Mr. Arnold arrested? Escaped?
A twinge of unease traveled through her body. She had no idea. Did Uncle Whitney know of this? Her uncle never discussed politics or his business with her. He considered both subjects to be beyond her understanding. Her aunt agreed with him that Gillian should remain innocent of the vagaries of the world beyond Mayfair society Moreham’s recitation of events did cause her unease. No, she would not entertain the outlandish notion that Uncle Whitney was a traitor.
Gillian attempted to understand Moreham’ words. Her heart raced at the thought of Uncle Whitney being involved in any business directed against the government and his king. The notion was simply unfathomable. She must control her emotions. Now was not the time to lose her temper and say something that could harm her uncle.
“My lord, I know in my heart, Uncle Whitney isn’t a traitor. I’m willing to risk everything I hold dear to prove my uncle’s innocence.”
Moreham jerked backward. “Miss Browning, I do not see how you can be of assistance, and I’m most certain Lady Philly told you the same as well. I will admit you have surprised me. Your presence here is proof you are made of stern stuff.”
“You have no idea who I am or what I am capable of.”
The man had the audacity to laugh. “No, you are right on that score and I intend to keep it that way.”
Her stomach flipped. She refused to return home empty-handed. Good thing she’d thought through the possible outcomes of their conversation beforehand. Time to make the earl a proposition he could not refuse. At least, she prayed her offer of assistance would be far too appealing to the spymaster.
Gillian shifted so she faced Moreham. She wanted to watch his face as she spoke. She was convinced the gentleman had no notion how much she really knew about his activities. She leaned forward. “One of your agents is masquerading as a footman in my uncle’s home. Don’t ask how I know this. I won’t tell you. I also know that footman has searched the house, but he has been unable to breech my uncle’s private sanctum, his bookroom. I can get you, not him, into that room.”
To her delight, Moreham looked completely flummoxed. A fissure of delight raced through her at the notion she had caught Philly’s agent off-guard not once but twice.
“My lord, say something. I’m offering to help you because I know you’ll find nothing. I will have your word as a gentleman and a peer when your search yields nothing to incriminate my uncle, you’ll declare him no longer under suspicion. We both know my offer is in your best interest. The sooner you clear his name, you will be able to turn your attention to the others on that list of yours.”
Moreham shook his head. “Only a woman would devise a plan based on that logic. What if you are wrong? What if I’m the one in the right and I find the proof I seek? I will not hesitate to hand over any evidence of guilt. I don’t concoct tales. I present the truth and all supporting documentation. Ask yourself, will you be able to live with yourself should your actions prove instrumental in Whitney’s conviction and hanging?”
“I refuse to acknowledge that possibility. Will you accept my offer?”
Before her eyes, he changed. His ever so proper gentlemanly façade vanished. Fear gnawed at her insides as he leaned forward closing the meager distance between them. She’d never encountered such fierceness so close at hand.
Gillian had thought herself prepared to deal with this man. She couldn’t have been more wrong. Even so, she found his demeanor fascinating. Moreham was no fool.
Why she reached for his hand, she’d never know. All she knew was she had to say or do something, or the earl would send her packing. “My lord, your answer?” She shuddered at the needy sound in her voice. Now was not the time to turn missish. “All I ask of you is to allow me to help. With me at your side, your search will go much quicker. My uncle like so many of his age is having eyesight problems. I’ve been I have been helping him with his ledgers for the last year or so. My assistance will make your search go much quicker.”
He quirked one eyebrow and gave her hand a pointed look. “Miss Browning, it is not the files you know about that I will be looking for in my search.”
Gillian jerked her hand back. “I have keys. I’ll open the room and help you search his private papers.” She waited for him to agree to her insane proposition. For him to do otherwise was unthinkable.
“You will arrange for me to search the duke’s private study?” he asked.
“Yes, because I know you’ll find nothing.”
“No, you do not know such is true. Hope makes all of us fools, but I’ll own, I’m a desperate man. Searching Whitney’s bookroom will make short work of my investigation…I’ll accept your offer. Have no doubt, should I discover proof of your uncle’s guilt, I’ll arrest him.”
Moreham looked over her shoulder. “’Tis three o’clock and I must either seek my bed or collapse on this woefully short settee. My exhaustion will provide you with more time to reconsider your offer”
“I won’t change my mind,” Gillian replied.
Moreham continued as if she had not spoken, “You ride in the park every morning. If you are still resolute in your intent, meet me on Rotten Row tomorrow…um…rather this morning. We will discuss your proposal further.” Moreham stood, bowed to her, then headed for the library doors before she could reply. “If you do not appear, I’ll assume you have come to your senses and will remain out of the fray. Regardless of your decision, this encounter never happened.”
At the door, he
