“Certainly.”
A few moments later, after an attendant was summoned with fresh parchment and quill, Justin sat on the settee before the grate. A brief flash of light caught his eye, and he bent to investigate. When he straightened, he held aloft a lone tin soldier. The mental image of Remington’s children here with Lady Julienne made him smile.
“Remington?”
“Yes, my lord?” Remington glanced up from his paperwork.
“Would you be so kind as to compile a small list of merchants I might visit to purchase amusements for a small boy?”
Remington’s gaze moved to the toy and he grinned. “Certainly.”
Justin nodded his gratitude, then returned his attention to his most pressing task and began to write.
First, to his mother:
Then, to Lord Rothschild:
And finally, he began to transcribe the most grievous, valuable, and intriguing information of that held in the file. All the while he thought of Sophie, wondering what she would think of the man he had become-one willing to go to any length for love.
Chapter Eight
Fontaine pulled his mount to a halt before the Earl of Rothschild’s London townhouse. He imagined he should feel out of sorts or ill-at-ease at the very least. Instead he was determined and sure of his intent. In an hour or so, his life would be firmly set upon the path of his choosing. There was no way to avoid feeling triumphant about that.
Passing the reins to the waiting groomsman, the marquess climbed the short stairs with a decided spring to his step. Within moments, he was announced and shown into a large sitting room that boasted walls of pale gray woodwork inset with panels of grayish-green damask and a ceiling that was the canvas for an impressive mural featuring fat cherubs frolicking amongst fatter clouds. The overall impression was one of affluence, but Justin was well aware that, in this instance, appearances were deceiving.
“Lord Fontaine.”
Turning his attention to the man who approached him, Justin noted the assured stride and uplifted chin of Sophie’s brother. They were very much alike, the two Milton-Riley siblings. Physically similar in coloring and bearing, both tall and slender, yet there was a gulf between the two so wide they were nearly strangers to one another. Justin suspected it was due to the fact that they had been raised apart. Rothschild had been sent away to school, while Sophie resided with her
“Lord Rothschild,” he greeted.
“An unexpected call,” Rothschild said, returning the avid scrutiny with narrowed green eyes.
“Though not unwelcome, I hope.”
“That remains to be seen, does it not? Grave matters are rarely pleasant.”
Fontaine smiled and sank into the nearest chair, a narrow settee covered in soft green fabric and backed with intricately carved wood. “I have come bearing honorable intentions toward Lady Sophie.”
The earl’s eyes widened. A brief shocked silence filled the room, and then he threw his head back and laughed.
Bending down, Justin reached into the leather satchel he had set on the floor at his feet. He carefully withdrew the documents his solicitor had drawn up at his behest and passed them over. Rothschild’s amused gaze turned to one of bewilderment as he accepted the proffered packet and settled into the seat opposite.
For a time, the only sounds in the room where those of pages turning and the ticking of the clock. Justin waited out the earl’s reaction to his demands by studying the contents of the room, looking for any item that might match the articles mentioned in Remington’s file.
“Dear God. Who arranged this farce?” Rothschild asked finally.
“I beg your pardon?”
Lifting his head, the earl blinked in obvious confusion. “I would not have thought you likely to be involved in a mockery of this magnitude. What wager did you lose to be pressed into this?”
“I am entirely sincere,” Justin assured. “I wish to wed your sister and you shall make that possible.”
“Are you serious?”
“Quite.”
“Bloody hell.” An incredulous silence filled the room for a long moment, then the earl snorted. “Have her, if you so desire, but the stipulations you make in this agreement are the ravings of a madman. I am free of her as it stands. I’ve no need to part with anything of value in order to accomplish that.”
“True. I appeal to your gentleman’s honor.”
“You waste both of our afternoons with this nonsense.” Rothschild stood, tossing the packet onto the small table between them.
“I ask only for the items that belong to Lady Sophie. I’ve no desire for anything beyond that.”
“I will not simply hand them over to you, Fontaine, which will necessitate a lengthy courtroom drama while you attempt to prove ownership. You may have lost your head over Sophie, but I think there are limits to the amount of scandal you are capable of tolerating.”
Justin’s mouth curved grimly as he reached back into his satchel. He watched as the earl crossed the room to stand before the window. Rothschild appeared irritated, yes, but his frame also vibrated with a barely perceptible anxiousness that betrayed his concern. The earl was not ignorant. He would know that leverage of some sort was involved. The man was bluffing, as all gamblers were wont to do.
“I had hoped to keep this exchange on pleasant footing,” Fontaine said easily, leaning forward to set a sealed document atop the table. Although he was completely focused on the nuances of the earl’s physical reactions to his increasingly aggressive salvos, he kept his own exterior relaxed and innocuous.
Rothschild glanced over, his verdant gaze dropping to the tabletop. His hands were clasped at his back, stretching the dark broadcloth of his coat across his shoulders. Unlike many who found that addiction to gambling and the drinking of strong spirits went hand-in-hand, the earl was trim, fit, and known only as one who liked to wager on just about anything. Sadly, he wasn’t very good at it.
Sighing, Sophie’s brother returned to his previous seat to inspect the new offering and Justin turned his attention to a small statue that graced one of several artfully arranged bookcases. The many volumes that lined the shelves were displayed in every possible fashion-on their sides, spine outward, and front-facing. In between, various antiquities waited to be admired and coveted.
It was not long before the earl made some hideous noise that was something between a strangled gasp and a sob.
“By God!” Rothschild sputtered. “Where did you get this information?”
The marquess shrugged. “I have my ways.”
“You cannot prove any of this!”
“Do I need to?” Looking at the earl, Fontaine raised both brows in silent query. “What a deucedly nasty business that would be. Of course, it might be worth it. Your scandal might take some of the attention away from mine. Yours is decidedly more lurid, I think you will agree.”
Rothschild’s face flushed with anger and embarrassment. “You do not understand my position.”
“Oh, I think I do. You and Sophie were bequeathed a modest collection of Egyptian antiquities by a French relative, and you are presently using them to guarantee your markers.”
“So, you see, I must retain them.”
“No,
