Tremont’s frown deepened at the mention of Silas Webb. “I recall Webb was irate when you dismissed him. But would he resort to murder?”
“I intend to find out.”
“You must take care. Murder is a dangerous business.”
“Evidently so is scandal. Try to keep the investors placated. In the meanwhile, I’ll put a stop to the rumor that I killed Clara.”
Tremont’s eyebrows went up. “How do you plan to do that?”
By dealing with the cause of the fiasco herself.
Jaw taut, Alaric said, “I have my ways. Let’s leave it at that.”
“As you wish. For what it’s worth, I am sorry for your misfortune.”
If there was anything Alaric despised, it was pity.
“What do you know about misfortune?” he said in cool tones.
Tremont’s gaze darkened, grooves forming around his mouth. Standing, he executed a stiff bow. “Good day, your grace.”
After the marquess departed, Alaric was reminded that he and Tremont did have something other than business in common: they were both widowers. The resemblance ended there, however. Tremont’s lady had been known for her charity and kindness, and their marriage had been accounted a happy one, with an heir to show for it.
Whereas Alaric’s duchess had been a lying bitch whose efforts to manipulate him had led not only to her own demise but that of their only child. His son, Charlie...
He felt a warning cracking inside, like the rushing of dark water under ice. The currents dragged at him, pulled him toward the vortex. He struggled for purchase, for control against the raging chaos.
No—the past is done. Look forward. Address the problem at hand.
His fists clenched. Yes, that was what he needed to do.
Fix the problem.
All he had to do was find her.
Chapter Seven
“Do you have a minute, Emma dear?” a husky female voice said.
At the escritoire, Emma looked up from her book as her sister-in-law entered the drawing room. As usual, Marianne exuded glamour. Caught up in an elegant twist, her silver-blond curls framed her flawless features, and her emerald promenade dress—which matched her vivid eyes—clung lovingly to her willowy figure.
“I have all the time in the world.” Emma tried not to sigh.
Why can’t Ambrose give my dream of being an investigator a chance?
The business with Strathaven, she thought darkly, hadn’t helped her cause. Ever since she’d reported the duke to the magistrates, her brother had become evenmoreoverprotective. The authorities had promised to keep her identity confidential, but aspects of her testimony had leaked nonetheless. Rumors that the duke had killed Lady Osgood were running rampant, and Ambrose had insisted that she stay at home until the business blew over.
Ever astute, Marianne said, “Ambrose wants what is best for you.”
“I know.” Now Emma felt disloyal on top of it all.
All morning, she’d been as restless as a gypsy. She knew she’d done the right thing where Strathaven was concerned, yet the thought of him made her feel on edge, filled her with a disquieting, buzzing energy. If only she could bury herself in tasks at the office—she needed something todo, a distraction. Out of desperation, she’d dug up her book of household remedies.
She waved to the open volume in front of her. “I was researching a salve for Mr. Pitt’s joints and the second footman’s back. I hope you don’t mind my using your desk—”
“Of course I don’t mind.” Marianne frowned. “As I’ve said before, my home is yours.”
Mariannehadtold her this many a time, yet Emma couldn’t quite squelch the discomfort of residing in another’s woman house. She supposed she’d grown too accustomed to running her own household. Back in Chudleigh Crest, the cottage had been her kingdom; she’d arranged things to her own design, had come and gone as she’d pleased.
