The Emperor's Conspiracy (13 page)

“You’re talking about this like it’s not a problem no more.” Kit cocked his head to the side.

“Lady Holliday’s husband died yesterday. Edward brought the news this afternoon. Unless Frethers is completely mad, he’ll not touch the boys now, without the father complicit.”

Kit spun a full circle, deep in thought. “Then why’s there new watchers?” He was talking to himself, and Charlotte grabbed his shoulders to stop him.

“What do you mean, new watchers?”

“The boy’s gone. But there are men watching now. Mostly wounded ex-soldiers.”

“The stepfather probably doesn’t know Lady Holliday’s husband is dead. Edward plans to tell him this evening.”

Kit gave a nod. But there was something in his face. A panic, which sent a thin, cruel hand of fear groping for her heart.

“What is it?”

“It’s Luke.” He looked away. “He thought—” Kit scrubbed
his hands over his face. “He thought it was the nob, Lady Holliday’s brother, watching you. And wiv ’im following us the other night …” His words trailed off to nothing, sucked into the humid, damp hum of London on a high summer night.

“What is Luke going to do?” She spoke each word as if they were ripped from her, as if she did not have the air.

“I’m sorry.” When Kit turned back to her, his eyes were stark with fear. “He’s plannin’ to take care of ’im tonight.”

G
erald lived in a very carefully chosen house. Edward knew his stepfather had always been one to carefully weigh the odds, and Summer House was the perfect balance. Elegant and with a very good address, to make it eminently acceptable to polite society, but small and sophisticated, rather than large and domineering, with a much smaller price tag as a result.

He’d made it easy enough for Edward to pay for this little jewel, tucked neatly between two larger town houses.

Perhaps the only thing that had stuck in his stepfather’s craw was that Edward had bought the house in his own name. Gerald had been barely able to grit out his thanks when he worked out that the house was not his, free and clear.

Edward liked the not-so-subtle reminder to his stepfather that if he was pushed too far, he could push back.

Push the old man onto the streets, if he so chose.

There was no way the bastard was getting a house out of him.

Gerald’s greatest misstep was his treatment of Edward in
his youth. Perhaps his financial situation hadn’t been so dire in those days, and he hadn’t foreseen a time when he would need to rely on Edward for his upkeep. Or perhaps he thought he could cow Edward permanently with his treatment. Forever hold him under his thumb.

Most likely, he simply couldn’t help himself. He was cruel and manipulative by nature.

He was no doubt unable to understand how things had gone so wrong for him.

Finally, reluctantly, Edward climbed the stairs and rang the bell, waited for the quick, efficient footsteps of Clavers, his stepfather’s butler.

Clavers knew all too well who paid his salary, and welcomed Edward with what for him was an effusive greeting. “Good evening, my lord. His lordship is in the library. I will announce you at once.”

Edward was forced to look around the hallway as he waited for Clavers to return. The paintings on the walls were familiar. Gerald had brought them with him into Edward’s family home when he’d married Edward’s mother. He’d been forced to cram them all into the room he’d taken for his study in those days.

Edward recalled the times he’d stood, gazing at the dour-faced men and women, the children in stiff and silly poses—a host of Gerald’s disapproving dead relatives—while his stepfather had dressed him down or given him a beating.

He turned away from them. They should not have the power to bring back the worst years of his life with such clarity.

He faced the front entrance, and while he stared, cold and sick with himself, he saw an envelope pushed under the doorway. Heard the fumble of someone just outside, and then nothing.

With a quick look in the direction of the library, he walked forward and picked the letter up, turning it in his hands. There was no address on the front, just the words “Lord Hawthorne” scribbled in poor handwriting.

His stepfather had been paying someone to watch him, and Edward wondered if this was some kind of report. As he heard the light tip-tap of Clavers returning, he hesitated a moment, then slipped the letter into the inner pocket of his jacket.

Whatever he’d thought to do, and he hadn’t been sure, he was unable to hand the letter over now. The question was whether he’d find some way to leave it behind, or slip it under the door as he left. Or keep it.

He wanted to keep it. To read it. To find out what was truly behind this new twist on his relationship with Gerald. And then again, it was no more than Gerald had done, so many times in his childhood.

He put the dilemma aside as he followed Clavers down the passage. He had time to decide what to do.

Clavers opened the door to the library and stood back for him, and Edward murmured his thanks as he stepped through. Clavers shut it behind him.

In his youth this moment, when he was alone with his stepfather, the door shutting behind him with an ominous
click, had left him both sick with dread and shaking with fury. He had hated Gerald with all the passion he could muster but was all too aware of the power Gerald held over him.

The chains of the past were long broken, but Edward couldn’t help the spike of intense dislike and anger that surged through him with that final snick of the door handle.

“Edward, not like you to arrive unplanned like this. What is it?” Gerald sat in a plush armchair, gouty foot raised on a footstool, with the doors out to the back garden open to let in what little breeze there was. The cool the rain had brought with it this afternoon was lush and calming as it mingled with the scent of roses and jasmine, and it stretched green, fresh tendrils into the room.

“Bad news.” Edward stood back from Gerald and did not greet him otherwise. He had long ago made peace with his inability to speak meaningless inanities. He stayed away from balls for the same reason.

Gerald raised his brows and waited.

