A Dangerous Game (Regency Spies & Secrets Book 2) Page 13

  But heaven help her, she still wanted to believe him. She wished he would come home and spend the entire morning with her. What was wrong with her?

  “He isn’t coming, you know,” Jane’s voice said from behind her.

  Glancing over at the long clock in the corner of the hall, Emmeline responded, “He could still arrive.”

  “I don’t know why you have any faith in my brother,” Jane remarked. “He lost my trust long ago.”

  Emmeline stopped pacing and turned to face her friend. “I truly thought he would be here.”

  “The only thing that is consistent with my brother is that he is a grand disappointment to me,” Jane shared. “Would you care for me to join you for your visit to your father’s solicitor?”

  “That won’t be necessary; I just asked Pratt to inform my lady’s maid that she is to accompany me.”

  Frowning, Jane said, “You are too good for the likes of my brother.”

  “He saved me from marrying the duke.”

  “But what kind of life is he giving you?”

  “This is only a—”

  “I know what you are going to say,” Jane interrupted. “That it is not a true marriage, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve a bit of respect.”

  Emmeline let out a sigh. “You are right, of course.”

  “You will observe that I am rarely wrong,” Jane joked.

  Taking a step closer to her friend, Emmeline lowered her voice and asked, “But what can I do? Oliver is my husband.”

  Eyeing her closely, Jane remarked, “I have never seen you this despondent.”

  “I just can’t help but wonder if Oliver is being faithful as he promised, or if he is lying about that, as well,” Emmeline admitted.

  Jane gave her a weak smile, then said, “I wouldn’t trust my brother farther than you can throw him.”

  “That wouldn’t be very far.”

  “Exactly my point.”

  The sound of the butler’s heels on the marble floor caused them to stop speaking and turn their attention towards him.

  Coming to a stop near Emmeline, Pratt announced, “Your lady’s maid will be down momentarily.”

  “Thank you, Pratt,” Emmeline murmured.

  “You are welcome, milady.”

  Jane started walking backwards towards the drawing room as she said, “Just remember what I said, Emmeline.”

  “I will,” she replied.

  “Good. I believe it will save you from much heartache.”

  Emmeline glanced over at the main door, hoping that Oliver would make a sudden appearance. But she was not so fortunate.

  Her lady’s maid came to stand next to her. “Are you ready to go, milady?”

  “I am,” she replied.

  As they departed from Hawthorne House, Emmeline took only a moment to admire the elegant black coach emblazoned with the family crest. The footman opened the door and held his hand out to assist her. She accepted his hand and stepped into the coach.

  Once she was situated, Mary sat across from her. “Thank you for accompanying me,” Emmeline said.

  Mary smiled. “It is my pleasure.”

  “I had been hoping Oliver would have accompanied me, but he still hasn’t returned home.”

  “I assumed as much,” Mary said softly.

  The coach lurched forward as she asked, “What has become of me?”

  “You started developing feelings for your husband,” Mary remarked knowingly. “That was a rather large misstep on your part.”

  “One should never be in the unfortunate position of having to pine after their own husband.”

  Mary nodded. “I would agree.”

  “But what can I do about it?”

  Pressing her lips together, Mary asked, “May I speak freely, milady?”

  “Of course.”

  Mary leaned forward and remarked, “You have become a simpering miss around your husband.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You are a strong young woman,” Mary said. “Where is the fight that you had when you went to call on Lord Oliver and asked him to marry you?”

  Emmeline’s shoulder slumped slightly. “I don’t know.”

  “May I suggest you take the time to remember who you are,” Mary said. “You are not weak, but rather a formidable woman.”

  “But I am married now, and I need to be a dutiful wife.”

  “Nonsense,” Mary declared. “If Oliver isn’t living up to his vows, then why should you?”

  Emmeline nibbled her bottom lip. “I suppose you make a good argument.” She shifted her gaze towards the window and retreated into her own thoughts.

  It wasn’t long before they pulled up in front of a two-level brick building in the fashionable part of town. The coach dipped to the side as the footman stepped off his perch and put the step down.

  Emmeline exited the coach and walked into the building with Mary trailing behind her. She was immediately approached by a lanky man in a tan jacket and matching trousers.

  “May I help you?” he asked kindly.

  “I am looking for Mr. Clarke.”

  The man gave her a polite smile. “If you will follow me, I will show you to his office,” he said as he spun on his heel.

  She followed him for a short distance before he stopped by a closed door. “This is Mr. Clarke’s office,” he revealed. “Would you care for me to announce you?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  The man tipped his head in acknowledgement before he walked away from them.

  Emmeline approached the door and knocked with her gloved hand. It only took a moment for it to open, and Mr. Clarke stared back at her in disbelief. Her father’s solicitor was a rather unassuming man with thinning brown hair and thick spectacles that sat on a rounded face.

  “Lady Oliver,” he greeted, opening the door wide. “Please come in.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured as she stepped into the office.

  A large window along one wall provided the room with ample light. A mahogany desk sat in front of the window, and upholstered chairs were strategically placed around the room.

