The Daughter of an Earl

by Victoria Morgan

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Regency Romance

Synopsis

A tale of romance, intrigue, and the true meaning of honor from the author of The Heart of a Duke 

An American businessman in England, Brett Curtis has little use for the haughty ton beyond seeing his sisters happily entertained in London. But when his cousin mysteriously disappears after inheriting the title of Duke, he sets out to locate him and drag him home.

Lady Emily Chandler plunged into deep despair when her fiancé died in India, and now she is determined to prove that he was murdered. The brash American Brett Curtis’s reputation may be less than sterling, but he’s just the man to help Emily on her quest—if she can convince him to accept her dangerous proposition.

While their alliance uncovers a web of scandalous secrets, their undeniable attraction threatens to reveal something even more dangerous: true love.

Release date: July 7, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 336

Sample

Chapter One

THERE were advantages in recovering from the brink of madness.

Or so Lady Emily Chandler believed. Nearly four years had passed since her fiancé’s death, and she was better. She had learned how to keep the darkness at bay. How to sidestep the painful paths in her memory. To stay distracted and busy. Ultimately, she had learned how to not worry her family.

Most of the time.

Today was not one of those times. If cognizant of this morning’s meeting, her family would worry, definitely disapprove, and in all probability, outright forbid her from following her present course. After all, a murder investigation was not an acceptable diversion for any young woman to pursue, let alone a safe pastime for the mentally fragile daughter of an earl.

But mad or not, her mind was set.

To advance her plan, she needed assistance. Lawrence Drummond had been her fiancé’s closest friend and a trusted colleague. Both men had worked for the Honourable East India Company, overseeing their trading accounts in Calcutta. More important, Drummond was with her fiancé during the time of his death. With such strong ties, she was confident that Drummond would share her determination to ferret out the truth.

A cool breeze brushed over her, and she wrapped her arms around her waist. She had arranged for the meeting to be held at her brother-in-law’s former home, Lakeview Manor. She tipped her face toward the sky where the sun was waging a paltry battle against March’s bitter bite. Her sapphire spencer jacket was more fashionable than warm. She rubbed her hands down her arms, her skirts brushing her walking boots as she paced a dirt path beside the lake.

Mr. Drummond was late. She scanned the grounds, skimming her gaze over the men toiling to rebuild the twice-burned-out house. She located Agnes, her abigail, perched on a stone wall, her legs swinging jauntily while she smiled up at a workman. The girl was a shameless flirt, but her distraction secured Emily the privacy she needed.

She turned her back on her maid, only to gasp and retreat a step. Conjured like a ghostly apparition, Lawrence Drummond stood but an arm’s length away. “Mr. Drummond.”

“Lady Emily, it has been too long.” He dipped into a shallow bow. A smile warmed his features, and he lifted her hand to give it a gentle squeeze.

He wore a nutmeg coat, buff-colored breeches, and boots polished to a gleaming sheen. A flash of gold in his cravat and cuff links reminded her that he carried a bit of the dandy in him. With his auburn hair and golden eyes, he did turn his share of heads and was vain enough to appreciate it.

His gaze roved over her, his smile widening as he took her measure from the top of her bonnet to the tips of her boots. “You are more lovely than ever. A muse for a poet and a rival to nature’s beauty.”

She preferred not to be touched, so she gently disengaged herself and stepped away. “Thank you, you are too kind.”

“That is candor, not kindness. Jason was a fortunate man.”

“Yes, well, I was the fortunate one to have found Jason,” she said. One of time’s gifts was the strength to hear and speak her late fiancé’s name without buckling.

He nodded. “I hear congratulations are in order. You are an aunt now, double blessed with a niece and a nephew. And your sister, Lady Julia, she is doing well? And Bedford, the proud papa?”

She responded and then inquired after his sister who had recently made her debut.

They eased into the age-old ritual of social etiquette, and she fought the tug of her impatience. One could not jump into embezzlement and murder right away. There were rules to be followed. Breaking them required a combination of guile and subterfuge. In order to do as she pleased without alarming her family, she had acquired an aptitude for both.