“Geoffrey is dead. The magistrate sent word to me today.”

Gerald half rose, then sank back into his chair. “How terrible. Is Emma all right?”

Edward stared at him, trying to work out why his senses, always on full alert with Gerald, were screaming at him. “She is holding up, being strong for the boys.”

“Will she come to London?” Gerald said after a moment.

“She’s already in London. Has been for more than a week.” Edward crossed his arms over his chest. “Didn’t Geoffrey tell you?”

Gerald froze, only for the briefest of moments, but Edward caught it. “Why would he do that?”

“Emma says you were in touch with him often, and helped advise him on investments from time to time. I would have thought he would have let you know—if he were to tell anyone—that his wife had left him.”

Gerald said nothing. Then, finally, coldly: “You were never able to master the art of social discretion. It will do neither Emma, nor Geoffrey’s memory, any good to go around saying things like that.”

“So you did know?”

“No. I didn’t. I had no idea Emma was here in London.”

“Interesting.” Edward dropped his hands to his sides, quiet satisfaction at the way he’d worked Gerald up coursing through him. This shouldn’t be so pleasant, but by God, it was. And he knew, unequivocally, that his stepfather was lying. “Aren’t you going to ask how Geoffrey died?” That is what had first set the bell ringing in his head. Gerald had not asked how a young man in his prime, who was not ill, had died.

As if realizing his blunder, Gerald feigned tiredness. Closing his eyes and leaning back into his armchair. “Of course. I’m not myself. How did he die?”

“He was shot.”

That provoked a response from the gargoyle. His eyes flew open, and he looked at Edward with those cold, muddy brown eyes. “Shot?”

“While hunting.”

“The fellow responsible must feel terrible.”

Edward shifted, aware that his stepfather had not offered him a seat. He perched on the arm of a burgundy-and cream-striped sofa, stretching his legs out in front of him, and noted Gerald’s mouth tighten. “Not terrible enough to come forward. There is talk of foul play.” Edward was not certain why he was taking this line with Gerald. He knew the magistrate would be only too happy to call this an accident. But then Gerald spoke, and he knew exactly why he’d taken this tack.

“Foul play?” The quizzical tone was overdone. Perhaps someone else would have missed it, but Edward had dedicated a good deal of time to understanding every nuance of Gerald’s face. It had prepared him for, if not saved him from, many an unpleasant situation.

Edward shrugged. “Early days, of course.”

“Of course.” Gerald eyed him with dislike. Now that Gerald’s ill will couldn’t harm him, Edward found himself trying to earn it at every turn.

He stood, trying to shake off the ghosts of the past and look at Gerald through as unbiased an eye as he was capable.

Gerald had aged badly. He’d been handsome when he’d married Edward’s mother, and the strong bones and high forehead were still there, the hair perhaps not as thick, but not bad. It was his eyes and mouth that Edward thought of as his giveaways. They were hard, cruel.

And he sat looking like a rat in its hole, eyes glinting, vibrating with the need for action.

Edward shook his head. So much for lack of bias.

Not that he was wrong. But he would never be able to see Gerald without feeling something. Perhaps the pure rage and fear had worn away, but a patina of both remained, staining him.

“Well, good evening. I thought you would like to know of Geoffrey’s death before it makes its way to the papers.”

Gerald’s lips creased into a thin, pursed line. “I would hope you would have wanted me to know, anyway.”

Edward didn’t reply. He turned for the door.

“Ask Emma to come and visit me.” Gerald spoke to his back. “She’s staying with you?”

“No. She’s staying with a friend. And I will not ask her. I don’t want her boys anywhere near you.” He had never said this to Gerald before, and was surprised to hear himself say it now. But he had long thought it.

“What?” Gerald’s surprise was evident, and Edward schooled his face as he turned to face him.

“You are a sadist and a bully. I don’t want you near my nephews. I don’t trust you with them.”

Gerald’s eyes widened. “That’s preposterous. Have you gone mad?”

He didn’t answer.

After a moment, Gerald leaned back and looked at him with open dislike. “It’s not up to you.”

“As Emma’s brother, it is. I’m the children’s legal guardian now. And you will not see them. If Emma wants to see you on her own, that’s her business.”

They both knew Emma would come, out of guilt, if nothing else.

Edward turned away again and walked out, aware of Gerald’s eyes on his back.

If Gerald hadn’t needed Edward’s money, if he could have gotten away with it, he would bet his stepfather would have pulled out a pistol and shot him between the shoulder blades.

Edward stepped out into the cool night air. He’d sent his coachman home when he was dropped off. He knew how this meeting would go, all too well. Knew he would need to walk and think afterward.

He closed his eyes briefly against the soothing breeze that seemed by some miracle to carry only the scent of rain and roses tonight, rather than the usual London odors.

A coach rumbled past, a little bedraggled and out of place to be in this end of town. It rolled to a stop a little way ahead of him.

The coachman jumped down and opened the door, and Edward wondered why they were getting out on a corner, rather than in front of a house, although if this was a light-skirt come to sneak in to see a lover, or a man coming back from the brothels, that would be explanation enough.

He walked past without looking within. He didn’t see the sack coming over his head until it was too late.

17

T
he gin house at Tothill Road was silent. No wild shouting and singing tonight. It was as unkempt as any building in the street—unremarkable, as it was supposed to be.