An Unexpected Earl (Lords of the Armory #2) - Anna Harrington Page 0,34

grudgingly tossed her the coin. She certainly knew extortion, all right.

“And if Amelia Howard ever asks to borrow another dress from you,” he warned, “you’ll tell her that you’ve nothing in her size.”

Madame’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Of course.” She palmed the coin and sashayed from the room. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

She left with a throaty laugh, and for several long seconds, the two men stared after her, saying nothing.

Then Merritt drawled, “Amelia Howard, hmm? Frederick Howard’s sister.”

Pearce grunted noncommittally.

“Borrowing dresses from a brothel owner. And you upset about it.” Merritt slid a sideways glance at Pearce. “Do I even want to know?”

“No.”

Wisely, Merritt let the subject drop and asked instead, “Do you want me to assign men to follow Miss Howard?”

“No, I want you to put them on her brother.” Pearce strode from the room. “Amelia is all mine.”

Nine

Amelia did her best to pretend that she was listening to Frederick as he paced the rear room of her shop, and directly behind her as she was attempting to work at her desk in the slant of afternoon sunlight falling through the window. But sweet Lord, he was bothering her to no end! And right when she was so terribly busy, too, with inventory to take, window displays to arrange, a plan to formulate for convincing Charles Varnham to overlook whatever Freddie had done, and Pearce to avoid at all costs.

Especially avoiding Pearce. He’d already come far too close yesterday to learning the truth. At one point, she’d almost capitulated and told him everything, a part of her longing for the protection he’d offered. The thought of being able to confide in him stirred a comforting warmth in her belly, a familiarity of being with him that colored memories of her childhood and made her ache once again for that same closeness. And that was dangerous, because she still didn’t know if she could trust him with her secrets.

But all that Frederick could think about—

“It’s a turnpike, for God’s sake!”

He paused in pacing to smack his hand in frustration against the desk where she was attempting to update the account ledgers. Her quill jerked and streaked a line across the page.

She bit back a curse, heaving out an irritated sigh instead, and reached for the blotter to clean up the mess.

“How could Sandhurst not be interested? The man should be turning cartwheels of joy that I’d suggested it to him.”

“You met with him yesterday,” Amelia reminded him. For over an hour. She knew because she’d kept herself carefully hidden in the dining room the entire time, hoping to overhear important information as Pearce left, but garnering nothing except his parting appreciation for Freddie’s choice of cognac. Now she feigned disinterest when the voice inside her head screamed for details. “What did he say, exactly?”

“Nothing. I couldn’t pin him down. All he did was ask questions—who the trustees will be, why I chose them, why I would want a turnpike trust in the first place…” He scowled. “Damned suspicious, if you ask me.”

“What ulterior motive would Lord Sandhurst possibly have for delaying?” she murmured as artlessly as possible, not daring to lift her eyes to look at him.

“I don’t know.” He turned hopefully toward her. “You two had a moment alone together in the entry hall before I arrived. Did he say anything to you about not wanting be part of it—anything at all?”

“Not one word.” The God’s truth. He hadn’t said anything to the contrary…but only because she’d been the one doing all the talking. If Pearce had any compassion in him, he would find a way to continue to evade a concrete decision until after Parliament ended. If only for her sake.

“Are you certain?”

“It’s all new to him. He just needs more time.” To string you along until the blackmailer is no longer a threat. “You’re asking the man to place a large chunk of his property into someone else’s control for what could be uncertain profits.” And asking me to hand mine over for a complete loss of control and no profits at all. “Give him time to consider it.”

“We don’t have time.” As he began to pace again, he gestured in frustration in the general direction of Westminster. “The session’s going to end in less than a fortnight.”

Dear God, she hoped so! Yet she calmly reminded him, “But the trust will remain viable, that’s what matters.” Knowing she would never be able to figure the last of the columns with him here, she