Be My Lover (6 page)

“There’s a whole group of people coming this way, Greg,”
Lord Brandon warned. “I suggest you either take Mrs. Martin for a turn about
the room or out on the dance floor.”

Nodding, Sir Gregory took Emily by the arm and led her over
to the wall where they began their slow journey around the room. Emily caught
sight of Anthony, talking with Miss Stanhope, his attention fully engaged in
what she was saying. The young woman’s serene expression suggested she had no
fear of talking to one of the highest peers in the realm. Perhaps she would do
for Anthony.

Giving her attention back to her escort, Emily asked, “What
were you going to tell me, Sir Gregory?”

His turned his head slightly as if to ensure no one was
within hearing distance. “That none of the rogues believe Anthony’s father
committed suicide, nor do most of his friends. But the evidence was so
overwhelming, as were the allegations against him after his death, we were
forced keep our beliefs to ourselves.”

“What does this have to do with Sir Lennox?” Emily asked.

“Sir Edgar was the physician to Anthony’s father, Sir
Conrad. They had planned to play chess that night. Sir Edgar arrived at Lord
Bradford’s London home minutes after the servants heard a shot in the library.
They had to break down the locked door and found Lord Bradford with his hand
still holding the gun. Sir Edgar examined the body and pronounced it a suicide.
Did you know about the fraudulent investment scheme Lord Bradford allegedly set
up?”

“Some of it,” Emily said. “Did many people lose a great deal
of money?”

“Several,” he admitted, nodding to another strolling couple.
“Sir Charles Abernathy lost five hundred pounds and is still furious about it.
He confronted Anthony this morning at Tattersall’s, but I wouldn’t mention to
Anthony I told you that. Two or three others lost around a hundred pounds, but
no one as much as Abernathy. Anthony refused to believe his father had cheated
anyone or led them into dangerous investments, and so refused to make
compensations to the investors. They’re not going to be happy when they learn
Anthony has returned and, rest assured, if they don’t already know it,
Abernathy will be sure to tell them.”

Her heart aching, Emily said, “Where was Anthony when his
father died?”

Sir Gregory sighed. “Coming back from their estate in Kent.
As unreasonable as it is, Anthony associates Sir Edgar with his father’s death.
If Sir Edgar had arrived sooner…”

He did not need to finish his sentence. “Poor Anthony,”
Emily murmured. “To come home and find such a tragedy waiting for him.”

“It was almost as bad for Sir Lennox,” Sir Gregory
continued. “His only daughter Miranda was being courted by the Earl of
Stockett’s eldest son. The scandal could have ended the courtship, but at least
that part of the story has a happy ending.”

“Did Sir Lennox’s daughter marry Stockett’s heir?”

“Yes. There they are now.” Sir Gregory pointed toward a
corner where the physician talked with a young couple.

“They look very happy,” Emily said. “I’m glad Anthony has
friends like you and Lord Brandon to support him.”

“And now he has you,” Sir Gregory said. “It should be an
interesting Season.”

“Especially since I’m going to help him find a bride,” Emily
said, hoping to dispel any notion this man might have about her own intentions
toward Anthony.

“Indeed?” Sir Gregory tipped his head toward the dancers
taking their places for another set. “Perhaps he’s already found her.”

Anthony was leading Miss Stanhope out on the floor for a new
dance and wistfulness tugged at Emily’s heart. Like with her, Anthony was wasting
no time.

“Shall we join them?” Sir Gregory asked.

Putting the wistfulness into the deepest part of her heart,
Emily gave him her brightest smile. “Of course.”

Anthony Dyson is back in town.
The man smacked the
windowpane, rattling the glass in its frame.
After all this time, why now
?

It had been a year since the old duke’s death. A death the
man had been sure to make look like suicide. The ensuing scandal with its
accusations of lying and fraud had driven Anthony Dyson and his younger sisters
to the Continent and kept them there. What had brought him back?

And what in the hell had happened to the youth he had seen
running through the garden beyond the French doors just after he shot the old
duke? Dyson had put up struggle, but too much fencing had sprained his right
arm, making it all the easier to slip behind him, force the gun into his right
hand and pull the trigger. But the youth had vanished like summer’s smoke. The
months spent trying to find him—not to mention looking over his own shoulder,
waiting for a summons from the authorities—had been maddening and
nerve-fraying.

