Page 27 of The Accidental Countess (Accidentally in Love #1)

E mily hadn’t expected to see Stephen so soon. She heard his voice in the hall and saw him handing his gloves and hat to Nigel’s footman. Tension knotted his face, but he relaxed when he saw her.

“What is it?” she asked. Had he changed his mind about acknowledging her as his countess? Was he planning to bring her home with him? From the unsettled expression on his face, that didn’t seem likely.

He took her hand in his. “I’ll tell you in private. Is your uncle here?”

“He had business with some associates this evening. He promised to return later tonight.” She studied her husband, noting the worry on his face.

“He left you alone?”

What was this about? Her nerves tightened, though she pointed out, “We have a houseful of servants.”

“I’d rather know for myself that you’re safe. I’ll stay with you while he’s gone.” He walked alongside her and rested his palm upon her back. Although it was meant as reassurance, she sensed that what he was about to tell her wasn't good.

Emily led him into the drawing room, her apprehension rising when he closed the door. “There was another attempt on my life.” He told her about the poisoned biscuits, and her insides turned to ice.

“I can’t believe it. Who do you think did such a thing?” She took his hands, as if to reassure herself that he was all right.

“It may be Carstairs. He needs money, so he said.” Stephen went to stand by the window, his expression grim. “Or there’s another possibility—one I can’t eliminate. Earlier today, I saw your former butler walking in the streets.”

“Anant?” She frowned, turning the information over in her mind. “Why would he be in London?”

“I am wondering if he was hired to kill me. Perhaps he was the one who attacked you in the gardens at Falkirk, as well.”

Emily shook her head in denial. “I don’t believe that. He worked for our family for years. He has no reason to harm any of us.”

“He was there on the night your brother died. And I can't deny that he could be connected to the attacks.” He closed the curtains, returning to her side.

“I hope not.” Even so, doubt threaded through her mind with the fear that he could be right.

Stephen loosened his cravat, revealing the tattoo. “I also learned more about this marking. It was done to me in India, and it is Chinese, like your brother’s.”

He sat down, letting her examine the back of his neck. “What does it mean?” She traced the foreign characters and the swirling symbols etched in his bare flesh.

He tensed at the touch of her hand and turned to face her. “It accuses me of opium smuggling. And a death penalty, if I am caught a second time.”

Emily shuddered, not wanting to think of such a thing. “But you’re not a smuggler.”

“No. But the ship I was on might have contained such a cargo. I can’t be sure.”

“But…such a journey. All the way to India.” Her mind ran wild with visions of him being taken prisoner, of strangers calling for his death.

“Don’t worry. I’ve no intention of going back, for any reason.” His voice caught her deep within, like a physical caress. “Everything I want is right here.”

He stood, pulling her against him in a dark kiss. His mouth coaxed hers into a battle of lips and tongue, forcing her to yield against him. She clung to him, falling deeply under his seductive spell.

When he pulled away, he whispered. “Thank you for the boots. And the shoes.” He brushed another kiss along her jaw. “Phillips gave me the package you brought.”

His hand moved down her neck to the strand of pearls resting against her bosom. He fingered the strand, teasing the beads against her nipple as he’d done before. “I like these on you. I’d like them better if they were all you wore.”

She shivered, fighting off the temptation. Although she ached to do exactly as he said, she’d made a vow not to let him touch her until he acknowledged her as his countess. And already she wanted to break that promise.

“Stephen, wait.”

His mouth continued trailing down her throat. “What is it?”

She pulled back. "Come with me tomorrow night to Lady Thistlewaite's ball. As my husband." After all these weeks, she’d worked so hard, hoping not to embarrass him in a ballroom. She wanted to show him that she could behave like a countess. The ball wasn't merely a social engagement. To her, it meant much more—it was a second chance to prove herself.

He shook his head. "It's not safe for either of us."

Though she understood his caution, it still made her wonder whether his refusal was more than that. "Are you ashamed to be seen with me?"

"That's not true, and you know it."

"Do I?" She lowered her forehead to his shoulder, fighting back angry tears. “I don’t even know if you’ll ever let me become your countess. You keep trying to brush me aside, and we're living apart. I know what everyone thinks about our marriage.”

He gripped her tightly. “I won’t risk your safety.”

She took a breath, straightening a stray lock of hair. “And if there was no danger? Would you escort me to the ball, and admit that I am your wife?”

He hesitated. “If that is what you want. But you didn’t appear to enjoy the last soirée.”

Tears heated her lids, but she would not let herself cry. It was the answer she’d feared he would say. “I feel like I am the wife you never really wanted. And maybe what you truly want is for me to return to Falkirk.”

He cupped her cheek. “It’s not that I don’t want you beside me, Emily. But I won’t watch someone hurt you or the children. My enemies are far too close now so you cannot go out in public.”

Her anger rose up, so painful her eyes burned with the unshed tears. “If your enemies are too close, then why did you come here tonight? You’ve led them right to us.”

He said nothing, as though she’d struck him. She wanted to take back the angry words, to say she hadn’t meant them. But it was too late.

Without another word, he bowed and left.