“I remember your debut,” he said. “You left a trail of shattered hearts in your wake before you accepted Jason.”

The husky tone in Drummond’s voice troubled her. It reminded her that he liked to stretch the lines of propriety. It could prove problematic, but to achieve her goal, she would join forces with the devil himself.

She made light of his flattery, steering the conversation into safer boundaries and toward her purpose. “I doubt many men wasted their hearts on me, seeing as mine was firmly spoken for. Mr. Drummond, I wrote to you—”

“Yes, and I cannot tell you how much it meant to me to receive your letter. It encouraged my hopes that we can renew our friendship.”

She ignored the warmth in his tone, because he had unwittingly given her the opening she sought, and she seized upon it. “Actually, it is due to your friendship with Jason that I requested this meeting. I hope that in the name of it, you might be willing to assist me on a matter of some delicacy. Before I broach the subject, I need your word that you will keep our conversation in the strictest of confidence. This is forward of me, approaching you in this manner, but I did not know to whom to turn.”

A flicker of surprise lit his eyes, but after a moment, he cocked his head to the side. “I am intrigued, and of course, at your service.” He dipped into a bow.

He appeared more amused than intrigued. “You will keep my confidence? I have not shared this with anyone. My family would not understand. As Jason’s friend, I hope that you do.”

His smile wavered. “Definitely intrigued. I give you my word that you have my discretion.”

She drew in a breath and ventured to win him to her cause. “About a year and a half ago, I reread Jason’s letters and came across some disturbing information. I gave it little heed in my first reading, being very . . . young.” Shallow and besotted were more appropriate, but young was far less damning. “I was dismissive of news not concerning me. I did not know what to make of the information at first, and then other events stole my time.”

“For goodness’ sake, what is this about? Whatever it is, I can see that it is upsetting to you. Please, tell me so that I may help you.”

She lifted her chin. “Jason wrote of discrepancies he had found in the ledgers. The disbursements for payments were not adding up, funds were missing. It was his responsibility to determine—”

“My dear, say no more,” Drummond said. His voice gentled, as if he were addressing an overwrought child. “This will not do.”

His avuncular tone gave her pause. She had abandoned her pinafores when she pinned her hair up years ago. A child no longer, she did not care for men who made the mistake of treating a woman like one.

Oblivious to her annoyance, he continued. “Whatever it is that Jason wrote, it was years ago. Lost to the past. Why revisit it, delving into areas that are distressing to you?”

At his cavalier dismissal of her concerns, she drew even breaths and stifled the urge to curl her hands into fists. A woman had a right to question if her fiancé had been murdered. She would not be silenced—or worse, dismissed as a distraught female.

“Remember what happened to Pandora when she opened the box? Bad things were unleashed. Now I refuse to stand by and see a beautiful woman in distress. Not when I can alleviate it.” He let his eyes drop to her lips.

What a patronizing, pompous arse.

She had made a mistake. He could not help her. More so, she refused to spend time with someone who condescended to her. They would not survive an hour together—as this ill-fated meeting had demonstrated.

She would have to find someone else to assist her. And she would.

“Emily, listen to me.”

She bristled at his presumption, using her Christian name as if they were intimates. Fortunately, she had become well practiced in veiling her reactions. She schooled her features to look like an attentive china doll—serene, delicate, and mute−which in her experience was another expectation men of Drummond’s ilk held of women.

“I am so glad you wrote to me, so that I could set your mind at ease,” Drummond said. “Working with Jason as I did, I can promise you, had he uncovered anything questionable, he would have resolved the issue. Jason was very good at his job, so you need not fret needlessly over yesterday’s troubles. If I cannot assist you with anything else, let me provide you with comfort in knowing that.”

Her smile was brittle. “You are right. I am sure Jason did all he could to investigate the matter.”

And paid for it with his life.

