“I believe Lord Hallandale feared someone.” The butler’s voice lowered. “And it was not me.”
Emerson’s eyes narrowed. “Was that someone noble?”
Sedgewick didn’t blink. “Aren’t they all?”
Emerson grunted, as he had nothing in him to refute such. “Send to the village for a cook and servants. The least we can do for Oscar, er, Lord Hallandale is to restore his residence back to a more livable condition.”
The man’s expression grew dark.
Swallowing a sigh, he asked mildly, “What is it?”
“No one will come here, Mr. Whitmore. The servants had not been paid after the late Lord Hallandale’s death. It’s why they left.”
“Ah. I see. That shouldn’t be an issue going forward, Sedgewick. I shall handle the financial matters. In addition, you may inform each past employee that I shall restore all their back wages. Of course, I shall double yours.” Emerson pulled a coin purse from his pocket and handed over fifty pounds to solidify his promise.
Sedgewick’s eyes widened then flicked up to Emerson. “Thank you, sir. I shall get right on the matter. Lord Hallandale will be most grateful,” he said, bowing from the room.
Yes, well, the appreciation likely depended on who the actual Lord Hallandale ended up being.
Seventeen
Benjamin dropped into a chair that sent up a cloud of dust in the less than desirable parlor. Due to the amount of time it took for Sedgewick to assemble a few servants and Amir to scrounge for something edible, Emerson, with unrelenting prodding in Ben’s direction, ended up making up beds for the three of them to sleep in.
“God, this place is just as boring as I remembered it,” Ben said through a bout of sneezing.
“Think you’ve got the stomach for a little intrigue?” Emerson said. “I can almost promise there will be no blood.”
“Very amusing,” Ben returned in that sullen tone that annoyed the hell out of him. Ben rose from the dusty chair. “What did you have in mind?”
“Sedgewick mentioned Oscar’s use of the study, but said he’d taken to locking it. And before you ask, he also said he does not hold the key.”
Ben frowned. “Then how do you expect to get in?”
“Through a window above the wisteria tree, of course.” Emerson looked over his brother’s well-cut coat. “You might wish to change.”
Ben gave him a sidelong glance. “You’ve done this before.”
“Broken into locked rooms at my cousin’s estate?” Emerson shrugged. “Certainly not.”
Ben let out a huff. “Brilliant. Climbing trees. In the dark. What could possibly go wrong?”
“Your sense of adventure is truly overwhelming,” Emerson said, already turning for his own chamber to change. “Ten minutes. Meet me by the east wing stairs. Wear something you won’t cry over if it snags.”
Ben muttered something impolite under his breath and stalked out.
Emerson grinned, surprised at the sense of anticipation sweeping through him.
Ten minutes later, he emerged from the house to the old terrace with Ben on his heels. A shimmer of memory whispered through him where Oscar and Ben were but tykes, dashing about playing soldiers from a different era. Emerson had had to root them out like vermin from the burrowthey’d dug. He’d quickly set them to work refilling it before the gardener found them and was forced to tell the old man the boys had declared war in his prized gardens.
Quietly, they moved down the terrace steps to the study window under a muted moon that drifted in and out of the moving clouds. Emerson studied the twisted silhouette of the wisteria and the worn bricks of Hallandale’s east wall rising above him like a memory better left buried.
Ben looked as if he expected to be hanged. “If I fall and break something, I’ll haunt you to your dying days.”
“You’ll have to get in line,” Emerson replied, then tested the lowest vine. Still sturdy. “Follow me. And do try not to scream.”
“Only if I spot a spider the size of my hand.”
“Then we shall both scream.”
