To Love a Tormented Earl - Bridget Barton Page 0,4

dismissed at the time?'

'Of course, but years ago I had a local solicitor make inquiries, and it would appear that he was eventually reinstated. He may no longer be there now, however.'

Roberts snorted.

'I might be more indignant except that it serves my purposes for the man to still be at the estate,' Max said. 'Otherwise, I should have little hope of acquiring a sample of his penmanship.'

'Well, it shan’t take all that long to acquire such a thing, if he is still there,' Roberts said.

Max was unconvinced by his friend’s optimism. 'I hadn’t worked out how I was going to get either the original letter or the sample, yet. Now I haven’t any time to come up with a plan.'

Roberts sank the object ball, winning the game.

'Well,' he said, looking pleased. 'We shall just have to put our heads together, shan’t we?'

***

Sitting at her pianoforte—a large Broadwood Grand she adored—Emilia played a series of notes and then jotted them down on the sheet she was using.

As she did, her traitorous mind wandered back to the encounter with the gentleman and the dog again.

He had Lord Ceastre’s green eyes.

It still felt strange to think of him as Lord Ceastre, but of course, that is who he became when his father died, just over three years ago. She hadn’t had enough time to become accustomed to the new form of address before the young earl left for Portugal, and soon word spread of his illness and death.

How she had wept when she heard the news.

Even then she had known she was being very silly. Indeed, it was a tragedy, to lose such a graceful, well-mannered man so young, but why she felt it to be such a personal loss, she was loath to say.

Nothing improper had ever transpired between them. She wasn’t even certain he was aware of the arrangement between his father and hers until he went through his father’s effects after his death. He told her he intended to continue the lessons, of course. Thus he had become aware of the secret, at the very least. But he never made her feel ashamed of it. For that, she was deeply grateful.

But gratitude could not explain the violence of her grief at the news of his demise.

In the present, Emilia uttered a little grunt of annoyance that would have quite put her mother out had she been present to hear it. Ladies did not grunt. But ladies also did not compose cantatas to sell in secret to royal composers, so Emilia decided not to mind.

She turned back to the pianoforte and with her right hand, improvised a new melodic motif. It wouldn’t fit what she already had. She frowned.

It was Lord Ceastre. I know it was.

Emilia, I am begging you, put the dreadful incident out of your mind.

How could she be mistaken, she wondered despite the thought, when she felt such a deep sense of recognition?

Things aren’t always what they seem.

Perhaps not. Perhaps she had simply encountered a man with a striking resemblance to the dead earl. A relation of his. It was possible.

Her fingers depressed the keys again but the result was dissonant.

Then, she heard a shuffling noise coming from the corridor.

It was late. Everyone had retired, even the servants after she sent them to bed. Who could be moving about?

Emilia stood from the bench and made her way silently to the drawing room’s doorway. The sound was coming from the stairs to the second floor she realized.

Alarmed, she hurried closer, and saw her father slumping against the wall at the top.

'Papa!' she cried out, just as he slipped.

In a rush she flew up the stairs, but his hip struck the floor and then his head, the railing.

'Alice!' she screamed as she reached him, gathering the old man into her embrace. 'Oh, Alice! Mrs. Gale! Randall!' she called for the housekeeper and butler.

As she listened for the sounds of movement in response to her cries, she examined her father’s head. The frail skin had broken where his forehead had hit the ornate iron of the rail.

'Emilia?' came Alice’s voice from above.

'Oh, Alice, please get Randall, quickly! Mr. Whitmore has had a fall!' Emilia replied.

Her father’s eyes fluttered open then.

'Papa, my dearest Papa, can you hear me?' she asked.

He blinked and smiled up at her. 'Of course, dear girl. What is the matter?'

Emilia bit back a sob. After a moment, she regained her composure. 'Nothing, Papa. Nothing at all. You’ve just taken a fall, I’m afraid. But we shall have you