The tears broke forth, and she clenched her waist, sobbing quietly. So many excuses. So many reasons not to let her be with him.

Right now, she didn’t know if he would ever acknowledge her as the woman he wanted.

Stephen returned to Rothburne House the next morning, his eyes blurring with exhaustion. He’d kept an all-night vigil in Nigel’s study, leaving only when he’d heard Emily’s uncle returning. Damn her for not trusting in him. When all of this was over…

It was difficult to even imagine the future since he’d lived with the danger for so long. Someone had murdered Hollingford, and Stephen no longer believed it was because of the man’s debts or stolen money.

Daniel had known something. Likely he had discovered the opium smuggling, but all records of the cargo and stolen profits had been eradicated.

Somewhere, there existed a list of investors. And among them was the man he sought, a man who didn’t want his involvement revealed.

Stephen sipped at a cup of strong tea and only glanced up when his father entered the drawing room. Alfred did not look well, his hair shot with grey, heavy lines drawing down the corners of his mouth.

“Your mother told me that woman has returned to London,” his father remarked.

“My wife, you mean.”

Alfred cleared his throat, adding, “Her uncle intends to escort her to Lady Thistlewaite’s soirée tonight. I thought I should warn you of the gossip.”

Stephen rose and went to stand by the fire, staring at the coals glowing on the hearth. He hoped that Emily would abide by his orders and remain at Nigel’s home where she would be protected.

“Thank you for your concern. But I have other, more pressing things on my mind than what a flock of gossiping matrons are discussing.” He stoked the flames, watching the sparks rise up. “I suppose you should know that your own residence is no longer safe. I was nearly poisoned yesterday.”

His father stiffened. “What do you mean?”

Stephen explained about the cat and the biscuits. He added, “I believe that whoever keeps trying to kill me is the same person responsible for stealing the profits from The Lady Valiant .”

“Have you any suspicions?”

Stephen replaced the poker and shrugged. “A few. But no proof.”

“Quentin might be able to help.”

Stephen looked up sharply. “Quentin was involved in this?”

“He lost a great deal of money in the shipment. My money.” The marquess grimaced, muttering about his brother’s irresponsible ways. Stephen no longer heard the words. Quentin had mentioned financial problems, even teasing about Stephen’s death. Had there been a darker meaning beneath it? He simply couldn’t believe it.

“Where is he now?”

“I’m not certain. I thought he said he was going to pay a call upon Lord Carstairs.” The marquess cleared his throat. “I am hoping he’ll develop an interest in Miss Hereford. Perhaps we might bring her into the family yet, since you insist upon keeping that creature as your wife.”

But Stephen was no longer thinking of Miss Hereford. Though he didn’t want to imagine his brother had any part in this, he could not take the chance. “I’m going to find Quentin.”

His father crossed the room and set a hand upon his shoulder. It was the first time in many years that he’d shown any sign of emotion. “Be careful.”

Stephen gripped his father’s hand. “I will.”

When he arrived at Lord Carstairs’s residence an hour later, Stephen pushed his way inside.

“My lord, Lord Carstairs did not wish to be disturbed,” the footman protested. “He was not feeling well this day.”

“I am looking for my brother Quentin.” He strode past the man, forcing the servant to quicken his steps.

“I never saw him here, my lord. And I assure you, this is not a good time to intrude upon Lord Carstairs.”

The footman positioned himself in front of the study, his black waistcoat stretched across a large stomach that threatened to pop off the buttons.

“Perhaps not.” But had he eaten the poisoned biscuits, Carstairs’s constitution would have been even worse. “I must see the viscount.”

Stephen forced his way past, which was no easy task considering the man’s girth. Eventually, rank won over. The footman would not dare to defy an earl.

He tried the door, but found it locked. Knocking sharply, he demanded, “Carstairs, open the door.”

Silence.

He banged louder, to no avail. “Have you a key?” he asked the footman.

The servant puffed out his indignation and his grizzled whiskers twitched. “My lord, if the master does not wish to be disturbed, then it is my duty—”

“Hang your duty. A man tried to kill your master yesterday. Now are you going to find that key, or must I break the door down?”

The footman hesitated before another dark glare from Stephen sent him fleeing.

“What’s all this about?” a female voice asked. Lady Carstairs peered over the staircase. Her dark gleaming locks hung in a state of disarray, her maid standing behind her with a brush.

Stephen inclined his head. “Forgive me, Lady Carstairs, but I must have words with your husband. How long has he been in the study, might I ask?” He knocked on the door a third time.

“Since this morning. He did not wish to be disturbed.”

The butler returned with the key, and Stephen jammed it into the lock, twisting the metal. He shoved open the door.

The study had been ransacked. Papers lay everywhere, books overturned.

And in the middle of it lay the viscount’s body. Dead.

“My dear, why aren’t you ready?” Nigel opened the library door where Emily sat reading. “Tonight is your grand début. And aren’t you planning to show Lady Thistlewaite that she was wrong about you?”

“My husband doesn’t think I should attend. He says it’s too dangerous.”

“Dangerous? Whatever is he talking about?”

