Page 80 of Bound By her Earl

The top of the vanity was filled with detritus of cosmetics and hairpins, scattered so randomly that Emily felt compelled to send up a prayer for the Dowager’s maid, who no doubt deservedtriple her regular salary. The first set of drawers she checked were similar, filled to bursting with hairpins, several unpaired gloves, a loose handful of pennies.

It was the table’s bottom drawer where Emily found the papers, loose and crumpled, clearly thrust inside with no regard for order. She pulled a crinkling stack into her lap and began to read.

Many were bills—the amount the woman spent at the milliners alone was honestly staggering—others clipped articles from gossip rags, frequently making oblique references to the Dowager Countess herself. Each time Emily came across a letter, her heart leapt, but skimming revealed them to be correspondence with Priscilla’s small group of friends, each of whom worked to outdo the others in terms of cruel observations about other members of theton.

Emily was just beginning to give up hope when she found a small, worn piece of paper far at the bottom of the drawer, lingering beneath the other discarded papers where it had no doubt sat for years.

The Dowager’s handwriting, never the neatest, was cramped and scrawled in a way that seemed to indicate her rage during the writing. Several things were crossed out and amended, this particular paper evidently a draft of whatever letter would eventually be sent. Even so…

“Benedict,” Emily called quietly. “I think I have something.”

He was at her side in a moment and together they read the halting, incoherent missive.

G—

You are making a mistake.Please come backIf you do not heed me, you will regret it.I knowBelieve me,If you do not listen,I can take everything from you. Everything you love, everything that matters.You have hurtWait until you see what I can wreak. Your life will be a living hell. Your family, your career, it will all disappear, and then you will be left with no choice but to turn back to me.The truth will come out.I know youstilllove me. Let our love be known! My darling, we cannot hide in the darkness any longer.Your titleOur reputations will recover, but my heart will not. Cast me aside, and I will ensure you suffer the same pain as I do.Nobody will ever

The paper cut off then, the frayed edges leaving the last few words illegible. Benedict swore.

“This doesn’t give us any more information than we had,” he gritted out in frustration.

Emily didn’t answer, her eyes scanning over the page again and again. There was something—something there that niggled at the back of her mind, that she knew would burst into an idea, intounderstanding, if only she could grasp at it.

And then she did.

Your family, your career, the letter said. And then, crossed out,Your title. And, the final nail in the mental coffin,Our reputations.

After all, what did a man with a family have to fear of his reputation for dallying with a widow? Even if he was married, such a thing would make for little more than idle gossip though it might make the fellow’s marriage uncomfortable. But fearing for one’s reputation was a woman’s burden…

Unless the career that was mentioned was one that relied upon reputation. A career that let a man—a titled man, a man called G—rely upon his good name, upon his reputation, upon the notion that he was a respectable man with a respectable family.

“Graham,” she whispered in shock.

Benedict, who had been about to return to his own search, whipped around to look at her.

“What?”

“Graham,” she said again, the pieces falling more firmly into place as she spoke. “This letter is threatening the Duke of Graham—a man with a family, a career, and a title whose reputation would be damaged by a scandalous affair.”

Benedict’s face was shocked then grim then resigned.

“And Grace Miller’s father,” he said with a quiet, horrible finality.

CHAPTER 22

Benedict was grateful that, in the end, he did not have to order his mother to be bodily hauled from the house. He would have done it—he could not remember ever being so angry in his entire life as when he saw that handprint written in stark red against the pallor of his wife’s shocked face.

But he was grateful that the need did not arise. He’d had more than enough conflict with his mother for a lifetime.

And yet, it seemed unlikely that conflict was at an end, given what he and Emily had discovered the day prior in his mother’s papers. They’d sat up late into the night, discussing what to do from there.

“I do wish you’d let me go with you,” Emily fretted now as he shrugged into his jacket and accepted his hat and walking stick from the butler.

“I know,” he said gently, transferring his affects to one hand, so he could reach out and stop her from anxiously twisting her fingers with the other. “But there truly isn’t a rational reason that I could offer. Coming to Graham myself for a business meeting makes sense—we aren’t opposed to one another politically, and he’s a big name. But if I brought you along with me, he’d know I was there for something else before we even got in a room together, and I don’t want him to be prepared. I want to see how he genuinely reacts when I ask him about the letter from my mother.”

“I know,” she returned, abandoning her handwringing to nibble at that plush bottom lip of hers. “I do know, really. We discussed it all. It’s just?—”

“Worrisome?” he offered when she cut herself off. She nodded miserably, and he smiled. He was a cad, no doubt, for enjoying it while his wife was clearly so distressed, but there was no denying that he was flattered by her concern on his behalf.

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