determined to stomp up and down the library floor until the shelves came tumbling down.
“I’m not going to be yelled at by you when I’ve done nothing wrong,” Laurence returned, though he did alter his course and drop into the chair on the far side of the hearth.
“Do you truly wish to help me with my latest bauble hunt?” Nate asked. “If you do, I have to know that I can trust in your discretion. That you won’t go shouting secrets down the stairs if I ask you to do something you don’t like.”
Laurie’s cheeks reddened. “I wouldn’t have said anything.”
“Yes you would have. My question to you, however, is whether I can trust you now?”
Sitting forward, Laurie put his elbows on his knees. “You may trust me with anything, Nate,” he said earnestly. “I swear it.”
This was not going to end well,
Nathaniel decided, but at some point he would need to entrust certain information to his brother for the good of both of them. And since Laurie had already stumbled and given away information at The Tantalus Club, the lad needed to be included anyway. This could be a good test of how much Laurence could be allowed to know later. He took a breath.
“Very well,” he said aloud. “I was hired to find a necklace.”
“A … well, that’s dull,” his brother exclaimed, sitting back again. “You embarrassed me in front of that pretty faro dealer and Lord Cleves—when I was ahead by thirty quid, I might add—for a necklace?”
Stifling his urge to snap back, Nathaniel picked up a small carved elephant—his late cousin seemed to have collected the things from everywhere, and he’d taken something of a liking to them himself—and turned it over in his hands. “That would have been shoddy of me,” he conceded, “if that was all I was after.”
“There’s more?”
“There would be, if you would shut up for a moment and let me finish.”
“Oh. Right. Shutting up, then.”
Nathaniel shook his head, but set the elephant aside. By age nineteen he’d done some things that still gave him nightmares, but those same things were what allowed Laurie to be … well, to be a lad of nineteen. And on his way to becoming a better man than his brother, if he could learn to manage some discretion and better timing.
“The necklace was taken by a woman who is also suspected in a murder. In fact, the necklace is secondary; a means by which I may find the murderess.” He paused, but to his credit Laurie kept his mouth closed. “Now. I’m prepared to tell you what I know and to enlist your assistance, since you so kindly blabbed about my bauble search in the Tantalus, but only if you give me your word that this stays between us. Completely.”
“I sw—”
“No. Think about it for a moment. No mentioning what you’ve been up to in letters to your friends, or bragging about any of it when you return to Oxford. No pillow talk about missing gems or how important your work has been. Not now, and not in ten years. Never.”
For a long moment Laurence looked at him, his light green eyes for once solemn. “That’s how it is for you, isn’t it?” he finally said. “You’ve done some heroic things for England, but you can never whisper a word about them. Instead you walk about with a false limp and false spectacles and rumpled clothes, because that’s all you know how to do any longer.”
Shifting, Nathaniel sent his brother a brief scowl. “I don’t think that’s
all
I know how to do, but yes, I’m accustomed to being other than who I am.” And who he actually was, was a question he couldn’t quite seem to answer any longer. But that was neither here nor there. “But the point of this is, can you do what I ask? Are you willing to do what I ask? And consider it carefully, Laurie.”
“I—”
“Carefully,”
he repeated. “I’ll ask for your answer after dinner tonight. Now go away and let me think.”
His brother stood again. “I don’t need to think about it, because you’re my brother and I’d do anything for you, but have it your way. If you want me to think this vow is difficult or distasteful, so be it. I’ll tell you yes after dinner.”
With that he left the library, closing the door quietly behind him. Nathaniel sat where he was, turning his gaze to the orange and yellow crackling blaze in the fireplace. He couldn’t say that he and Laurie had never dealt well together—or that they had—for the simple reason that he barely knew his brother. Yes, back when he’d been fifteen and Laurence had been six they’d played. Or rather, Laurie had played, and Nate had tolerated being stuck with wooden swords and having pebbles catapulted at him. When their father, George Stokes, had died two years later after doing something as dangerous as walking through his garden in the summer sun, they’d been left with very little income and with Nathaniel as the one to support the household.