"And we must keep Geordie from saying anything. Although I don't know what he'd say-I'm not sure he even understands the problem with Hugh. We just have to make sure he supports our contention that Hugh is ill."

"I'll speak to him in the morning. Don't worry-I won't let Hugh or Geordie ruin this. It's our only chance." Sissy settled back in her chair. "Now, tell me everything that happened. How did you change Lord Jarret's mind?"

She sighed. Sissy always had to hear the gossip, and generally Annabel was happy to recite every detail. But a more oblique version of the truth was in order tonight.

She had shamed her family once with her behavior. She wasn't about to let Sissy think she might do so again.

Chapter Six.

Jarret stalked down High Borough Street in a vain attempt to squelch the anger Annabel Lake had brought roaring to the surface. After her snide remark about having him where she wanted him, he'd been tempted to show her exactly where he wanted her.

But showing her he desired her had been what provoked her to make that comment in the first place. Had he lost his mind? First, he'd wagered for her very honor, then he'd besmirched it in some grimy inn hall. What if someone had come along? What if, G.o.d forbid, her sister-in-law had come out?

He'd been thinking with his c.o.c.k, like some randy buck fresh on the town. The woman had a knack for fracturing his control.

Yes, she was pretty. Then again, so were plenty of women. But none of them would have braved a tavern full of men to save their family's brewery. None of them would have beaten him at cards or called his scandalous bluff.

When she'd made a.s.sumptions about the wager, it had infuriated him. After everything that had happened, he'd hoped to at least knock some sense into her. But instead of recognizing how close she'd come to ruination, she'd accused him of letting her win.

The chit was maddening. Maddening! She had no idea how she could tempt an unscrupulous man, no sense of danger. How could she be that nave at her age? Nearly thirty? He would never have guessed her to be that-she looked fresh and sweet as a spring bouquet. Long in the tooth, indeed.

And what was wrong with the men in Burton, that one of them hadn't made her his bride? It made no sense. Unless it was she who balked at marriage.

I haven't married, sir, because I see no benefit to it.

Well, she had him there. He couldn't see much benefit to marriage either, so they certainly had that in common.

But he could see plenty of benefit in taking her to bed, covering that body with his, peeling away her serviceable gown to explore the surprisingly lush b.r.e.a.s.t.s and the deliciously curvy waist and the- d.a.m.n her to h.e.l.l! Her obsession with her brother's brewery clearly made her take risks no innocent should take. She hadn't yet learned that risking all for some dream of success was foolish and fraught with pain. Look at him-the one time he'd broken his own rules, mixed his business with pleasure, wagering for something he had no right to wager for, it had led straight to disaster.

Of course, that was partly because he'd let himself be distracted by thoughts of Gran and her machinations. If not for her, he wouldn't be worrying over the brewery or his sibling's prospects. He'd be drifting from card game to card game, needing no one, having no one need him.

Becoming more bored with every pa.s.sing day.

He scowled. Where had that come from? He wasn't bored. His life was fine.

That is not a suitable life for a clever man like yourself.

With a curse, he entered the tavern. Gran knew nothing about it. She'd been the one to say he should be a barrister, and every instinct in him rebelled at the idea.

"Well, well, look who's back," Gabe said with a grin.

The crowd had thinned out now that the excitement was over. Pinter sat drinking, Gabe had a tavern maid on one knee, and Masters was shuffling cards.

The minute Masters saw Jarret, he pulled out a chair. "Now that the lady's gone, you can tell us the truth about what you would have won if the cards had gone your way."

Jarret struggled to keep his temper. "I already told you. Her mother's ring."

"Right. A ring," Masters scoffed.

"Are you calling me a liar, Masters?"

Masters blinked. "Certainly not. I merely think it odd that you-"

"Think what you wish, but I'd better not hear you thinking it aloud to anyone ever again. Do you understand me?"

"G.o.d, Jarret, who put the stick up your a.r.s.e?" Gabe asked, eliciting a giggle from the tavern maid.

"The same goes for you, Gabe," he warned. "Not one word, do you hear?"

