An Unexpected Earl Page 5

  But the past was long dead, and they were no longer the children they’d once been. Certainly not Amelia. Not with the way she’d looked in that dress. Sweet Lucifer.

  Shoving down a fresh ache, he strode into the main room of the Amory to the sound of clashing sabers.

  Clayton Elliott and Merritt Rivers slashed in fierce strokes as they chased each other through the octagonal central room. Their blades flashed beneath the blazing light of the gas chandelier that hung from the medieval-looking tower overhead, and each strike of metal upon metal echoed against the stone and walnut-paneled walls. The fencing match must have started in the adjoining training room, then run amok to encompass the rest of the old building that had been turned into a gentlemen’s club of sorts by Marcus Braddock.

  Pearce ignored them and strode straight through the room toward the sideboard and its dozens of liquor bottles. The two men fought around him, with Merritt using him as a shield at one point to change his feint into an attack that had Clayton retreating over the brocade sofa.

  Pearce shrugged out of his greatcoat and tossed it aside with his hat and gloves onto one of the leather chairs, just missing the end of Merritt’s blade.

  “His shoulder drops before he lunges,” he called out as he snatched up a crystal tumbler from the silver tray on the sideboard.

  “Thanks,” Merritt answered as he blocked a thrust.

  Pearce opened the cabinet doors and pulled out a bottle of cognac. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

  Clayton laughed and attacked by leaping over the tea table.

  Ignoring the fighting behind him, Pearce pulled out the stopper and splashed the caramel-colored liquid into the glass—

  Rattling metal against stone jarred up his spine. His hand jerked, and brandy spilled onto the table.

  Biting back a curse, he glanced over his shoulder to see Clayton’s saber on the floor at his feet, with the tip of Merritt’s blade pointed at his throat.

  “Apologies,” Clayton called out to Pearce, breathless from exertion. He put up his hands and stepped back in a gesture of surrender, and Merritt lowered his saber with a grin. The two men shook hands and slapped each other on the back, already critiquing the match.

  Pearce scowled into his brandy as he took a long, welcome swallow and dropped into one of the leather chairs in front of the massive fireplace where a warm fire blazed against the unseasonably cold and damp night. He gestured at the footprint one of the pair had left in the middle of the sofa. “The general will have your hides if he finds out that you’ve been fighting in this room.”

  Marcus Braddock had spent a considerable portion of his personal fortune renovating and redecorating the old building. The general had turned it into a property that could rival any gentlemen’s club in London, but also into a training facility that bested Gentleman Jackson’s salon, filling the adjoining room with all kinds of equipment and weapons which the men of the Armory could use to maintain their fighting edge. And more importantly, into a sanctuary. Here, men who had witnessed the horrors of war could gather to take comfort in knowing that they understood one another and what they had been through. Here, there was no judgment. Only acceptance, honor, and a new way to serve England.

  But the general had also been absent a great deal of late, spending time with his family and new wife. Pearce couldn’t fault him for that, even if he were damnably jealous.

  “We had to do something to kill time while we waited for you,” Merritt commented, carrying the two sabers back into the training room.

  “But you’re back early.” Clayton slumped into the chair across from him and kicked his boots onto the low table between them. “You must have learned something tonight.”

  Yes. That twelve years could disappear in the blink of an eye.

  But Clayton meant Scepter.

  “The exact opposite.” Pearce swirled his brandy. “I discovered nothing new. So I came here to report it.”

  He also came here because he couldn’t yet bring himself to go home. That was the sad truth. The encounter with Amelia had rattled him to his bones, and he needed the sanctuary of the Armory and the company of his friends to put him at ease.

  All kinds of ghosts haunted him tonight. Not only Amelia and the terrible way they’d parted all those years ago, but others as well. He could feel one creeping up inside him again right now, that old restlessness that had shadowed him since he was a boy. Lately, it had followed him everywhere, making him feel antsy and unsettled, but he’d managed to keep it contained. Until tonight.

  Seeing Amelia again had yanked the cork right out of the bottle.

  He tossed back a large swallow. “I made it clear to anyone who listened that I was interested in pursuing ventures of all kinds, including unscrupulous ones,” he muttered. “If Scepter was interested in bringing more peers into its fold, they would have jumped at the chance to have me join them. But they didn’t.”

  “No bites at all?” Merritt asked as he strode back into the room and snatched up the decanter of cognac as he passed the side table.

  “Only one.” He blew out a breath and tugged at his cravat. The damnable thing was choking him. “But I’m certain it had nothing to do with Scepter.” He grimaced as Merritt refilled his glass before topping off his own. “Frederick Howard.” A bitter taste covered his tongue at the thought of Amelia’s family. Oh, he definitely recognized the man now, but wished he didn’t. “He wanted to discuss developing a property I own near Birmingham.”

  Merritt froze in midpour, his gaze darting to Clayton. The two men exchanged a solemn glance.

  Suspicion gnawed at Pearce’s belly. “What’s wrong?”

