“I do not at this time enjoy the wedded state,” Hazlit said, his smile surprisingly boyish. “I do enjoy the unwedded state.”
“Thus sayeth we all,” the earl said, escorting Hazlit to the front door. “Those of us in expectation of titles sometimes particularly enjoy the unwedded state—while we can.” Something briefly shone in Hazlit’s dark eyes— regret? Sympathy?—it was gone before the earl could analyze it.
“Good day, my lord,” Hazlit said, his eyes drifting to the huge bouquet on the table, “and good luck keeping your valuables safe.”
The earl retreated to his study, penned a note asking Val to return to the townhouse at his earliest convenience, and another thanking Heathgate for the recent hospitality. For all Hazlit had been informative, though, Westhaven had the sense there were still answers only Anna could provide.
So he sat for a long time, sipping his sweetened lemonade, contemplating the bouquet in the fireplace, and considering how exactly he could keep Anna Seaton—Anna
When darkness was beginning to fall, Westhaven was pleased to see both his brothers would be joining him for dinner. Val, with music books, wardrobe, and horse in tow, had rejoined the earl’s household, claiming the duke was bloody well enough recovered to drive anybody to Bedlam.
Dev was clearly trying to contain his questions about the fire out in Surrey, but when the meal was consumed, sweets and all, the earl asked his brothers to take an after-dinner stroll with him to the stables. Once there, away from the house and its balconies, he explained what Hazlit had told him and enlisted his brothers’ support in seeing to it Anna and Morgan were kept safe.
“But you can’t keep them under surveillance every minute,” Dev protested. “They are intelligent women, and they will soon know we’re up to something.”
“I’ll talk to Anna tonight,” the earl said. “She has to be made to see reason, or I’ll bundle her off to Morelands myself, there to be confined until she’ll marry me.”
Val exchanged a look with Dev. “So the ducal blood will out, and you’re taking the Roman example of seizing and carrying off your bride.”
Westhaven sighed. “I am no more willing to force a marriage on Anna than she would be willing to take her vows on those terms. I would live down to her worst expectations were I to even attempt it.”
“Glad you comprehend that much,” Dev said. “Best of luck convincing her she needs bodyguards. Morgan, at least, can’t argue with us.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Val said, his expression preoccupied. “I have missed my piano though, so I’ll leave you, Westhaven, to reason with Anna, while I bare my soul to my art.”
“Damn.” Dev watched his youngest brother depart and smiled at the earl. “And here I’ve been baring everything else to the wenches at the Pleasure House. Which of us, do you suppose, has it right?”
“Neither.” The earl smiled. “When it comes down to it, I’m having to admit in the things that matter most, it’s the duke who has gotten closest to the mark.”
Devlin cast him a curious glance then ambled off to tuck in his horses. Westhaven was alone in the darkened alley when he heard the barest thread of a whisper summoning him farther into the shadows.
“This is short notice, your lordship.” Hazlit studied the Earl of Westhaven by the light of the candles in the man’s library. It was a handsome room, and Hazlit had noted at their earlier meeting the whole house appeared well cared for. The bouquets were fresh, the wood work polished, the windows sparkling, and not a speck of dust to be seen.
“I apologize for the lateness of the hour, Hazlit,” the earl said. “May I offer you a drink?”
“You may.” Hazlit accepted the offer, in part because the quality of the drink served told him about a man’s character, but also because he had the sense the earl was offering not in an attempt to manipulate but out of sheer good breeding.
“Whiskey or brandy?”
“Whatever you’re having,” Hazlit replied. “I assume we meet to discuss the same matter?”
“We do,” the earl said, handing Hazlit a generous tot of whiskey. “To your health.”
“Yours.” Hazlit sipped cautiously then paused. “Lovely, but I don’t recognize it.”
“It’s a private label.” The earl smiled. “Heathgate owns the distillery and calls this his bribing vintage.”
Hazlit nodded. He
“Shall we sit?” The earl gestured to the long, comfortable-looking leather sofa, and Hazlit sank into one corner. The earl took up a rocking chair, his drink in hand. “I have become aware my house is being watched, front and back. I had a very interesting discussion last night when I went to bid my horse good night. I was accosted by an urchin loyal to David Worthington, Viscount Fairly, who was picketed in my mews unbeknownst to me.”
Hazlit merely nodded, his eyes locked on the earl.
“More significantly,” the earl went on, “I was informed my house is also being watched by the minions of one Whit, who is in the employ of two gentlemen from the North, one of whom is obese.” The earl paused to sip his drink. “I recently purchased a modest property a short distance from Town, Willow Bend by name. The stables there were burned last week, and other buildings were soaked with lamp oil. By chance, acquaintances happened to see the stables burning and summoned help before the rest of the property could be set ablaze.
“Fortunately, the place was not yet occupied, and only the stables were lost. I hired a runner, who was able to deduce that two men, well dressed, one quite portly, bought a quantity of lamp oil the day before my stables burned, from the last likely source before one leaves Town for the Surrey countryside.”
“You suspect these men were sent after Mrs. Seaton,” Hazlit suggested.
The earl met Hazlit’s eyes. “I suspect one of them of being her brother, the earl. Is he reported to be portly?”
“He is not.” Hazlit fished in a pocket of his coat, and brought out a small pad of a paper. “Have you a pen?”
The earl got up and went to his desk, setting out ink, pen, sand, and knife on the blotter. Hazlit brought his drink to the desk, assumed the earl’s wingback chair, and with the earl looking over his shoulder, sketched a figure of a man.
“Helmsley,” Hazlit said tersely, tearing off the sheet and starting another sketch, this one of the man’s face. While Hazlit sketched, the earl studied the little ink drawing.
“Helmsley has bulk to him,” Hazlit said as he worked. “He’s close to six feet, and bad living is going to ensure middle age is a short interlude before the man’s shoulders are stooped, his gut sagging, and his face lined. There.”
Hazlit tore off the second drawing. “He bears a slight resemblance to your housekeeper around the eyes and perhaps in the texture and color of the hair.”
“He does.” The earl frowned. “He’s older than Anna?”
“He is. He is not your portly man, though. He qualifies as well fed but not obese.”
“Can you take this picture to the man who sold the lamp oil?” the earl suggested, picking up the second drawing. “And maybe get a description of the other fellow?”
“I can. I can also go back north and ask around regarding the portly man.”
“That will take some time.” The earl leaned against the arm of the sofa. “I hardly need tell you to spare no expense.” He appeared lost in thought, and Hazlit waited. “Do you think Anna’s grandmother is well enough to travel?”
“She hasn’t been seen much off the estate since her husband died,” Hazlit replied. “That does not suggest good health, but it might also mean she’s a virtual prisoner.”
The earl looked up sharply, and Hazlit had the sense his casual comment snapped something into place in the earl’s mind.
“If we cannot establish Anna’s brother is here in London,” the earl said slowly, “then I want you to go north and figure out just where the hell he is. I believe he is the primary threat to Anna’s welfare, and his leverage is that he holds her grandmother’s welfare in his hands.”
“And the fat man?” Hazlit rose. “We know he’s in Town and that he’s probably lying in wait for Mrs.
