The Emperor's Conspiracy by Michelle Diener Page B

in his hands. There was no address on the front, just the words “Lord Hawthorne” scribbled in poor handwriting.
    His stepfather had been paying someone to watch him, and Edward wondered if this was some kind of report. As he heard the light tip-tap of Clavers returning, he hesitated a moment, then slipped the letter into the inner pocket of his jacket.
    Whatever he’d thought to do, and he hadn’t been sure, he was unable to hand the letter over now. The question was whether he’d find some way to leave it behind, or slip it under the door as he left. Or keep it.
    He wanted to keep it. To read it. To find out what was truly behind this new twist on his relationship with Gerald. And then again, it was no more than Gerald had done, so many times in his childhood.
    He put the dilemma aside as he followed Clavers down the passage. He had time to decide what to do.
    Clavers opened the door to the library and stood back for him, and Edward murmured his thanks as he stepped through. Clavers shut it behind him.
    In his youth this moment, when he was alone with his stepfather, the door shutting behind him with an ominousclick, had left him both sick with dread and shaking with fury. He had hated Gerald with all the passion he could muster but was all too aware of the power Gerald held over him.
    The chains of the past were long broken, but Edward couldn’t help the spike of intense dislike and anger that surged through him with that final snick of the door handle.
    “Edward, not like you to arrive unplanned like this. What is it?” Gerald sat in a plush armchair, gouty foot raised on a footstool, with the doors out to the back garden open to let in what little breeze there was. The cool the rain had brought with it this afternoon was lush and calming as it mingled with the scent of roses and jasmine, and it stretched green, fresh tendrils into the room.
    “Bad news.” Edward stood back from Gerald and did not greet him otherwise. He had long ago made peace with his inability to speak meaningless inanities. He stayed away from balls for the same reason.
    Gerald raised his brows and waited.
    “Geoffrey is dead. The magistrate sent word to me today.”
    Gerald half rose, then sank back into his chair. “How terrible. Is Emma all right?”
    Edward stared at him, trying to work out why his senses, always on full alert with Gerald, were screaming at him. “She is holding up, being strong for the boys.”
    “Will she come to London?” Gerald said after a moment.
    “She’s already in London. Has been for more than a week.” Edward crossed his arms over his chest. “Didn’t Geoffrey tell you?”
    Gerald froze, only for the briefest of moments, but Edward caught it. “Why would he do that?”
    “Emma says you were in touch with him often, and helped advise him on investments from time to time. I would have thought he would have let you know—if he were to tell anyone—that his wife had left him.”
    Gerald said nothing. Then, finally, coldly: “You were never able to master the art of social discretion. It will do neither Emma, nor Geoffrey’s memory, any good to go around saying things like that.”
    “So you did know?”
    “No. I didn’t. I had no idea Emma was here in London.”
    “Interesting.” Edward dropped his hands to his sides, quiet satisfaction at the way he’d worked Gerald up coursing through him. This shouldn’t be so pleasant, but by God, it was. And he knew, unequivocally, that his stepfather was lying. “Aren’t you going to ask how Geoffrey died?” That is what had first set the bell ringing in his head. Gerald had not asked how a young man in his prime, who was not ill, had died.
    As if realizing his blunder, Gerald feigned tiredness. Closing his eyes and leaning back into his armchair. “Of course. I’m not myself. How did he die?”
    “He was shot.”
    That provoked a response from the gargoyle. His eyes flew open, and he looked at Edward with those cold, muddy brown eyes.