She flushed. “It’s not that sort of proposition. Don’t flatter yourself.”
He paused, looking at her more keenly. The lamplight caught his face, giving her a good look at him for the first time. His eyes were amber, like a cat’s, she thought; glowing golden-brown, vibrant enough to see from across the billiard table. His dark hair was cut short, but not short enough to hide its tendency to curl around his ears. He fastened his cuffs and reached for his jacket, flung over a nearby chair. “Well, that does intrigue. What is it?”
“A business proposition.” Please let this work, she prayed one last time.
His mouth curled. “No.”
She started. “You haven’t even heard it!”
“I don’t need to.” He pulled on his jacket, settling it on his shoulders with a sharp jerk. He smoothed one large hand over his chest, and suddenly looked far more dangerous, in his elegant evening attire, than he had before.
“Please,” she said in a rush. “I came here at dawn, specifically to speak to you when the club isn’t busy. The least you can do is listen.”
“But I don’t need any more business dealings.” He said it gently, as if speaking to a child. “I don’t wish to waste your time.”
“It’s a cracking good one, my proposition,” she retorted, losing her temper for a moment. “Only an idiot would refuse it.”
His face had grown hard as she spoke, but at the last he suddenly grinned. “Indeed? I’ve been called worse.” He regarded her for a moment, then waved one hand toward a door at the back of the room. “Very well. I discuss business in my office.”
Head high, heart pounding, she marched through the door and took the seat he indicated. He went around the desk and sat down, leaning back with that trace of amusement still clinging to his face. “Do tell me all about your unrefusable proposition, madam.”
She frowned at the way he said the words. “Do you know the name Henry Sidney?”
“He’s not a member, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Of course he’s not,” she said tartly. “He’s been dead for a hundred years.”
“Has he really?” He lifted one shoulder. “Then I can hardly know him.”
She took a deep breath. This man. “With his wife Genevieve, Henry had a son, Thomas, who had a son, and a grandson, and so on and so on.”
“How remarkably virile of dear Henry,” he said, sounding more than a little derisive. For a moment, Emilia burned to storm out and let the stupid man carry on as he was, a low-class cardsharp.
But she couldn’t do that. Damn him. She needed him.
She kept her seat and carried on, her voice growing stern. “But with his second wife, Catherine, Henry had another son, William. William of course was a younger son, but he had a son and grandson, too. Do you know the name Samuel Sidney?”
The amusement left his face, snuffed out like a flame. “You’d better go, Miss Greene.”
“You do know who he is.” It was embarrassing how much her confidence soared in that moment. Until that tiny sign that he knew, there had been a sliver of doubt in her mind. If she’d got the wrong man, not only would this interview have been a waste, her entire scheme—desperate as it was—would have turned to dust. “He also called himself Sam Blake and Sidney Blake, I believe.”
“He’s dead,” said her host coldly.
“I know.” She rubbed her hands on her knee, her palms damp with sweat inside her gloves. Now her heart was pounding from relief. “It took a devilishly long time to sort it all, particularly since he changed his name so many times. But I’ve got it right, haven’t I? He was your father.”
“Only,” said Mr. Dashwood thinly, after a very long pause that make her think he might deny it after all, “in the most nominal sense.”
“That’s the only sense that matters.” She couldn’t stop a smile. “Then you, sir, are the next Viscount Sydenham.”
CHAPTER TWO
He didn’t say anything for several minutes. His eyes were hard and opaque, and they gave no clue to his thoughts.
That didn’t surprise Emilia. She had expected him to be surprised, shocked, even disbelieving. It had taken a great deal of searching to discover him, and from what she’d learned of his family, Mr. Dashwood probably had no thought of inheriting anything worthwhile. Indeed, she’d had to go all the way back to his three-times-great-grandfather to find his connection to the Sydenham title.
And now she had just told him he would inherit a viscounty. Not just any viscounty, but one nearly three hundred years old with hundreds of acres entailed upon the holder. He likely wouldn’t know all that, of course; she would have to explain it to him. She sat quietly, a little giddy in her triumph, waiting for the news to sink in, for him to realize what she’d just told him, for his expression of amazement and gratitude.
His mouth twisted in contempt. “Ballocks.”
She started. “I beg your pardon?”
“Rot,” he said lazily. “Balderdash. Whatever word you prefer that means nonsense.”
Emilia bristled. How dare he? Her research was absolutely sound. Perhaps it was fair for him to doubt her, she being a complete stranger, but he didn’t have to be so rude about it. She’d just told him he was being elevated to the aristocracy, nothing insulting or demeaning, how dare he—
She took a deep breath. It didn’t matter if he insulted her. She’d told Arabella that she would strike a bargain with Lucifer himself, and it appeared Fate had been listening. “The last Lord Sydenham died without an heir seven months ago. The title must stay in the family. According to the family records, traced from your great-great-great-grandfather, your lineage makes you the heir presumptive.”
He laughed—not in amusement, but in scorn.
She pressed her lips together, clinging tightly to the shreds of her temper. “It’s a bewildering process, but I am ready to help you petition the Crown for it. I know the procedure, and can recommend a solicitor who can shepherd your claim through the Committee for Privileges—”
He flicked one hand. “No.”
“What?” Her mouth dropped open. “Why wouldn’t you want my help?”
“I don’t want the title or your help.” He rose. “We’re done, ma’am.”
She also jumped to her feet, now in fear. “What do you mean, you don’t want it? What sort of fool are you?”
His smile was chilling with indifference. “One who likes his life the way it is. Find another victim, Miss Greene, and inflict your prim history lessons upon him.”
“I can’t,” she said through her teeth. “There are rules. You are the heir with the closest claim. It must be you!”
“You said an heir must petition for the title,” he retorted, unmoved. “I refuse to file any such petition. I have a position and a profession that suit me very well, and I see no need to change either.”
“All right,” she replied, feeling the stirrings of panic—and fury. “But what about the future?”
He shrugged, glancing pointedly at the door.