When he turned his gaze to Pinter, the runner held up his hands. "No need to caution me, sir. I don't spread gossip about ladies."

"Pay him no mind, Pinter," Masters said dryly. "He's just sore that he lost. And to a woman, too."

Remembering why he'd lost, Jarret rounded on Masters. "That's another thing. Why were you asking about Minerva's prospects for marriage?"

Masters looked instantly wary. "I don't recall doing so."

"You did, actually," Gabe put in. "You asked if our sisters had chosen husbands."

"Just polite conversation, that's all," Masters said with a shrug, but the muscle ticking in his jaw put the lie to that.

Jarret walked up to loom over his friend. "Stay away from my sister."

Something dark flickered in Masters's eyes as he rose to meet Jarret's gaze. "You're behaving like an a.s.s." He nodded his head in Gabe's direction. "Come, Gabe. Let's go to my club. Time we found more congenial company for the evening."

Gabe murmured a few words to the tavern maid, who flounced off with a pout. Then he rose, his gaze flitting from Jarret to Masters. "Lead on, old chap."

As soon as they were gone, Jarret called for tankards of Gran's best porter for him and Pinter, then dropped into a chair. He'd made a fool of himself, and for no good reason. Even if Masters did have his eye on Minerva, Minerva would have something to say about it. She didn't suffer fools-or rogues-lightly. If any woman could fend off Masters, it was his sister.

Still, he noticed that Masters hadn't responded to his admonition. He hadn't laughed it off or agreed to stay away or said anything to rea.s.sure Jarret that there was nothing between him and Minerva. And that worried Jarret.

"So you're traveling to Burton tomorrow, are you?" Pinter said conversationally.

Jarret forced his attention to the task at hand. "Yes. To take a look at Lake Ale Brewery."

"The young lady seemed surprised to hear of your plans."

"Yes, she did." And not just surprised, but panicked. She'd even tried to talk him out of it. Something was going on there, something she wasn't telling him.

He took a long pull on his tankard. Whatever it was, he would uncover it. Wager or no, he meant to go into this enterprise with his eyes fully open. Too much was at stake.

But that wasn't a matter for the runner. "Pinter, I want to hire you."

"To do what?"

He outlined his concerns about Oliver's version of their parents' deaths, which was that his quarrel with Mother had sent her off in a rage to kill Father. Oliver had said that Pinter knew everything about that night except why Oliver and Mother had quarreled, so Jarret kept that part to himself.

"So you see," Jarret finished, "I need you to track down the grooms who were there that night."

"None of them are in service at Halstead Hall any longer?"

"No. Gran took us to live with her in London after the ... accident." He refused to call it murder. Mother would never have shot Father purposely, no matter what Oliver claimed. "Gran let most of the staff go when she closed the estate."

"But I understand that Lord Stoneville hired them back after he reached his majority and moved into your family's house in Acton."

"Not the grooms. They'd already found positions. I imagine they're scattered across England by now."

Pinter looked pensive. "Perhaps not. Servants tend to stay in the areas they're accustomed to. I doubt I'll have to look far."

"If you go out to the estate tomorrow, you can get a list of their names from Oliver's steward. He'd have the records."

Pinter squared his shoulders. "Is the family in residence at present?"

Jarret stifled a smile, knowing full well why Pinter asked. "No. The girls returned to the town house to help care for Gran after she became ill, and Gabe and I have been staying at our bachelor quarters." Jarret grinned. "So you won't have to worry about Celia and her sharp tongue."

The runner's gray eyes showed nothing. "Lady Celia is ent.i.tled to her opinions."

"Even when they concern you and your 'rigid adherence to stupid rules'?" Jarret asked, determined to get some reaction out of the impossibly stoic Pinter.

If Jarret hadn't been watching for it, he wouldn't have seen the faint tic in the man's jaw. "Lady Celia is ent.i.tled to her opinions, whatever they are," Pinter said with a deceptive nonchalance. "So, should I send my report to Burton? Will you be there long?"

Jarret took pity on the man, allowing him to change the subject. "I'm not sure. I hope not. But just in case, send a copy to me at Lake Ale Brewery. If I miss it, I can get it from you here."