Drummond’s features softened, and a gentle smile curved his lips. “I am glad that we agree. Now let us lay the ghosts of the past to rest. I think it is past time you found a more pleasant diversion on which to focus your attention. Like renewing old friendships. And perhaps, just perhaps, the hope of beginning something more . . .”

All her senses went on alert. She recognized his look. It was one a man gave to a prized stallion, a fashionable curricle, or a desirable woman. It was a look that said I want, I covet. She did not care for it. She was not a possession to be acquired, having long since taken herself off the marriage market.

He allowed his gaze to slowly drift over her figure, as if assessing her assets. She nearly shuddered when they paused on her breasts and then lifted to meet her eyes.

Oh dear. It was time she set the man straight. “Mr. Drummond, I hope we can maintain our friendship, but there can be nothing more between us. I loved Jason, and—” She inhaled sharply as Drummond grasped her arms and drew her to him.

“Jason is dead. I am not. It is past time you stepped into the present. I have waited a long time for you to wake up. Nearly four years. I think that is long enough.” His eyes flared, then dipped to her lips as if anticipating a succulent treat.

She strained away from his heavy-lidded gaze. “Mr. Drummond, I apologize if my request to meet you gave you the wrong impression. Led you to believe—”

“Not to believe, to hope. Hope that Jason had stolen from me years ago.”

Her patience snapped. “Mr. Drummond! Please, you are a gentleman! As such, I demand that you behave like one and let me go.” She gasped as his grip tightened on her arms, and he leaned his face close to hers, his cloying breath hot against her cheek. She clenched her jaw and prepared to knee him where he deserved to be disabled.

“I cannot. I did that once and—”

A deep voice cut him off. “Allow me to assist you.”

The frigid tone sliced through her anger and sent a different sort of shiver rippling down her body. Drummond was wrenched away and flung aside like a rag doll. A strong hand curled around her arm and saved her from an undignified sprawl on the ground. Landing on her arse would have made her humiliation complete. Not that it wasn’t already, because she recognized that American accent. All too well.

It belonged to the one man who, for the first time since Jason’s death, stirred emotions within her that she had no longer believed herself capable of feeling for another man. Feelings she had thought were dead and buried with her fiancé.

Face burning, she looked up. Dressed in uncompromising black, he was austere and formidable. A cool breeze rustled through his thick golden hair. Sharp blue eyes impaled Drummond with a threatening glare, his mouth pressed into a disapproving line.

Brett Curtis.

Her heart jumped into a frantic beat. The man was as handsome as she remembered—even as she had fought so desperately to forget.

“Who the devil do you think you are?” Drummond brushed furiously at the debris dusting his trousers. When he straightened to his full height, he was inches shy of Brett’s eye level. Drummond had to tip his head back in order to peer down his disgruntled nose.

“Who am I?” Brett thundered, his features contorted with rage. “I am the gentleman that you are not. For the moment, let us pretend you are capable of behaving as one, so you may apologize to the lady and promise to never lay a hand on her again. I suggest you then disappear into whatever hovel you crawled out of before I change my mind, regret my leniency, and take that ridiculous cravat—which your valet wasted God knows how many hours tying—and use it to string you up from the nearest tree.”

Drummond’s eyes bulged, his face going a molted shade of purple. “An American. I would expect no less than—”

Drummond’s sneering aspersion to Brett’s nationality snapped Emily’s stunned senses back to the present. “That is enough!” She snatched free of Brett’s grip and straightened the hemline of her jacket. “This was a misunderstanding between old friends. Nothing more. Mr. Drummond, I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me, but I believe our business is finished.” She kept her gaze locked on Drummond’s, while every muscle of her body vibrated with the awareness of Brett looming behind her. The air practically sizzled with his harnessed fury.

Drummond swallowed, and then brazened it out. “You are kind to call this a misunderstanding, but the gentleman”—he dubiously voiced the word—“is right, and I owe you an apology. I fear I forgot myself, and I beg your forgiveness for my boorish behavior. However, my intentions are honorable. If you would allow me—”

“Mr. Drummond, please.” Horrified, she sought to derail him, while Brett’s snort conveyed his opinion of Drummond’s honorable intentions. She nearly snapped at Brett to shut his mouth, but knew her warning would be futile.

