But she couldn’t do that. Damn him. She needed him.
She kept her seat and carried on, her voice growing stern. “But with hissecondwife, 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 whoheis.” 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.”
CHAPTERTWO
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 meansnonsense.”
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 titleoryour 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 arerules. 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.
Emilia rushed on before he could call back his man to drag her out. “Hear me out! You—you may be tolerated by society, at least when they’re winning at this club, but that would vanish in the blink of an eye if you should suffer a reverse. Imagine if just one aristocrat lost a fortune at your club and felt he’d been cheated. Imagine if he told everyone in London that you’d rigged the game! Would all your patrons keep playing here?”
He raised his brows in an expression of exaggerated alarm. “Good heavens. Rigged games! Aristocrats losing fortunes! Charges of cheating! How have I never once thought of those things, let alone dealt with them, in all these years of running every sort of card and dice game for the most inveterate gamblers in Europe?” He clapped one hand to his heart in a patently false swoon. “What a marvelous stroke of fortune you’ve come to inform me about the risks of running a gaming hell. I don’t knowhowI’ve survived without your insightful advice.” He dropped the affect and waved one hand at the door. “Go home, Miss Greene.”