  “The reason I stopped by tonight wasn’t to let Merritt skewer me with a saber.” Clayton leaned forward, elbows on knees. He reached beneath his waistcoat to pull out a piece of paper, then handed it to Pearce. “A list of gentlemen recently given Parliament-approved appointments.”

  Pearce scanned the list of names, only recognizing about half of them. The half he knew had replaced the men who had been murdered. He handed it back to Clayton. “These names don’t mean anything by themselves.”

  “Then it’s a good thing that they’re not by themselves,” Merritt interjected as he stepped up to the fireplace. “Because they all have one thing in common.”

  “Yes. Their predecessors were murdered by Specter.”

  “No.” Merritt met Pearce’s gaze. “The Honorable Frederick Howard, Member of Parliament for Minehead.”

  That bit of information shocked through him like a jolt of electricity, yet he somehow kept his face inscrutable. “Explain.”

  “Howard bought his way into a pocket borough a few years ago, and since then, he’s formed political allies among both Whigs and Tories, putting himself into a position of increasing political power.” Clayton tucked the paper back into his waistcoat. “Each man on this list received his appointment due to Howard exerting his influence.”

  He scoffed. “Influence peddling? Every MP does that.” Pearce desperately wanted that to be true. For Amelia’s sake, he prayed that her brother was nothing more than a typical Westminster politician. “That doesn’t mean he has connections to Scepter or the murders.”

  “No. But he did have close associations with the Earl of Hartsham, whom we know without doubt was involved with Scepter. I’m not willing to take a chance that influence peddling is all he’s been doing.”

  Merritt interjected, “And he wants you to consider a business arrangement with him?”

  “Nothing that involves murder, that’s for sure.” He tossed back the last of his cognac and frowned at the bottom of the glass. “He wants to build a turnpike across our adjoining properties.”

  The two men exchanged another look. But this time, Merritt grinned.

  “What is it now?” Pearce half growled. He was a step behind. But then, subtle strategy had never been his
specialty. His expertise had lain in blasting the hell out of the enemy once plans had been made. Even now, the old restlessness that gnawed at him demanded action.

  “It takes an act of Parliament to create a turnpike,” Merritt explained. “A bill to empower a trust has to be passed to allow for the confiscation of land and to oversee the road’s creation, the collection and disbursement of tolls, and ongoing maintenance.”

  “I know,” Pearce grumbled. He was part of the Lords now, whether he liked it or not. “I’ve voted on over two dozen of the things since May.”

  “Then you also know that all trustees have to be approved by Parliament. Which technically makes them government appointees.”

  “Technically,” he repeated for emphasis, not yet wanting to admit to himself that Amelia’s brother was involved with Scepter. “But there’s a grand difference between turnpike trustees and the types of government positions that Scepter’s willing to murder for.” But saying that didn’t alleviate his growing unease. “This doesn’t mean Howard’s involved with Scepter. Just opportunistic.”

  “We can’t be certain of that,” Clayton reminded him.

  For Amelia’s sake, Pearce prayed they could be.

  He shoved himself out of the chair and crossed the room to the side table, ignoring the bottle that Merritt held only a few feet from his chair. He needed to move. Pouring himself a whiskey was simply an excuse to do so. “Howard’s involvement aside, we’re dancing around the most important question. Why should Scepter care about government appointments in the first place, and enough to kill for them?”

  “To put their men into positions of power,” Clayton answered.

  “Turnpike trustees?” Incredulity colored his voice. “No one in the history of England has ever associated turnpike trustees with positions of power.”

  “Never in the history of England has there been an organization like Scepter,” Merritt echoed quietly.

  That was the God’s truth. If what Clayton and Merritt were saying was true, then Amelia’s brother had been swept up into a hornet’s nest. “But a trust? Scepter murdered at least half a dozen men to free up those positions on your list.” He gestured at Clayton with his empty glass. “Maybe more. If they’re willing to do something like that, why on earth would they settle for trustees, men who don’t even earn a sinecure for serving?” He yanked the stopper out of the decanter and refilled his drink. “If Scepter’s intention is to put men into positions of power, they’ve gotten this one all wrong.”

  “Maybe not,” Clayton considered. “The Home Office and Bow Street have been investigating the deaths as murders. If Scepter has an informant inside the Home Office—and we have to assume they do—then they wouldn’t want to draw any more attention to themselves and what they’ve been doing. They’d find other ways to create openings. Perhaps even settling for something as innocuous as turnpike trustees.”

  “And now we’re back to my original question.” The stopper clinked softly as he returned it to the crystal decanter. “What does Scepter want with these positions, especially if they’re willing to accept such low ones?”

  Merritt grinned. “That’s why we have you. To find out exactly that.”

  Christ. Pearce tossed back nearly half the whiskey, but it did nothing to wash the acid from his tongue.

  Clayton asked, “Howard made you a formal offer?”

  “He suggested that we meet to discuss the possibility.”

  “Then I think you should, to see what you can discover.”

  Scepter and turnpikes? Pearce bit back a laugh. They were chasing down the wrong path.