The man did as he pleased. Always had.

“I will address your father in order that I may state my case before word reaches him, and your reputation suffers—”

“Please, that is not necessary,” she said evenly, desperate to stop Drummond from declaring himself, and Brett from strangling the blackguard, despite her wishing he would. “I appreciate the sentiment, truly I do. But like yourself, Mr. Curtis is a family friend. He is godfather to the twins and was in partnership with my brother-in-law before Daniel inherited the dukedom. As such, I am confident of his discretion. Thus, the only word to reach my father would be yours, so for the sake of our friendship, please do not compound this misunderstanding by carrying it further. Forgive me, but there can be nothing more between us. Let our friendship be enough.”

Aware of Brett seeking to move around her, no doubt to expedite Drummond’s departure, she shot her arm out, thwarting his advance. If he was the gentleman he claimed to be, he couldn’t very well plow through her arm—or so she hoped.

A play of conflicted emotions crossed Drummond’s features. Her heart thundered in fear of his pressing his advantage. After all, his earlier behavior had proven he had no compunction in doing so.

She cast a quick glance back at Brett. He had straightened to his full height and was opening and closing his hands at his sides. At the implicit threat, she prayed Drummond’s vanity came to his rescue, because his wits appeared to have deserted him. If the dandy valued his face, she doubted he wanted to risk Brett inflicting his fist on it.

After a tense moment, Drummond nodded curtly. “I understand. Perhaps I read too much into your letter. Forgive me. While I wish it otherwise, I have to be appeased with what you deign to give me. Friendship it is.” He gave her a rueful smile and dipped into a bow.

“Thank you,” she said, relieved.

“I trust your Mr. Curtis, who, as you say, is a family . . . friend, along with your abigail, will escort you home. Lady Emily, until we meet again.” He tipped his hat and then spun on his heel, leaving them alone.

She closed her eyes and exhaled. The silence was still and loud until Brett’s scoffing disdain shattered it.

“What a tuft-up coxcomb. With his cravat tied so tight, I am surprised he doesn’t choke over his words. Wherever did you find him? More important, what in the world possessed you to meet him here alone?”

The words cut like a knife through her tightly strung nerves. She wanted to rail at him, venting her frustration over the failure of her meeting, but she could not.

Contrary to what she had assured Drummond, she had no idea if Brett would keep her confidence. If he did not and spoke to her father, he could ruin everything. She had to stop him, and if that meant feigning sympathy for Drummond, she would do so. Tears made most men retreat, and she had no qualms in employing them now.

She drew herself up and whirled on Brett, letting her voice hitch as she spoke. “That is enough. He was . . . a . . . a dear friend of my late fiancé, and I have hurt him badly. I think that is punishment enough, so please refrain from airing your callous opinions of a poor man whom you know nothing about.” She turned her back on him and walked away, curling an arm around her waist and lifting the other to her temple.

Let him retreat. Please retreat.

Silence met her. The distant sound of the workers carried to them, and still he did not speak. It never failed to amaze her that the bravest of men were flummoxed at the sight of a distraught woman. She bit her lip to curb her triumphant smile, but could not resist tipping her head to the side to surreptitiously study him from beneath her lashes.

She straightened like a poker upon discovering he had crept up beside her. Too damn close. Worse, his arms were folded across his chest and a smile tugged at his lips. The dratted man was laughing at her!

“Well done. You are almost as good as my sisters.” He leaned so close that the teasing gleam in his eyes held her mesmerized. “But you forget, I am not as easily maneuvered as your family. I also am familiar with your talents with penning a clever note. I am sure your friend read exactly what you intended for him to read, which was your bait to lure him here.”

She silently cursed him to perdition and back.

His humor vanished, and his eyes narrowed. “I repeat, what is so important that you risked your reputation and your safety to meet this man alone?”

His heated gaze burned through her carefully composed veneer and saw all she fought to hide.

It was just as she feared.