She confided the attempts on Stephen’s life. “I haven’t told you much about it, because I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Does he suspect anyone?”

She nodded. “I’m certain that it’s only a matter of time before he remembers everything. And I’m afraid of something happening to him.”

Nigel met her gaze. “Yes, I suppose it is only a matter of time before it all comes back to him.” Then abruptly, his seriousness left, and he offered a broad smile. “But honestly, the only thing Whitmore should be afraid of is of some handsome dandy trying to steal you out from under his nose.”

She braved a smile. “I wish that were the only thing.”

“Come now. Do you really think that anything would happen while you’re out dancing? You’re safer at a ball surrounded by people than anywhere else. And I am not about to let you continue your reputation as a wallflower.” He touched her chin. “Go on, then. Have your maid prepare you, and meet me downstairs. Our carriage is waiting.”

She could see that Nigel wouldn’t take no for an answer. He shooed her upstairs, promising he wouldn’t leave until she returned.

Stephen wasn’t going to like this. But Nigel was right—what could possibly happen in the middle of a ballroom, amid dozens of people?

Emily inhaled sharply, gripping the bedpost as Beatrice cinched her corset. Layers of crinoline and petticoats came next, and last, the ivory ball gown Stephen had given her. Her husband had spared no expense, down to the soft leather dancing slippers that fit perfectly. The bittersweet memory of Stephen’s first gift of shoes invaded, reminding her of the time they had danced in the garden.

“My lady, these arrived for you.” Beatrice held out a long velvet box.

Emily opened the box to reveal a glittering strand of diamonds. To her surprise, she saw they were from Nigel.

Although they were only meant as a gift, they were far too extravagant. Just the thought of wearing them made her feel cold inside. Like a woman on display instead of herself. Instead, she donned the strand of pearls Stephen had given her.

Emily finished preparing for the ball and went to check on the children. Inside his bedchamber, Royce’s arms sprawled over the edge of the bed, his other arm wrapped around a pillow. In the adjoining chamber, Victoria rested in her crib. Her hands were drawn up beneath her chin while her backside pointed skywards. Emily could not resist smiling as she kissed the infant’s downy head.

Inside the nursery, Royce had left toys strewn around the room. Unable to help herself, Emily started to tidy up the mess. Though her crinoline and corset confined her movement, she picked up a jack-in-the-box and set it upon a shelf.

A row of books was about to topple, and Emily straightened the stack. Her gaze narrowed upon one of the volumes. It was one of the last gifts Daniel had given his son, a book of fairytales. The book had belonged to her grandfather many years ago. Emily traced the broken leather binding and then picked it up for old times’ sake.

Flipping through the collection of stories, she recognized the Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Anderson, and other beloved authors. Then her fingers came upon a familiar, well-loved page. It was the story of “The Steadfast Tin Soldier,” Royce’s favorite. Emily smiled as she skimmed the first pages about the tin soldier’s adventures in a rain gutter. Before she reached the end of the tale, the story changed abruptly. In place of the original tale, neatly glued into the binding, were pages of notes.

Her heart skidded to a stop. These were the hidden records, the ones Stephen had been looking for. Emily studied them, wondering what was so important about the meticulous columns of figures. As she reached the bottom of the page, she recognized names of at least a dozen ships, along with profits and losses. At the very end of the last page were the names of investors involved with The Lady Valiant .

One name startled her, but she dismissed any suspicion of ill doing. She tore out the pages from the book, tucking them into her bodice. Tonight, she would show them to Stephen, and perhaps he could shed light upon their meaning.

There was little point in trying to question a hysterical Lady Carstairs. While she wept and clung to her daughter, Stephen had searched through the mess of papers, looking for something that would lead him to the true assassin. This time, a dagger in the back had caused Carstairs’s death.

Stephen knew he ought to feel something about the murder, but a numbing chill had frozen his mind to reality. He found it easier to dwell upon theories and lists than the fact that he had escaped death yet again. He shouldn’t be alive now.

What did his enemies want? It had to be information, knowledge they believed he and Carstairs possessed. They had ransacked Hollingford’s house and now Carstairs’s study. They had not searched his father’s residence, however. A mixed sense of relief flooded him when he realized his constant change in residence had likely protected the inhabitants.

Stephen sifted through another stack of papers, and he discovered a record of men who owed Carstairs money. Though it was simply a list, he had not come across Freddie Reynolds’s name before. Annoyance pervaded him when he thought of the man who had tried to court his wife with flowers and awful poetry. Even when they were growing up, he’d never trusted the fop.

Then annoyance shifted into suspicion. The threads interwove into a pattern that seemed a little too convenient. Reynolds had continued to court her affections, even after Emily had told him of their marriage.

Did Reynolds have anything to do with the murders? Though his cowardly nature suggested an aversion to violence, Stephen could not afford to miss a potential clue. It made him wonder how many others he’d missed.

With a glance at his timepiece, he saw that it was growing far later than he’d imagined. The authorities had arrived, and after answering a few questions, Stephen excused himself to attend Lady Thistlewaite’s ball.

Freddie Reynolds might be there. And if he was, Stephen intended to find out what he knew.