"Very well." Pinter started to rise.

"One more thing." A suspicion had nagged at him ever since Oliver had made his confession. Perhaps it was time he cleared up that little matter as well, if only to ease his own mind. "I have another job for you, if you can afford the time."

Pinter sat back down. "If you can afford to pay me, I can afford the time."

As one of the most celebrated of London's Bow Street Runners, Pinter made his own hours, his own rules. He was one of the few to have an office he paid for himself, since he was widely sought after for private investigations when he wasn't working for the public good.

"Excellent. Here's what I'd like you to do ..."

HETTY PLUMTREE WAS beginning to regret she'd ever made that cursed bargain with her grandson. Jarret would shave ten years off her life before the year was out. Entertain a proposal from some tiny brewery in Burton? Even speak to Mr. Harper about it? That boded ill.

She stared at Mr. Croft, who sat stiffly erect at her bedside, having just given her his dawn report. "You're sure he was speaking of the India market? Not the West Indies market, perchance?"

"Why would he speak of the West Indies? It's in an entirely different part of the world. I can't imagine his confusing the two. Eton's lessons in geography might be lacking, but his lordship isn't so devoid of knowledge of the world as to be-"

"Mr. Croft!" Sometimes getting information from him was like unraveling a carpet one strand at a time.

"Oh. Beg pardon. I was rambling again, wasn't I? In any case, it was definitely the India market, because I distinctly remembered your saying that you didn't intend to enter that particular area, and he told the woman something to that effect. Indeed, he seemed to agree with your a.s.sessment."

Ah, well, at least Jarret had some sense. The East India Company was unpredictable. Look at how its captains had turned on Hodgson's after the man had raised his prices.

"Tell me about this brewster you mentioned." She already knew that Miss Lake must be pretty, since whenever Mr. Croft mentioned her, he blushed. Mr. Croft turned into a blithering idiot around pretty women, which is probably why the female had managed to get past him.

"What do you wish to know?"

She coughed violently a moment, alarming Mr. Croft. A pox on this blasted cough of hers. When was it going to end? "How old was the woman?"

Hetty had not given up on marrying Jarret off, despite their bargain. But she wanted great-grandchildren, and the older the woman, the less likely she was as a prospect.

"Young, I would guess."

She sighed. Mr. Croft made an excellent spy in some ways, but he was not adept at judging age. "You said she pushed her way into the office. Was she a gentlewoman?"

"Most a.s.suredly. I thought her quite genteel until she dashed around my desk."

"And my grandson did not throw her out right away?"

"No. He tasted her ale and talked with her for some time. Then he promised to speak to you last night about her proposal."

Thank G.o.d Mr. Croft excelled at listening at keyholes. "Instead he went off to play cards and drink with that scapegrace Masters." Another fit of coughing ensued, which made her even crankier. "One of these days I shall pin that lad's ears back."

"His lordship's?"

"Masters's."

A new voice sounded from the doorway. "I'll hold him down for you while you do."

She glanced up, startled. Good Lord, Jarret was here. He never came in the morning, and certainly not this early. How much had he heard?

He cast Mr. Croft a long, considering look. "Mr. Croft, if you wish to continue in the brewery's employ, this will be your last dawn meeting with my grandmother. I won't tolerate spies."

Mr. Croft jumped to his feet. "My lord ... I did not-"

"It's all right, Mr. Croft," Hetty put in. "You may go."

The poor man backed toward the door, keeping a wary eye on Jarret as if he thought the lad might throw a punch at him. Then he made a swift exit.

Jarret took Mr. Croft's seat, stretching his long legs out and folding his hands over his belly. "You can't trust me to run the place on my own, can you?"

She stared at him, unrepentant. "Would you, if you were me?"

"I suppose not." His expression hardened. "But I swear, I'll dismiss the little weasel if he ever again-"

"You will not. He supports a mother and five sisters. And he knows every inch of Plumtree Brewery from the ground up."

Jarret leaned forward. "Well then, I'll dismiss myself. Our agreement was that you would keep your hands off, and if you can't even hold to that stricture, I see no point in continuing."