Page 19 of Dukes Do It Better
“I’ll find you later, after we’re all dressed, and we can write the leasing agent. Thank you for helping.”
“I wonder how much longer we have until the children join us,” Phee mused.
Emma shrugged and rose to make a plate for herself. As she sat down again, with breakfast in hand, the echo of young voices carried down the hall, growing louder as they approached.
“You summoned the little devils,” Cal muttered, but he was smiling.
“We could make them eat in the nursery,” Emma said.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Phee asked, opening her arms to the little redheaded boy barreling through the door.
The mood in the room changed when a giant of a man followed Freddie into the breakfast room.
“Ethan? What’s wrong?” Cal jumped to his feet, concern etched across his face as he wiped his mouth with a serviette and threw it on the table.
Ethan waved a piece of paper in the air, clenched in his fist. “’Tis deliberate. All of it. The investors. The issues these last few months. Our bad batches of brew. Not a bit o’ bad luck after all.”
Yesterday in the modiste’s shop, Lottie had mentioned a meeting with investors, which must have gone poorly. Claiming deliberate problems was another matter altogether. “Are you talking about sabotage, Ethan?”
The giant Scotsman rounded the table and shoved the paper at Calvin. “Here. Read.”
Phee scurried out of her chair to read over her husband’s shoulder. Emma kept an eye on them, dividing her attention between the adults and their news, and two mischievous little boys who were stuffing their pockets with breakfast foods.
Emma snapped her fingers at the boys, shaking her head. At least they listened. In part. Evidenced by shoving sausages and bacon in their mouths instead of their pockets.
The other adults, meanwhile, were clustered at the end of the table with the crumpled piece of paper and expressions of concern on their faces.
Emma joined them and asked, “How bad is it?”
“’Tis not good, I can tell you that,” Ethan said.
Cal’s answer was more concise. “It’s a blackmail note. The writer claims responsibility for the issues the brewery has been having, and threatens more extensive damage to the business.”
Emma glanced around at the faces. “Unless? You said blackmail. What’s the price to make this go away?”
Ethan’s face was carefully blank. “Too much. We’ve worked hard tae make Amesbury Brewing a success. If we pay, it takes us out at the knees. Which means sacrificing the economy of the village. The locals have only recently begun tae fully trust Lottie and me.”
“You won’t be sacrificing anything, Ethan. You’re family. Family takes care of each other. We will deal with this. There has to be a solution,” Cal said.
“Bloody Kent,” Phee grumbled. “I don’t have any contacts in Kent near the brewery. If the blackmailer was near the docks, we’d have information within the day.” Phee’s league of child spies and informants served their family well when she and Cal dug in the underbelly of London for information on their investors. But Lord Amesbury’s estate, Woodrest, and the brewery were in Kent, not the city.
Ethan slumped into a chair, which gave an ominous creek under the sheer mass of him. “I don’ have much choice but tae ask for help. I hate that. But I can’t let the village suffer.” A sigh rattled out of him.
Emma placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry this is happening. Does the letter writer give a timeline for payment or any indication as to why they’re doing this?”
Phee plucked the letter from the table and thrust it toward Emma. Emma’s eyes widened. Lordy goodness. Such a hefty sum, and the blackmailer gave Lord and Lady Amesbury only one week to come up with it. A single clue as to motivation came from a vague line at the end of the note. You’ll pay. Either with funds or with everything you hold dear. The world will know exactly what you are.
Chapter Six
I dream of it sometimes, you know. London. But I miss you more. I’ve had London, but I haven’t had you.
—Journal entry, January 1, 1824
This was the magic she remembered. At eighteen, the events among the ton had an aureate quality to them, as if everything gleamed with the shine of youthful enthusiasm and the undeniable acceptance she’d found in London. That gilded edge had been lacking in visits to Town since, and only partly because she had avoided genteel society.
Until tonight.
Soft music drifted through the rooms of the Vanfords’ elegant townhome, carried on the waves of laughter between finely tailored men and women in satin gowns. The tune was vaguely familiar, low to allow conversation, but still loud enough for the dancers to pick their way through waltzes and minuets without straining to keep time.