He was going to ruin everything.

Chapter Two

BRETT kept his voice level, but rage vibrated through every muscle in his body, simmering since he’d stumbled across Lady Emily in another man’s arms. Heard the distress in her voice.

What the devil was she doing with the bastard?

He flexed his fingers, which still itched to snatch the gilded pin that had pierced the fop’s lace cravat and stab him with it. Then he would have strung the man up as he had threatened. His temper had eased somewhat at her decisive setdown of the whoreson. She had some sense left after all. And he could not fault the pathetic Mr. Drummond for his taste.

Lady Emily Chandler was a prize worth winning.

Tall, slim as a willow weed, fair of feature, and dressed in a sky blue gown that highlighted those long-lashed, luminous Chandler eyes. Eyes of such a deep, fathomless blue that Brett feared if a man stared too long, he would drown in them.

Another reason to keep his distance from Lady Emily Chandler.

Like the Sirens in Greek mythology, whose beauty and voice lured sailors to shipwreck their boats on the rocky shores of their island, Lady Emily was just as dangerous. Fortunately for him, having been splintered by another Siren, he had fortified his defenses and his heart—or the battered remnants of it.

Annoyed at his line of thought, he yanked his attention to the present. To Emily, who stood so still, but was clearly seething. She did not like his foiling her plans. But a man could not grow up with three sisters and not identify—and respect—feminine guile in all its forms.

She recovered her voice and drew herself up, her blue eyes snapping. “How dare you lecture me on deception. Was it not you who broke your right arm and cajoled me into drafting your business letters, choosing to omit the pertinent detail that you write with your left?”

She was never going to let him forget that. It had been a weak moment. After being tossed out of a speeding curricle, he had coveted a pretty face by his side to cheer his bruised spirits during his recovery.

“And I am paying the price for that. I am still clarifying your little addendums. Do you think it is easy explaining to clients that I do not suffer from gout, have no need of a loan of a cane, nor have I gained eight stones, thank you very much?” Drummond was not the only man that Emily’s cleverly penned words had gotten into trouble.

She smiled. “Serves you right. Women do not like to be deceived.”

He caught the gleam in her eyes, and arched a brow. “Spare me your apologies, and no, it did not threaten my relations with clients, but thank you for inquiring. I am touched by your concern, but you need not lose any more sleep over the matter.”

She dismissed his sarcasm with an airy wave of her gloved hand. “Had I any doubts of your ability to smooth things over, I never would have written what I did. In drafting your business letters, I witnessed your ability to iron out complex problems without blinking an eye. It is why Curtis Shipping is a success. I am sure your explanations were charming and deftly handled, and the clients liked you all the better for adding a personal touch into your correspondence. No thanks are needed. Really, it was my pleasure.”

“Oh, there is little doubt the pleasure was all yours,” he said dryly, surprised and oddly moved at her compliment to his business acumen. “I do work very hard at—” He froze and shook his head, wagging his finger at her. “Very good. Distracting me with praise. Well done. However, let us return to the matter at hand. Why did you need to meet this man, Drummond, is it? And alone?”

She clamped her mouth shut, her expression mutinous.

“If you want me to keep my discretion and not speak to your father—”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Oh, I dare many things, as do you. You wrote a letter to a man, inviting him to meet you alone in a private location.” He amended his words when she opened her mouth to protest. “My mistake, you were not without a chaperone. You brought your absentminded abigail with you. You chose this location, scattered with workmen, knowing her penchant for—”

“You go too far!” she cried, then cast a glance behind him and tightened her jaw. “We will discuss this later. It appears my maid has disappeared. I must locate her before . . . ah . . . before those penchants lead her into deeper trouble.” The last was muttered beneath her breath. She turned her back on him and without waiting to see if he followed, started up the bank.

Incredulous, he shook his head. Maid and mistress were a dangerous combination. It was time someone kept an eye on the two of them. For the moment, that appeared to fall to him. He stormed after her. “I go too far? Your actions show foresight, strategy, and determination, while exhibiting a total lack of regard for consequence. Do you have any idea what could have happened had I not come along as I did? Had he—”

“But you did and he did not!”