Recalling last year’s events, he made a quick mental
calculation, trying to remember if Anthony’s sisters were old enough to make
their come-outs. As daughters of a duke and now sisters of one, they would be
very eligible, indeed when the time came. And even if the stench of scandal
still clung to Dyson, every woman with marriageable daughters would have him in
her matrimonial crosshairs. After all, a duke was a duke.

But would Anthony try proving his persistent claim that his
father’s death
wasn’t
suicide? Any attempts to prove otherwise would be
taken for the misguided beliefs of a son who still mourned the loss of a
beloved father and discounted as such.

He hoped.

He was not without influence and, while he had a few
detractors, was usually regarded as an amiable man. The pile of invitations on
his desk spoke to that. He would use his charm to be sure he was invited to the
same events as Anthony and attend every one of them.

Moving to his desk, he sat, read over the first invitation
and penned a reply before ringing for the footman. After giving instructions
for its delivery first thing tomorrow, he returned to the window and gazed out
at the quiet London street. The Season would provide him an excellent and
foolproof way to study Dyson unobserved and guess his plans.

And decide whether or not there would be reason to kill
again.

* * * * *

“So what did you think of Miss Crawford?” Emily’s finger ran
down the list in her hand.

“What did
you
think?” Anthony continued working her
brush through her curls. Soft and light, they caressed his hands like a bolt of
raw silk waiting to be woven. Recalling how they felt spilling over his skin,
his cock hardened in anticipation.

“She talks a great deal, but that might be from nerves,”
Emily commented. “Many young girls chatter when they’re nervous.”

“Really?”

Her glance met his in the dressing table mirror. “Oh come,
Anthony. You have sisters. You should know that.”

“That’s true,” he conceded, leaning down to kiss the top of
her head. “Grace and Tabitha are champion chatterers. And gigglers. Who’s next
on the list?”

Larissa Studer, second daughter to Baron Carlisle. Rather
tall and rather thin.”

“Too thin, I think,” Anthony commented. “A man likes to have
something to get his hands around. Something curvy.”

“Well then, Abigail Gloucester would be perfect.” Emily
pointed at the third name on the list. “She’s
very
curvy.”

“Good Lord, Emily, Abigail Gloucester just made her bow a
week ago. She’s a
child.
”

“But she’s from a family of nine children,” Emily said. “And
according to Jocelyn, her married sisters have all produced three children
each. That suggests she could certainly provide an heir as well as more to
spare.”

“That may be,” Anthony agreed, laying down the brush. “But a
man wants to be able to talk to his wife about things. I can’t see myself
discussing the day’s events with Abigail Gloucester.”

She sighed. “Then who do you want?”

“You. Right now. In the bed.”

Swatting his hand, she asked, “What about Margaret
Stanhope?”

“The Season just started. That gives me almost two months to
find the right bride. And even though I find Miss Stanhope the most charming
young woman I’ve met since my return—with the exception of you, of course—I’ve
been back in London less than a week. One shouldn’t be too hasty. After all,
marriage is forever. You don’t want me to marry some silly little twit, do
you?”

A quiet rap on the closed door interrupted Emily’s answer.
Anthony stifled an oath and pointed at the bed. “Wait for me.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” She touched two fingers to her forehead
in a quick salute.

Anthony padded across the room, enjoying the soft weave of
the carpet against his feet, and wondered if he could convince Emily to make
love on it provided they used pillows and blankets. That would no doubt be
another first for her.

Pulling the door open just enough to peer into the sitting
room and find his valet, he whispered, “This better be important, Davis.”

“You have callers, Your Grace.” Davis returned his whisper.

“Tell them I’ve gone to bed.”

“They say it’s a matter of great importance, sir.”

I don’t care if Napoleon has escaped and is riding through
the streets of London. Tell them—”

“It’s regarding your father, sir.”

Shock hit Anthony hard and fast, chasing away the warmth of
the room. Clutching the door, he stared at his servant’s tight-lipped grimace.
“My father?” he repeated. “Who the hell are these guests?”

“Mister Amos Quincy and another gentleman unknown to me,
sir,” Davis supplied. “I’ve put them in the Common Room downstairs. What shall
I tell them?”

Anthony gathered his reeling thoughts into a logical
framework. “That I’ll join them in five minutes. Thank you, Davis.”