  “I hope you do not mind that I came unannounced,” Emmeline said.

  “Not at all,” Mr. Clarke replied, closing the door. “You are always welcome.”

  “I appreciate you for saying so.”

  Mr. Clarke went around his desk and gestured at the two chairs facing it. “Would you care to take a seat?”

  As Emmeline gracefully lowered herself onto the chair, she explained, “I was hoping to receive some clarification.”

  “I would be happy to assist you with that,” Mr. Clarke replied as he sat down and pushed in his chair.

  With a side glance at her lady’s maid, Emmeline asked, “Did my father leave me a dowry?”

  Mr. Clark nodded. “He did, and it was rather a generous one.”

  “Did that money go to pay for my father’s outstanding bills when he died?”

  Mr. Clarke gave her a baffled look. “Your father had no bills when he died,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m afraid I am rather confused. My uncle informed me that my dowry went to pay for my father’s outstanding bills.”

  “I am not sure why he told you that, since you are now eligible to receive fifteen thousand pounds upon your marriage to Lord Oliver Radcliff,” Mr. Clarke explained. “Your father set up a separate account just for your dowry. The will stipulated that you were to inherit the money on your twenty-first birthday or when you wed, whichever came first.”

  Emmeline’s eyes grew wide at that unexpected news. “I was set to inherit fifteen thousand on my twenty-first birthday?”

  “You were, but you were wed first.”

  She pursed her lips together as she worked to collect herself. Finally, she murmured, “My uncle never told me that.”

  “That is most unfortunate,” Mr. Clarke said. “Then I must assume that he didn’t tell you about the property you also inherited.”
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br />   “No, he did not.”

  “It is a small estate in Whitstable,” he shared. “It was the only unentailed property that your father owned. It is known as Lockhart Manor, and it sits on a cliff overlooking the outlet of The Swale leading into the Thames Estuary.”

  “Is it profitable?”

  Mr. Clarke pressed his spectacles up further on his nose. “It covers the expenses of the estate and the upkeep, but not much is left after that.”

  “How large is the manor?”

  Reaching for a file on the corner of his desk, Mr. Clarke placed it in front of him and opened it. His eyes scanned the document before saying, “It is a fine bow-front manor with canopied balconies.”

  “Do you know why my father never spoke of this property to me?”

  Mr. Clarke’s eyes held compassion as he revealed, “This was where your father grew up, and he watched his mother and father both die from influenza. I imagine it did not hold fond memories for him.”

  “And it has a household staff?”

  “It does,” Mr. Clarke confirmed.

  “Would it be possible for me to reside at Lockhart Manor?”

  Mr. Clarke gave her an odd look. “It is wholly possible, but I should warn you that it is not nearly as grand as Hawthorne House.”

  “Nothing is as grand as Hawthorne House,” Emmeline remarked.

  “I would have to agree with you there, milady.”

  With a rigid back, Emmeline asked, “Does my uncle have my dowry?”

  Mr. Clarke shook his head. “No, Lord Taylor did request the money to be transferred to his account, but I have not initiated the transfer yet.”

  “That is a relief,” Emmeline replied. “Would it be possible to transfer the money to me?”

  “I would be more than happy to accommodate that request, since it is your dowry, milady,” he said. “Although, I will need to speak to your husband to confirm I have his permission, as well.”

  “I understand,” she acknowledged.

  Mr. Clarke closed the file in front of him and threaded his fingers together. “I had wrongly assumed that Lord Taylor had your best interests at heart, but I am saddened to hear that is not the case.”

  “As am I.”

  “Now that you are married, and Lord Taylor is no longer your guardian, I am able to work with you directly,” Mr. Clarke said. “It would be my pleasure to work as your solicitor.”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  Mr. Clarke gave her a sad smile. “If I may, I would like to offer my condolences for the loss of your father and mother,” he said. “I worked closely with your father, and I found him to be an honorable man.”

  “Thank you for that. I must admit that I miss them dearly.”

  “I can only imagine, milady.”

  A silence descended over the room before Emmeline rose. “Thank you for all your assistance today, Mr. Clarke. You have been most helpful.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” Mr. Clarke said, rising, “and I am pleased we do not have to sue Lord Taylor for the return of your dowry.”

  “As am I.”

  Mr. Clarke came around his desk and went to open the door. “I shall be in contact with you, milady.”

  “I will be looking forward to it,” Emmeline replied as she stepped out into the hall.

  As they walked across the hall, Mary asked in a hesitant voice, “How are you faring?”

  Emmeline glanced over at her. “I am not sure,” she replied honestly. “I just discovered that my uncle has been intentionally deceiving me, and I never had to get married in the first place. I could have just waited until my twenty-first birthday to receive my inheritance.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “I don’t know, but it does mean that I have options,” she said as they exited the building, “and that is a wonderful feeling.”

  Sitting in a stench far worse than he had ever imagined, Oliver rested his back against the sticky wall, wondering when he would finally be set free from this abysmal pit. Fat black rats scurried through the iron bars with their long, hairless tails trailing behind on the cold ground.

