Questions tore through his mind with the speed of a runaway phaeton. How high in the peerage did she place? Could she get him into other houses to search for his cowardly nemesis? More importantly,wouldshe? He stared into the depths of green eyes that rivaled a forest of sunlight dappling through leafy trees.
Could he trust her?
He was a merchant. Lived near the docks, as Ben so indelicately reminded him. But realistically, Emerson would never be able to locate the culprit on his own. He hated it, hatedthe nobility, hated the pit of chaos someone was determined to throw him in.
After the slightest hesitation, Emerson tugged the missive from an inner pocket and handed it to her, then made his way back to the spirits and poured himself another brandy.
The vellum wisped softly through the room.
“What does this mean that he has intimate knowledge of your cousin? Who is your cousin?” Demanding little thing, wasn’t she?
“Exactly what it says. Hallandale died.”
“Hallandale isyourcousin?”
Impatience pricked him. “Yes, yes. Please, try to follow. I am attempting to explain.”
She huffed out her frustration and crossed her arms beneath her breasts.
It took him a second to force his gaze up. “My cousin, Oscar, has not been heard from in years. I am looking for him.”
“This note indicates that your brother may have done something to him. Would he?”
“So practical you are, my lady.”
“Just making certain I can follow,” she said with a smirk that tempted him beyond reason.
“A point well made,” he murmured. “He abhors violence.”
“Poison doesn’t necessarily require violence,” she pointed out. “Who is your brother?”
“Benjamin Massey.”
“And you are…”
“Emerson Whitmore. And, frankly, I could use your help.”
She strolled over to the spirits and found the Madeira and poured herself a glass. “I don’t know what I can do to help.”
“I take it you are part of thebeau monde.”
“What of it?”
“I am merely a merchant of trade.”
She held up the missive. “Apparently, quite a successful one if someone believes you can be bought for fifty thousand pounds.”
“I don’t deny my success.” He wasn’t boasting, it was fact. “But I have no intention of paying blackmail, be it fifty pence or fifty thousand pounds.”
“I see.” She glanced at the note then back at him, then held it out. “It was nice of you to share this…er, highly delicate matter with me, but I don’t understand.”
He took the note, refolded it, and tucked it back in his pocket. “I need a way in—”
“In?”
“Peerages’ homes. You have all the signs of belonging.”
She stopped. “You wish to break into peerages’ homes?”