Davis nodded and Anthony closed the door, fighting the urge
to sag against it. Dear God, after all this time what had Amos uncovered? Cold
sweat broke out on the back of his neck and he pulled his robe more tightly
about him. Perhaps at long last his family would know peace.

He took a moment to steady himself before returning to his
room. “Emily?” he called. “I’m sorry to leave you, but I must meet with—”

The soft rhythm of a sleeper’s breathing stopped his words
and he halted by the bed. Emily lay curled among the sheets, lost in deep
slumber, the list of eligibles still in her hand. He leaned down to gently push
back a lock of hair covering her eyes and she shifted ever so slightly, a
dreamy smile raising the corners of her mouth. A bolt of tenderness shot
through him, prompting him to feather a kiss across her forehead.

Why of all the women of my acquaintance, should she be
the only one who can’t give me a child? She would be a splendid duchess. But I
promised Father our line would continue.

After dressing as quietly as he could, Anthony left his
suite. Downstairs in the Common Room, someone—Davis, no doubt—had lit a fire.
Shadows danced in the flickering light, making the furniture appear enormous. A
bottle of Calvados and three snifters were set on a nearby table. Two men, one
younger than the other, stood waiting in front of the hearth.

“Amos,” Anthony greeted the older man as he joined them by
the fire. “You’ve come about my father.”

Amos Quincy’s family, while not of noble birth, had made
their fortune in a variety of things over the centuries. Like Greg Keller, Amos
had been tapped by the Foreign Office years ago to “find out things” for the
Crown. Using that same talent, he had started his own business to help those in
need of information for matters both personal and private. Rumors abounded as
to what he knew about the
ton
’s secrets and how much. Anthony had never
thought he would need his friend’s services until his father died. The last
time they had spoken face to face was just before Anthony boarded the ship for
Florence, when he had charged Amos to look into his father’s personal life and
send him answers—no matter how unsavory. Letters had arrived every few months,
detailing searches that had yielded nothing.

Until now.

Amos inclined his head, his russet-red hair gleaming in the
firelight. “I have,” he said. Gesturing at the other man, he said, “This Joseph
Mallory, one of my agents.”

Mallory bowed. “Your Grace.”

Anthony waved them in the direction of the chairs grouped
before the fire. After pouring their drinks, he filled his own glass and sat
across from them. “My father,” he said simply. “What have you learned?”

At Amos’ nod, Mallory said, “There’s talk in criminal London
since your return, Your Grace. Talk it wasn’t suicide that ended your father’s
life, but murder.”

I knew it. By heaven, I knew it.

Anthony gripped the stem of the glass. “What else?”

“That’s all, Your Grace,” Mallory said ruefully. “At the
moment it’s just chatter, but Mr. Quincy thought you’d want to know.”

“Mallory is my best agent, Your Grace.” Amos fell into the
formal address he used when others not in their inner circle were present.
“Criminal London knows him as a petty thief and scrivener with no idea he works
for me. His ability to slip into dens of vice and rookeries without anyone
being the wiser has been invaluable, so we must be cautious to keep him safe. I
can’t afford to lose him because of undue haste.”

“I understand,” Anthony said. “You’ll send me reports as you
are able?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Amos finished his brandy and the
other men did the same, returning their glasses to the table. Mallory bowed and
exited the room first, closing the door behind him.

Anthony waited for the click of the latch before asking,
“You’re sure he’s trustworthy?”

“Absolutely,” Amos assured. “It might take more time than
you’d like, Anthony, but you did just return. If the truth is out there, I’ll
find it. You have my solemn word.”

Accepting his friend’s offered hand, Anthony said, “I know
you will, Amos. Thank you.”

“And you be careful, as well,” Amos warned, buttoning his
great coat. “If criminal London is already talking, there’s no telling what the
killer might do.”

“Let him come,” Anthony said grimly. “I’ll make
him
wish he were dead.”

After Amos departed, Anthony poured another measure of
Calvados. Its taste of sweet apples warmed his tongue while Amos’ promise
hammered into his brain.

If the truth is out there, I’ll find it. You have my
solemn word.

Anthony put away his glass and returned to his suite. Emily
still slept, a smile on her face. Stripping off his clothing, Anthony climbed
into bed and lay beside her, wrapping his arms around her waist. She murmured
something and settled deeper among the sheets. The essence perfuming her skin
was as comforting as a lover’s sigh and he smiled against her hair. First thing
tomorrow, he would teach her about making love before breakfast.