“That’s what I’m attempting to avoid.”
Curiosity lit her eyes like a beacon. “Like whose?”
“Earl Stockton’s for one.”
Her spine straightened. “Stockton.”
Every instinct in him sharpened. “You know something?” he asked softly.
Another blush stole up her neck. “I doubt it’s anything.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
“All right. Before Shufflebottom spotted me, I saw several men talking. It looked somewhat serious, so I, er, sort of crept over and eavesdropped. One of them was referred to as Stockton. Stockton referred to another man as an earl and his brother. Were they speaking of you?”
Emerson groaned. She’d obviously overheard Ben with the upstarts. He ignored her question. “What else?”
“Um.” She strolled away and stopped in front of one of the bookcases, then ran a delicate tipped fingernail across several spines. No gloves. “They might have speculated on how you, er, acquired your funds.”
He narrowed his gaze on her. “Speculated?”
“It may have been tossed about that you are swindling the East India Company.” She glanced at him and winced. “Are you?”
He let that roll off and ignored this question as well, so ridiculous it was. Ben had resented Emerson since the day Father had learned of his existence and brought him into the household. “The Martindales are hosting a musicale on Thursday.” He went to the window and glanced out at the host of carriages lining the street.
“Did you hear what I said?” A huff of exasperation touched her tone.
“I heard you, and no, I am not swindling the East India Company. We share a mutually beneficial relationship.”
“What kind?”
“They provide me with goods, and I sell them. All legal and aboveboard,” he assured her.
“Silks? Muslin?”
He turned and faced her. “Of course,” he said without any modicum of patience. “Now, if that is the end of the inquisition, I shall ask again. Would you consider helping me?”
A long pause ensued, then she inclined her head. “I’ll help you. Provided you allow me a reduced amount on some of your finer fabrics.”
“You’re bribing me?”
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t call it that. I’m…er, bartering.” She started across the room toward the painting he’d been examining when she’d burst in on him.
“Bartering,” he muttered under his breath. But it was a way in. “Fine.” He stalked in her direction. “You’re certain you can wrangle an invite into the Martindales’ home?”
Amusement tipped her lips. “Oh, yes. I’ve already accepted my invitation. Baron Stanford was my late husband.”
The name was markedly familiar as snippets of theLondon Timesheadlines filtered through him. “Stanford was stabbed in the chest—” Mortification stalled the rest of his response, and he stared at her.
“Yes.ThatStanford.”
“You’re the baroness.”
“For now.” She turned back to examining the painting. Correction, the frame of the painting. “But I have other plans. I’ll help you locate your cousin. Assisting you lauds me first crack at the earl with no competition. I’m not so young any longer.”
“Take off your mask,” he said. “I wish to see this harridan for myself.”
Her fingers stilled, and she slowly turned back to him, her gaze never wavering.
