“Your butler does not like me bursting in,” he remarked, taking the brandy and downing it in one gulp.”
“Nor do I. You take too many liberties for a steward, my friend.”
Simon’s grin widened. “Ah, but not for a cousin.” He dropped into an armchair, stretching his long legs over the side. As tall as Neil but far slighter, Simon had earned the nameBeanpoleat Eton. His nose was hooked, his brown curls rebellious, his face pleasant and clever. He was said to have a better head for figures—and a far better temper—than his cousin.
“Where’s the new governess?” Simon asked. “Arrived yet?”
“She has. I have just concluded our interview.”
Simon groaned. “I told you to wait.”
“And why should I require your presence to engage a governess?”
Simon leaned forward, bracing one bony elbow on his knee.
“You’ll wish you’d waited when you hear what I have to say. Victor is on the move again. He’s in a state.”
Neil stilled. “I thought Lord Bramwell had every intention of sitting quiet while we kept him under watch. Our men said he’d been as good as gold of late. I was beginning to believe we would never gather enough evidence to convict him.”
Simon gave a short laugh. “Oh, yes. And to convict a member of the Parliament, one needs a mountain of proof. The man’s a murderer several times over, but no one has ever seen him misstep.”
“But you say you have new information?”
“Of a kind. You see, our Lord Bramwell has his mind set on love.”
“Onwhat?”
“To marriage. You must have heard the talk. No formal notice yet, but—”
“Oh, yes,” Neil said grimly. “He was pursuing someone. A Miss Camden, was it not? I imagine she was well dowered. Lord Bramwell would never marry forlove.”
“Ah, that’s the thing. Miss Camden was poor as a church mouse. Her father owed Bramwell a ruinous sum, and everyone thought the marriage would clear it.”
Neil nodded. Nothing from Lord Bramwell could surprise him. They had scarcely scratched the surface of his offences, yet what was known already was various and appalling: murder, of course; extortion, blackmail, and bribery; violence and frauds of every description. The man was vile through and through. In his rages, he beat his servants, and pretty housemaids were sent weeping from his doors in the small hours—enceinte and no prospects.
Much like a swan—hard flurry beneath the water, all grace above—Bramwell showed Society none of this ugliness. He was accounted a man of scandal (servants will talk), yet remained welcome enough: rich, well-born, and a Member of Parliament. It was no wonder to Neil that such a man had found a bride.
“Well, the wedding’s off,” Simon said with satisfaction.
“I cannot blame her. She came to her senses?”
“No, she ran. The girl vanished without trace. Bramwell is making the most determined enquiries—and he is looking for a governess.”
Neil stopped pacing. “A what?”
“A governess.” Simon reached into his pocket and drew out a folded sheet. “He’s sent this round through his network. All London is looking for her.”
Neil unfolded it. “And she has not been found—which suggests she has left London. A sensible girl. Where is her father?”
“No idea. But if she was willing to marry Bramwell to save him, what changed her mind?”
“Better question,” Simon said dryly, “why hasn’thechanged his? Bramwell is not short of prospects. Why so intent on one simple governess? Take a look at the sketch—she’s pretty enough, but no Society beauty. There’s more in this, Neil, you mark my words.”
Neil said nothing because he was staring down at the paper; jaw agape. The paper was dominated by a sketch of a young woman, staring angrily out, and a few lines of description were written below.
She was, unquestionably, the very same woman who had left his study only moments before.
“This—” Neil managed, waving the paper at Simon, “—is Miss Winter. The woman I have just hired as Emma’s governess.”
