Page 44 of Lady Emily’s Matchmaking Mishap (Merry Spinsters, Charming Rogues #5)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Proof.

That was, no doubt, to be found in his study, specifically his writing table. All she had to do was take a look at his handwriting.

It was easy, really.

She tiptoed along the corridor, looking left and right, and when no servant was in sight, she took a deep breath and opened the door.

His study was a library. Not quite as large as the one downstairs, but a smaller version of it, with mahogany shelves lining the walls, filled with leather-bound books. There was a desk in front of the window. It was shockingly tidy, empty of any papers, letters, notes, or anything that might give her a clue to his handwriting.

Emily wrinkled her forehead in thought as she stared at the clean, polished surface of the desk.

There was his quill and a pot of ink. She picked up the quill and let it drop.

There was nothing more on the table.

Either the Duke did not work here at all, or he was so tidy that he cleaned up after himself. Maybe it was because he didn’t live here at the moment, she thought. Of course. He’d moved into his bachelor flat at the Albany for the time being, since she lived here.

Still, he’d used the study every day, locked himself in there for hours with his secretary.

Her hand went to the drawer and hesitated. A pang of conscience almost made her drop it. But then, with determination, she pushed her misgivings aside and opened the drawer.

There they were, files and folders filled with papers and documents.

Slightly nervous, she pulled out a folder and opened it. It was filled with papers in various styles of handwriting, none of which looked familiar.

A letter fell out, written in a tight, black scrawl. Emily bent to pick it up and was putting it back in the folder when the name ‘Edmund White’ jumped out at her. She stopped and read the letter.

Your Grace,

Following my investigation into the matter of Mr Edmund White, I respectfully submit the following findings:

1. It has been confirmed that the steward, Mr Bartholomew Jago, evicted the White family from Meadowview Cottage on December 30th, 1809 due to his inability to pay the rent. This action was carried out in accordance with directives issued by your late father, the former duke.

The tenancy was subsequently granted to Mr Hoby. The cottage has remained unoccupied since Mr Hoby's demise three years ago.

2. A review of the estate accounts reveals discrepancies: Mr Jago raised the rent for the property, yet the recorded sums do not correspond to what was deposited into the estate’s coffers. One can conclude that Mr Jago must have embezzled the difference for his personal gain.

3. Regrettably, Mr Jago is no longer in the country, having departed for the New World. As such, we are unable to apprehend him or seek restitution for his misdeeds.

I remain at Your Grace’s disposal should you require further inquiry into this matter.

Your obedient servant,

Peter Olney

Emily stared at the letter. The date on the paper, five years earlier, meant he’d known about this all along. It was an ugly reminder of the Duke and the role he'd played in her life. And that Jago had been corrupt did not surprise her in the least. He'd followed the Duke's orders, embezzled the money and disappeared.

Underneath this letter was another letter, written in the same hand, no doubt his secretary's.

Your Grace,

This is to confirm Miss Emily White’s claim that her father, Mr Edmund White, did indeed die the night after the eviction. He was buried in the Parish Cemetery of Hilperton.

This letter was dated only two weeks ago. A thick, hard lump formed at the back of her throat and she felt a trickle of tears run down her cheeks.

The door opened and Wolferton strode into the room, pausing when he saw Emily standing at the desk with the letter in her hands.

“Emily? What are you doing here?” His eyes fell on the letter in her hands, and he frowned. “What is the matter?”

He walked over to her and took the paper from her hand. “Ah.” He scanned the letter. Then he placed it on the table. His face was unreadable.

“You really didn’t know about my father,” Emily said. “You sent your secretary to confirm what I said.”

“Yes.” He seemed to search for words. “I seem to lack the appropriate words other than that I truly am sorry, Emily. Jago was corrupt. That is what Olney, my secretary, was investigating. But none of this absolves me. Even though he acted on my father’s orders, the responsibility was mine, and for what happened to you and your family, I owe you and your sister a sincere apology.”

Emily blinked, momentarily unbalanced. An apology? No, she didn’t want that. She wanted to unleash her fury, to rail against him, to solidify the image of him as the devil incarnate, to blame him for all the evil that had ever befallen her in her life.

His face was grave, his eyes—goodness, his eyes!—well, she almost drowned in them. A pot of molten gold. Worst of all, he looked as if he meant every word he said.

He reached out a hand and tilted her chin up, wiping away a tear with his thumb.

“I wish things could have been different. I wish I could have said and done things differently. I wish... ” He searched for words. “I could have been there for you.”

Why weren’t you, then? The words were on her lips. The old resentment rose in her.

She pulled away. “I have so many questions. Not only about this—” she gestured at the letter “—but also about something else.”

She remembered why she’d come into the study to begin with. She wanted the truth. She wanted proof.

He nodded, his face drawn. “You have but to ask.”

She passed a hand over her forehead. “When I was younger, a child, really, I had a-a?—”

“A?” His brow arched.

“A-a... ” Why was this so difficult? She waved her hand in an aimless circle, then tapped her temple. “How do you say it?”

He looked at her, amused. “Come, come, spit it out.”

She hesitated. “A relationship isn’t quite the right word,” she murmured. She worried at her lower lip before continuing, “To be honest, I’m not at all sure how to describe it.” She stared intently at the vase on the table as if it might offer some guidance. “There was a boy,” she finally said.

“So you had a lover,” he stated, his expression deadpan. “It happens.”

She flushed hotly. “No! That is to say—yes.” She cleared her throat, avoiding his eyes. “I mean, not like you think. I did love him. I do love him. That is, of course, I thought I did. I do.” Heavens, why was this so awkward? She threw up her hands and glared at him. “Oh, I don’t know! I was just a child. How could I have understood love then when I hardly understand it now?” Then she winced. This certainly wasn’t coming out the way she’d intended.

He folded his arms, but the amused glint in his eyes had died. “Go on. I’m all ears.”

“The thing is.” She stared at him, hard. “This relationship, or friendship, or letter-ship, or whatever you want to call it, it was more on paper than anything else, and I never even actually met him, which is absurd if you come to think about it, and entirely implausible, but the fact of the matter is, this thing that we had was something quite, quite out of the ordinary. Like, like—” she gestured helplessly “—God help me. Like soulmates,” she finally blurted out.

“Soulmates.” He blinked.

“He knew me like no one else knew me,” she hurried on, “not my father, not Cissy.” She stared into space. “Not even myself. It was that kind of connection, you know?”

He tilted his head, his expression half serious, half mocking. “I confess I don’t quite follow. But how enviable, if such a thing does exist.”

“Yes, well, it felt like fate. It was so special.”

“Do go on.” He sat on the desk, crossed one leg over the other with a smirk, his quizzing glass dangling from his fingers. “I find this is vastly entertaining.”

Hateful man!

She skewered him with her glare.

“So,” he drawled. “Your point being? What was it you wanted to ask?”

“The boy with whom I nearly eloped,” she said through clenched teeth. “I wanted to ask whether you are him. I want to know whether you are Fenn.”