The duke stilled.
Emerson barely noticed, tapping his knee. “But,” he went on softly, turning his gaze back out the window, “she is strong in her beliefs, loyal to a fault, and quite the most…wonderful woman of my limited acquaintance. I shall endeavor to be worthy of her hand.”
“It would serve you well.” The words were an ominous threat followed by another bout of hush. Then he added, “I’m not actually hell-bent on traveling to Canterbury.”
Emerson yanked his gaze from the window, his thoughts flying in a myriad of directions. “I…see…”
The duke smiled. “I doubt that you do. Marrying quickly appears suspicious.” He then frowned. “Her flouting her mourning period hasn’t helped matters.”
Emerson’s lips twitched.
Ryleigh didn’t seem to notice. “The fact is, my brother-in-law Tatton, who is also a barrister known to do occasional work for the crown, is investigating a matter of importance. You seem a stand-up fellow, despite your occupation.”
“Successful occupation, you mean?”
“Of course. I meant no insult.” Again, he flashed a swift grin that quickly disappeared. “I would appreciate my faux pas not getting back to my wife. She’s quite sensitive when it comes to assisting those in need.”
“Somewhat similar to your sisters as well, I take it.”
“Yes.” An intensity hovered thick in the atmosphere, and the duke stared him down. But Emerson was not easily intimidated. “I see that you are also adept at reading situations in an expedient manner.”
A choked cough erupted as something profound and suddenly hit Emerson. Directly. In the chest. With the force of an anvil. It could have been that the stitches had come loose, but he doubted that to be the case. “I’m being blackmailed,” he said before he could change his mind. “Your sister actually caught me rifling through Shufflebottom’s desk. I was looking for anything to help me find the bastard.”
The air went dangerously still.
“She offered”—Emerson stopped, clearing his throat again, wishing he could pull back the confession—“er, offered to assist me.”
“Assist you.” The air shifted with the duke’s astonishment. In that moment, Emerson couldn’t decide who wanted to put a musket ball to his head more, the duke or himself.
“In her defense, her motives were for charitable purposes. She did it for the Hope House women, in exchange for, um, bolts of fabric. Mounds, to be specific.”
“Good God. She’s as bad as Gabriella,” the duke breathed, swiping a palm over his face. Ryleigh paused, then narrowed his eyes. “Just what is this blackmailer after?”
“Money, of course.”
“But what did he have onyou?”
“It wasn’t me, Your Grace. Our cousin has inherited his father’s title. My reckless brother, who is in line for the Hallandale earldom, was going about claiming the title for himself when we ourselves hadn’t seen or heard from him in years. I worried that if something happened to our cousin, Benwould be held responsible for his demise. I feel he’s being made sport of by those ‘idiots’ he’s been running with.”
“Fools.”
“Yes.” Emerson let out a sigh. “We recently learned Oscar has returned from the Continent, but the fact is we haven’t seen him, and frankly, we fear for his safety.”
Silence ensued, and Emerson turned his gaze out the window. It took a moment for the sight to register. He frowned. “Why the devil are we nearing the docks?”
“Ah, about that…” Ryleigh tugged at his gloves as the rig rolled to a stop. “Mr. Tatton, my sister Antonia’s husband, has requested an introduction. You may have heard of him. He’s quite notorious.”
“I see,” Emerson said slowly, and again, not seeing at all.
The door opened to a familiar sight. Just outside an old warehouse not far from Emerson’s own. He followed the duke from the carriage and blinked into the hazy October sun.
“This isn’t an area the peerage typically frequents,” Emerson said.
“True.” Ryleigh strode to an old door with well-oiled hinges. “Come along, Whitmore. Tatton is anxious to make your acquaintance.”
Emerson followed him into the gloom, his senses sharp and shoulders tight. The door shut behind them with a finality that lifted the hairs at his nape. The scrape of dirt underfoot was a whisper compared to the sharp creaking timber boards of Whitmore’s a few streets over, absorbing what little sound they made through the vast space.
Dust motes danced in a stream of light from high, cracked, and, in some instances, broken windows.