Her stride slowed and he heard the distress in her voice. Relenting, he gentled his tone. “Lady Emily, if you do not have a care for your own welfare, you must understand there are others that do. As they are ignorant of your activities, I insist on speaking on their behalf. What business could you possibly have that you clearly do not want your father knowing about, and that was worth risking your own safety for?”

She stopped a few yards from the construction site, a cornered look in her eyes.

A guttural cough shattered the stretch of taut silence, rescuing her, and she cleverly seized upon the distraction.

“Excuse me, but I am looking for my maid,” she said to a burly workman, clutching her bonnet to her head as a gust of wind threatened to upend it.

“She went that way.” The man pointed a beefy finger down the hill toward a dirt path. Its trail cut through a line of trees edging the banks of the lake.

“Thank you.” Emily nodded curtly, and again leaving Brett behind, she started off in the direction indicated. Her strides were long, and her skirts flapped about her legs, accentuating her lithe figure.

He gritted his teeth and hastened to fall in step beside her. He wanted answers—not that she would willingly give them.

Over the past year, his encounters with Lady Emily had been akin to a fencing match, a delicate balance of parry and riposte, skirmishes but no blood drawn. It was inevitable. When two strong-minded individuals collided, one had to bend. If neither did—like a hammer connecting with an anvil—sparks flew. Yet he couldn’t stay away from her, because beneath her calm façade, he had glimpsed something simmering just beneath her surface.

Buried secrets.

She was hiding something, but damned if he knew what. Now that it involved clandestine meetings with men in secluded areas, he vowed to find out. He frowned, because he carried scars from another encounter with a bold beauty. Needed no more. He would keep Emily safe, but that was all.

As if on cue, Emily broke her silence, saving him from memories more palatable with a stiff whiskey in hand.

“If you must know, I arranged to meet Mr. Drummond because I have questions in regard to my late fiancé’s work. I did not confide in my father or Julia because I knew they would worry over my looking into matters that transpired years ago. They do not like to see me upset and can be overly protective.”

He drew his brows together. Bedford had confided to him that Emily had taken her fiancé’s death very hard. Despite over three years passing, he also knew that her family still worried over her. He was hesitant to tread onto sensitive ground, but as Emily had introduced the topic, he followed her lead. “What makes you think that Drummond could be of help to you?”

“Mr. Drummond and my fiancé were friends, and they were posted together in India. For those reasons, I sought his assistance, but as you witnessed, he had another agenda. I made a mistake, but rest assured, I will not make it again. That much, I can promise you.”

“Drummond and your fiancé, Viscount Weston, worked for the East India Company?” Brett asked, furrowing his brow.

His own company, Curtis Shipping, dealt in importing goods to England, and his business interests and those of the Honourable Company had conflicted in the past. Years ago, when he had sought to expand into new territories beyond England, the East India’s monopoly of the eastern trade routes thwarted his aspirations. More so, he could not compete against the company’s flagrant bribery of government customs officials, who in turn renewed the firm’s charter. They did so despite the malfeasance and the bankruptcies that had beset the firm for decades.

“Yes. They were posted in Calcutta together,” Emily said.

“Ah, carrying out the Honourable Company’s work of looting and scooting.”

“Excuse me?” She stopped to stare at him.

He cursed his glib tongue. Her fiancé was dead, and therefore unable to defend himself. It was bad form to force his bereaved fiancée to do so. “Forgive me. Being unfamiliar with the viscount’s position, I spoke out of turn. If your questions are in regard to your fiancé’s work, being in the trading business myself, I do have some contacts in the firm. Perhaps I can inquire—?”

“That is not necessary. Really.” A flicker of panic crossed her features before she schooled them into a portrait of calm. “Considering your opinion of the firm, I do not think that wise.” She hastened to clarify her response. “Not that I disagree with your views. The company’s reputation is quite tarnished. It is for that reason that Jason was posted over there.