Chapter 32
If you should ever pause to look back, I pray you
won't think too harshly of me. . . .
It was midmorning the next day when Penfeld knocked on Emily's door. "His Grace requests your presence in the study," he announced.
Did the valet's voice sound strangely thick, or was it her own overwrought imagination? she wondered.
"Tell His Highness I shall hasten to answer his summons," she replied.
She stole a look out the window as she dressed. The same underfootman who had been lurking in the shrubs all morning was still there, whistling under his breath and studying the slumbering foliage as if his life depended on it. Emily took her brimming pitcher from its basin, eased up the sash, and poured a stream of wash water down on his unsuspecting head.
"Damn it all!" he sputtered, shaking himself like a sheepdog. "What in the deuced hell-"
"Hello, Jason," Emily called out. "I'm terribly sorry. I didn't realize you were down there."
His gaze shot up to the window; a sheepish smile transformed his freckled countenance. "Quite all right, Miss Emily. I was just inspecting the roses for-"
"Blight?" she suggested.
"Aye, blight!" he quickly agreed. "Been a bad year for it."
"Let's be thankful I discovered you before I emptied my night convenience," she said airily, slamming
the window shut.
When she glanced out again, the dripping Jason was watching her window from the safer distance of
the drive. She opened the door to find Penfeld still standing stiffly outside of it.
"I waited to escort you, miss," he explained.
She gave his starched collar a brittle flip. "They're dressing the prison guard with a bit more flair these days."
Refusing to rise to her bait, he accompanied her down the stairs to the study, where she marched in and stood in military posture before Justin's massive pedestal desk. He glanced at her over his spectacles,
then went back to his scrawling.
His pen scratched across a ledger bound in cloth. "I hope after our talk yesterday, you better understand why I couldn't face you sooner."
"I understand quite clearly. You preferred to stay in New Zealand, wallowing in self-pity and flaying yourself alive with guilt. Far be it for me to deny you your pathetic entertainments."
Justin brought his pen to a grating halt and looked up. The feminine allure of Emily's cream wool frock and ribboned curls was belied by the steely angles of her shoulders.
He laid the pen down with a deliberate motion. "I realize I have no right to ask anything of you, but I need your assistance."
She bent over the desk. "Mending, perhaps? Does your hair shirt have a tear in it?"
He shot to his feet and slammed his palms on the desk. "No. My whip for self-flagellation is too short to reach my back. Although that shouldn't be a problem as long as your venomous tongue is available to
lash me."
He was close enough to count every freckle on her pert little nose. The wicked sparkle of her eyes made his breath come at odds with itself. The last thing he had expected to feel toward her was anger. He was stunned by how invigorating it felt. Driving his fingers through his hair, he sank back into the chair.
"I need your help nailing Nicky. There's only one way he could have known I killed your father. The bastard was there. He saw the whole thing. He turned the natives on us, believing we'd both be killed, then took the mine for himself."
Emily propped her hip on the edge of the desk and picked up a glass paperweight, toying with it. "Charming fellow. And you thought there were no snakes in New Zealand."
"Perhaps I should have chosen my friends with more care."
She set the paperweight down with a gentle thump. "Perhaps my father should have as well."
He let that one pass with only a dark glance. "The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced it was Nicky's plan from the beginning. He was the one who spotted David coming into the music hall. He was the one who asked around until he found out David had an inheritance to invest." Justin leaned back in the chair and propped his boots on the desk. "I've made several inquiries this morning. It seems our debonair friend has been dividing his time between a gold-mining empire on the South Island of New Zealand and the Continent-Italy, France, Spain-wherever men of his ilk go to spend their ill-gotten wealth."
"But why would he return to England now?"
Justin leveled his gaze on her. "For the same reason I did. You."
Her eyes clouded. "Me?"
He nodded. "Like myself, Nicky thought you only a baby when you father died. I believe he's been
biding his time, waiting for David's daughter to become old enough to start asking questions. I think he returned to England to protect his investment."
Emily shivered. Now that Nicholas realized she was not a child, but a woman grown, she presented that much more of a threat to him. She was not only old enough to ask questions; she was old enough to inherit. What might have happened to her that night at Mrs. Rose's if Justin hadn't intervened?
"What about you?" she asked. "Why didn't he kill you in New Zealand when he had the chance?"
Justin's throat tightened as he remembered all those lost years spent grieving over Nicky and David, all those regrets. "For all intents and purposes, he did. I'm sure it was only his perverse sense of humor that stopped him from burying me. He didn't have that much mercy in his black soul." A mocking smile touched his lips. "It must have been quite a shock for him to realize I'd returned to England, and an
even worse blow to discover David's grown daughter was now part of the equation."
"He handled it with admirable aplomb."
Justin snorted. "Nicky would. Even when we hadn't a shilling to split between us, he'd spend his money on clothes instead of food. I've yet to see his elegant feathers ruffled."
"You'd like to ruffle them, wouldn't you?"
"I'd like to see him plucked, skinned, and thrown in the pot. That's why I've invited him to call this afternoon."
Emily straightened. "Have you gone mad?"
"Quite." He lowered his feet and rose. "At least that's what I want Nicholas to believe. We must force
him to let down his guard by convincing him neither of us is any threat. I can capitalize on my reputation as a lunatic, which, I might add, seems to burgeon with any public appearance you and I make together. So far he's seen me wrestling with the trained bears at a bordello, carrying you off on my shoulder like a barbarian, and smashing his pretty face over champagne at a countess's fete."
Justin would have sworn it was a sparkle of mirth that warmed Emily's eyes. "What would you have
me do?" she asked.
He could have answered that a thousand ways, but he choked them all back. Instead, he mustered his courage and folded her hands in his own. "You must portray the naive innocent seeking the truth about her father's death." She gazed down at their entwined hands. A wry smile quirked her lips. "Innocent,
eh? That'll be a bit of a stretch."