An Improper Aristocrat. Deb Marlowe

Oakwood Court.

      But it was to no avail. The intruders were gone, leaving behind only a thoroughly searched house and a flattened juniper bush below the open window of Miss Latimer’s chamber.

      The taste of frustration was not one Trey was overly familiar with. Now he found it had a sour flavour that he did not care for at all, especially when he’d spent the last four-and-twenty hours having it forced down his gullet. So he was in a foul mood as he took to the saddle for what—his third trip today?—back to the little village of Wembury. Aswan wisely kept his own counsel and without a murmur took possession of the horses as they dismounted once again in the inn’s courtyard.

      The innkeeper, Mr Drake, had evidently been awaiting their arrival. Trey eyed the man with a bit of distaste; he found him rather dandified for a proprietor of a backwoods inn.

      ‘Lord Treyford, your…guests have all been accommodated. I must warn you, though, that the boy has been put on a cot in your room.’

      ‘Thank you,’ Trey answered. ‘Of course, you will apply all of their expenses to my account.’

      ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I had wondered…’

      Trey was sure he had. In fact, he was sure that the whole village would be wondering by morning. But that was the least of his worries. Was he going to have to wait until morning to get some answers? ‘Are they all abed, then?’ he asked.

      ‘Aye, they are.’ The man leaned in close. ‘Had you any luck, sir?’

      ‘Only the ill sort.’

      ‘Bad news, that is, my lord.’ He shot Trey a wry look. ‘Today all the good citizens of Wembury will be a-twitter with the gossip. Tonight they’ll be wide-eyed in their beds, sure that they will be the ruffians’ next victims.’ Sighing, the innkeeper shook his head. ‘Every rusty blunderbuss in the county will be hauled out of storage, just like in those hungry, restless months after the war. Back then, old Jeremiah Martin shot his own brother in the arse, thinking he was a run-down Peninsular veteran come to steal his prized hog. We’ll be damned lucky if no one is killed.’

      Drake heaved another sigh, then slapped a hand down on the counter, startling Trey. ‘Well, then, my lord, I’ve an extremely nice brandy laid out in the private parlour, should you like a nip before you retire.’

      Trey hesitated only a moment. It was obvious that Mr Drake was not averse to a little soporific gossip. Suddenly, despite his usual scruples, Trey discovered he might not be averse, either. He needed answers, and he might finally begin to ask the right questions if he had a better understanding of the situation. And tired though he was, somehow retiring to a chamber with Will—and no doubt the dog—held little appeal.

      The private parlour was more elegantly done up than one would expect, and the brandy was indeed very fine. Trey leaned back into the comfortably stuffed chair. ‘I would like to think that discretion is one of the services my money will buy, Mr Drake.’

      ‘Certainly.’ He returned Trey’s look with a sober one of his own. ‘In this case, however, my discretion is of no use to you. The men who rode with you tonight, they will talk.’

      Drake held up the decanter and, at Trey’s nod, poured them each a second drink.

      ‘Gossip, superstition, unlikely tales of the supernatural, and the mysterious,’ Drake said as he settled back into his chair, ‘they are all an integral part of the atmosphere here. The locals thrive on it, repeat it and embellish it.’ With a lift of his chin he indicated the floors above. ‘Your friends, they are favourites, both in the locals’ hearts and in their whispered conversations.’

      ‘But what the hell is a wealthy shipping merchant like Mervyn Latimer doing setting up his family here?’ Trey nodded his head towards the ceiling. ‘Shouldn’t the lot of them be living in Plymouth, close to the shipping offices?’

      Drake sighed and took a drink. ‘Mervyn is a man who likes his privacy. Not easy to come by when you are famous twice over. In addition…’ he leaned closer and lowered his voice ‘…there are rumours that the young lady has dealt with her share of snobbery.’

      Trey raised a brow in question.

      ‘It’s her foreign blood, I suppose, although if you ask me it’s a damned shame. A lovelier girl you couldn’t ask to meet, in every way. But you know how dreadful people can be to an outsider. Here, in a smaller society, it is easier for her.’

      ‘Not to mention that here the people are more needful of her grandfather’s money?’

      ‘That too. In any case, we’ve our own deep-water quay, and in his sloop Mervyn could be at his main offices quickly enough.’

      Trey took a drink and thought a moment. ‘It seems to me that the girl is a sight more needful of her grandfather’s money than anyone else.’

      ‘And so she is,’ sighed Drake. ‘But without proof of Mervyn’s death—no body or any known catastrophe such as a shipwreck—the company remains in the hands of its board. Without his influence that group squabbles more than the local Ladies’ Aid Society. So much so that the courts have ordered Mervyn’s shares frozen pending investigation into the matter.’

      ‘And who knows how long such an investigation will take?’

      ‘Who knows when they will even begin, is the question.’

      ‘So,’ Trey mused, ‘the girl is accepted here, but left near to destitution and still gossiped about?’

      Drake flashed Trey a rueful smile. ‘But who among us could resist—especially when you throw in such a topic as the Pharaoh’s Lost Jewel?’

      The jolt of excitement Trey felt had him sitting up a little straighter. Miss Latimer had mentioned a jewel, had she not, when he tried to give her the scarab?

      ‘I don’t know the legend,’ he said, striving for a casual tone. ‘What can you tell me of it?’

      ‘Perhaps I would be better suited to answer that,’ a sharp feminine voice said from the doorway.

      It should have been impossible for a man of his age and experience, but Trey found himself blushing like a schoolgirl caught gossiping under the covers. Drake, however, seemed unperturbed, rising to greet the Latimer girl with his usual smoothness.

      ‘Miss Latimer, I had thought you abed. Ah, it is not surprising that you should have difficulty sleeping after such a dreadful experience. Shall I warm you some milk, to help you drift off?’

      Arms crossed, she leaned against the doorjamb, all injured dignity and unrelenting disapproval. ‘No, thank you, Mr Drake.’

      ‘Well, then, since you are awake…’ he glanced at Trey with sympathy. ‘A message was left here for you earlier. I shall just fetch it.’

      He eased his way past her, but her disdain appeared to be focused firmly on Trey. He pasted on his most obnoxious look of unconcern and waved her into the room. ‘Good, I am glad you are up. We have much to discuss.’

      ‘Yes, so much that you decided not to wait for me, I see.’

      Trey shrugged. ‘Drake said you were abed. I merely meant to begin sorting out this mess.’

      She glared, but held her peace as Drake returned, a sealed missive in hand. He handed it to her and shot Trey a mute look of apology.

      Trey ignored him. A belated sense of uneasiness had him watching the girl instead. Who would be sending the chit a message here? A curious look passed over her face as she broke the seal and began to read.

      ‘Something is not right,’ he said. ‘Who, besides the people in this room, or asleep upstairs, would know you are here?’

      She did not answer. Trey glanced over at her. Even in the candlelight she looked bloodless. Her face was blank, her gaze fixed to the sheet she still held with trembling fingers. Trey had to suppress a sigh of exasperation. Lord, not again.

      ‘What