  Follett kicked at one of the rats as it came closer to his right boot. “Why are there so many rats?” he asked indignantly.

  Glancing up at the small opening that constituted as a window in the cramped cell, Oliver replied, “They come and go as they please through the windows.”

  “Why don’t they put glass in the openings?” Haskett huffed.

  Oliver shrugged. “I suppose they don’t care about prisoners being uncomfortable.”

  “They should,” Follett remarked.

  With a shake of his head, Oliver asked, “Pray tell, why is that?”

  “We pay taxes,” Follett said.

  “You also broke the law,” Oliver pointed out.

  Follett frowned. “I did no such thing,” he declared. “I merely attended a meeting—”

  Speaking over him, Oliver finished his thought for him. “That had radical ties.”

  “I hadn’t realized that.”

  “Oh, why didn’t you say something before now?” Oliver mocked. “I suppose the judge will let you off because you unwittingly went to a radical meeting where a violent protest was being planned.”

  Follett’s frown deepened. “You are being rather churlish.”

  “I suppose it has something to do with the fact that I spent the night in a jail cell with you,” Oliver stated.

  Haskett rose from his seat and went to look out the window. “When do you suppose we will get out of here?”

  “It could be hours or days,” Oliver said. “It all depends on when the magistrate is willing to hear our case.”

  “But we told them who we were when we arrived,” Haskett remarked. “Our case will take precedence over other cases, won’t it?”

  “I am not entirely sure,” Oliver replied. “I did bribe the guard with a few coins to give us a private cell.”

  Follett took his hand and rubbed it along the back of his neck. “That is nice, but I would rather be sleeping on my feather mattress than a cold, hard floor.”

  “As would I,” Haskett said. “Do you suppose they will bring us breakfast soon? I find myself rather hungry.”

  Oliver pressed his lips together, not wanting to dignify Haskett’s question with a response. A peculiar odor of unwashed bodies hung in the air, making him decisively not hungry. He couldn’t imagine how filthy he was, and he had only been here overnight.

  He brought his leg up and rested his arm on it. A long soak was in his future when he arrived home. More importantly, he wondered how he was going to make this up to Emmeline. He had promised her that he would return home and accompany her to her late father’s solicitor. Furthermore, he remembered that it was her birthday, and he had yet to purchase her a gift.

  Blazes! It was rather difficult to keep promises when he was an agent. He never quite knew what to expect.

  The sound of a door creaking open could be heard in the distance followed by booted footsteps. Glancing towards the sound, he saw a guard approaching his cell with keys jingling in his hand.

  The guard stopped outside of the cell. “Lord Oliver,” he said as he unlocked the door, “you are free to go.”

  Follet jumped up to his feet. “What about me?”

  The guard gave him an unimpressed look. “Who are you again?”

  Squaring his shoulders, Follett replied, “I am Mr. Samuel Follett, the eldest son of Viscount Rodgers.”

  “Oh,” the guard said, “no one has posted bail for you yet.”

  “Has my father been notified?”

  The guard shrugged. “That is a good question, but I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that. After all, I only just arrived for my shift.”

  Follett reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. “I would appreciate it if you could get word to my father.”

  The guard accepted the coin and replied, “I will see what I can do.” He slipped it into the pocket of his jacket.


  Rising, Oliver took a moment to stretch his back before he walked over to the door. The guard stepped back, allowing him to exit.

  Once the guard closed the door, Haskett came to the front of the cell and placed his hands through the bars. “Will you send word to my father?”

  Oliver nodded. “I will see to that the moment I arrive home.”

  “Thank you,” Haskett sighed.

  As Oliver followed the guard down the dimly lit pathway between the cells, his eyes strayed towards all the filthy men that were huddled together. He continued to follow the guard as he led him through an open courtyard towards an iron gate that kept the prison secure.

  The guard stopped next to the gate and reached behind him to reveal a pistol. “I have been instructed to return your overcoat pistol to you,” he said, extending it towards him. “For obvious reasons, we could not let you keep your pistol on your person here.”

  “I understand,” Oliver replied, grateful they hadn’t discovered the muff pistol in his boot.

  Oliver tucked the pistol into the waistband of his trousers and waited patiently as the guard opened the gate just wide enough for him to exit. Then, it was slammed behind him and locked.

  A black coach was waiting outside of the jail, and a footman jumped off his perch to open the door. He approached the coach cautiously until he saw the familiar face of Corbyn staring back at him.

  “Get in,” Corbyn ordered.

  Oliver ducked into the coach and sat opposite of Corbyn. He waited for the door to be closed before saying, “Thank you for seeing to my release.”

  Corbyn gave him a disgusted look. “You smell terrible.”

  “That is to be expected, since I spent the night in jail.”

  “By chance, did you roll around in excrement?”

  Oliver brought his arm up and took a sniff of his sleeve. “I do smell rather unpleasant.”

  “Unpleasant?” Corbyn repeated. “I daresay you should burn your clothes after you remove them.”

  “I may just do that.”

  Corbyn reached over and opened the window. “You should know that all the charges against you have been dropped.”