  Instead of returning to his chair, he began to pace. His agitation didn’t bloom because this would prove to be a grand waste of time, just as all the other leads on Scepter had during the past few months. No, it was because of the Howards themselves. No matter that the old man was dead now, or that Amelia had clearly claimed the life in society she’d been destined for. The thought of becoming close with them again rattled him to his core, especially if Amelia planned to be involved with the trust.

  Was that why she was at the masquerade tonight, to assist her brother in working to convince him to partner with them? Did Howard also want to make Varnham a trustee?

  No. He’d seen the way she’d reacted when her brother approached him. She’d been startled, enough to flee into the path of that phaeton.

  So why the devil had she been there?

  “What do you have to lose?” Merritt collapsed into Pearce’s vacated chair. “If Howard’s working for Scepter, then we’ll use him to gain more information on the organization’s leaders. If he’s just an MP peddling his influence, then you’ll be the proud father of a new stretch of turnpike and all the benefits it brings.”

  “Wonderful,” Pearce drawled sardonically. “Just the heir I need.”

  Clayton shot him a hard look, one that had made subordinate officers and infantrymen quake in their boots during the wars. The same look that now brought quickly into line the men who worked beneath him at the Home Office. “Howard’s the link we’ve been hunting for,” he said with absolute certainty. “He might not have had a direct hand in the murders, but I’d bet a box of the finest American cigars that Fribourg & Treyer sells that he’s working for Scepter.”

  Dread seeped through Pearce. He didn’t give a damn about turnpikes and land development. But if Howard was involved with Scepter, then Amelia was in danger, and he would still do anything he could to protect her.

  He drawled out his agreement. “It seems I’ll be calling on Howard in the morning, then.”

  And on his sister.

  He set down his glass, picked up his coat, and left.

  For once, nighttime London was quiet as he made his way from Mayfair to Wapping in the hackney he’d hired, having sent his own town coach home. How he preferred to spend restless nights like this wasn’t the business of his coachman, and his own personal safety wasn’t a concern. After all, God help the footpad who attempted to rob him when he was in a mood like this.

  Sweet Jesus…Amelia Howard. Apparently a lot more had transpired in the past twelve years than he’d been aware of to bring a sweet girl like her to an event like Torrington’s.

  But then, hadn’t everything changed for him as well?

  That night of her sixteenth birthday had broken his heart. He’d loved her, it had been that simple. She was kind, brilliant, and lovely, inside and out. His best friend. How could he deny himself the chance to finally be that close to her? But they were discovered, and all hell had broken loose.

  As he’d left her father’s house, bloodied and bruised after their private conversation in the man’s study, Peace hadn’t even been able to take a last look over his shoulder at all he was about to lose. Because she would have been there, he knew, standing at her upstairs window, watching him go.

  Yet leaving had been for the best—for both of them. He’d hated the reason, but because of that night, he’d been given an officer’s commission in the army and a new life that allowed him to put his energy and restlessness to purpose and gave him the chance to prove his worth.

  He’d always known that Amelia belonged with someone else. Someone better. An aristocrat who could give her the life of status and luxury that she deserved. The one she would never have had with him. It had always been only a matter of time anyway until he left Birmingham for a better job and she found her way into society and marriage. Attempting to have any other future but the one fate had thrust onto them would have been pointless.

  He just hadn’t expected that leaving her would be so damned painful.

  When the hackney reached the main street in Wapping that ran between the Thames and the row of warehouses that fronted it, he pounded his fist against the carriage roof. “Here!”

  The hackney stopped. Pearce bounded to the ground, tossing a coin up to the jarvey.

 
The driver glanced around at the damp and deserted street that was rapidly filling with fog. “You sure this is where you want me t’ drop you?”

  “I’ll be fine.” Pearce slapped his hand against the side of the rig to send it away and strode quickly down the street toward one of the old abandoned warehouses. More than fine.

  Tonight, he needed to come here the way other men needed air to breathe. He needed to push Amelia from his mind and punish his body until he turned numb, just as he’d done all those years ago when he’d taken up his commission with the 1st Battalion of the Coldstream Guards. Fear and physical pain had done a damnably fine job of it then, too. He’d been able to focus on his command to the exclusion of all else, and as a result, he’d proven himself on the battlefield, saving as many men as possible and earning promotion after promotion. By Waterloo, he was a brigadier. The army had become his life, and he’d been more than happy with it.

  Then, while the Coldstream Guards were still in Paris, no longer fighting the war but keeping the peace, everything changed. The Earl of Sandhurst had died without warning and without a close heir. The House of Lords’s Committee for Privileges had to search all the way down the family tree to its roots to discover that the next viable heir was Pearce. He could only imagine the shock that must have rung through both Wythburn Manor and his uncle’s inn in Birmingham when that news arrived on their doorsteps. It was the same shock, certainly, that had slammed into him.

  Good Lord. A more screwed-up system of awarding fortune and privilege he couldn’t imagine. But here he was. Earl of Sandhurst. Now saddled with estates, houses, a fortune to manage, and an officer’s rank that had become obsolete with the peace.