A Rakes Guide to Pleasure Page 15

  She could hardly see and realized she must have run through the hallway and kitchen on blind memory. But now she felt completely helpless. Lost. The faint smell of bread and thyme expanded through the vast emptiness.

  Hart had betrayed her. It must've been him. She really had managed to lose Matthew during her trip to London. He wouldn't have found her but for that damned letter. But now what to do? Run?

  She should run. She should. She had made a decent amount, could live something close to her dream. She could have secu­rity, if not absolute comfort.

  But her victory in sending Matthew away had kindled her natural willfulness. Determination burned inside her, a tiny ember that glowed brighter with each breath. Yes, she was alone here in the dark, in her empty kitchen in her shabby house. She was alone as she had always been, and that would not stop her.

  Emma nodded and stepped into shadow. She had found her way through the dark a few minutes ago. She could do it again.

  Chapter 13

  Over the course of an hour, Emma found that every full circuit of her ground floor hall took fifteen seconds. The south end of her path brought her face-to-face with the wall clock. Four turns saw one minute tick by. Emma clutched her hands together and continued pacing.

  Doubt writhed in her chest, and she wished that she could physically beat it down. She did not want to ask for help, but she would do whatever it took. Yes, it was a risk, but if she knew anything in this world, it was the value of risk.

  She needed Matthew gone. She needed him powerless to harm her. If she had descended into the depths of blackness she knew ran through her veins, it would have been simple enough. Even a lonely stranger to London could find some­one willing to kill a man for a few pounds. But she had not gone to the gutters yet. She wouldn't see Matthew harmed. The man was a threat to her, and his mind took turns that she couldn't comprehend, but she wouldn't see him hurt.

  There was one person she could turn to. She did not trust him completely, but she trusted him enough.

  She'd reached the wall again, and stopped to stare up at the clock. Five fifty-two. If she said it was an emergency, would his butler follow through? Would he light a lamp and wake him, put the letter into his hands? She could not know. She could only try.

  Emma counted off twelve more turns of the hall before she finally lost her patience. She drew the cloak's hood up over her head and tugged on her thickest gloves and prayed that she could find a hack at this lost hour 'twixt night and day. Prayed that she encountered a servant with a heart or at least sharp eyes that could see her sincerity.

  Fog crept up to Emma's ankles when she opened the door. No one could follow her path, at least; she lost track of her own body when she stepped into the mist.

  If there were a hack anywhere near, she could neither see it nor hear it. In fact, nothing seemed to move in the world but Emma and the thick fog. She could only begin walking toward his neighborhood.

  The fog parted for her, swallowed her, over and over again as she walked, like a giant, hungry mouth. Sounds jumped back and forth: her own footsteps and other, unidentifiable noises. She should have been afraid, but she simply walked. Her greatest threat had already appeared.

  Matthew Bromley had been the closest thing to an appeal­ing, unmarried man in her uncle's hamlet. And Emma had been a young woman with a body bursting with curiosity. He had chased her and she'd let herself be caught on several occasions. An innocent—or perhaps less than innocent— mistake. His interest in her had only grown focused and in­tense. He'd no longer been content with walks and kisses. He'd wanted everything, not just her body, but her soul as well. He'd wanted marriage, had demanded it, and she had refused.

  Then during a beautiful Lenten moon, he'd asked her to walk with him again. She'd been bored and restless and she'd met him near the river that night though she'd shrugged off his embraces, and by the time she'd smelled smoke on the wind, they'd ventured far down the lane. Her uncle had died in the fire, alone because she'd snuck away.

  Emma sighed and stopped to look around. The night was easing from black to gray. Surely the streets would begin to stir soon.

  Matthew had been a friend to her at first. He'd hustled her to his father's home, had stood by her side through her grief and guilt. The Bromleys had taken care of her and provided a home, but Matthew hadn't forgotten his desire. Only short weeks after her uncle's death, he'd started tapping on her bedroom door, whispering of her duty and his love. He'd cornered her in hallways and stairwells, spoken constantly of their future and the gratitude she should feel for his devo­tion. Emma had been well and truly trapped.

  But her uncle's will had finally been settled, and she'd re­ceived her inheritance. What a relief it had been to move out of the Bromley home. She'd let a room at the miller's ram­bling house, but her relief had been short-lived. Matthew had been furious and unrelenting in his pursuit.

  Soon enough, she'd realized she must escape. From the rented rooms and intrusive neighbors. From the constant talk of when she would marry and who. She could not ex­plain to Mrs. Shropshire, the miller's wife, why she had no interest in marriage. She'd grown tired of the arched looks of disapproval every time she'd turned down Matthew's offers. And she could not live her whole life on six hundred pounds.

  A cart passed by her, splashing dirty water near her feet. Emma moved closer to the buildings, but it was no help. She stepped right into a deep puddle and cursed her bad luck. An­other cart rolled by, a woman bundled up to her ears scurried past, and Emma realized that the fog had begun to lighten. Finally, Emma emerged onto a wide street and smiled. Three hackney coaches were lined up just one street down, seem­ing to float above the road, wheels vanished beneath the fog.

  Ten minutes later she stepped from the straw-strewn floor of the hack and stared up at the green door before her. It was morning, finally, but the sun barely shone through the dull gray air. Emma smoothed her hair back and wiped her gloves over her face. She straightened her cloak, eased it back a little to show the fine fabric of the dress beneath. And then she walked up the steps and tapped the knocker.

  A long while passed with no answer. The household must be waking, but they certainly weren't listening for a knock at the front door. If no one answered, she'd be forced to go to the back. Emma tapped harder.

  Voices approached. She made very sure to straighten her spine and raise her chin to a haughty level just before the door snapped open.

  The butler—a rather young butler—looked her over. He studied the dark blue silk of her dress and stared pointedly at her wet shoes before he nodded. "Madam?"

  "I am in need of assistance. It is quite urgent. Would you take this to Lord Lancaster?" She held out the sealed note. The butler glanced at the paper, but did not take it.

  "My lord will be at home this afternoon, madam."

  "I am Lady Denmore, a friend of your master. He offered his support should I ever need it. I am in need of it now. Please take the letter to him."

  "This is quite irregular."

  "Yes. Yes, of course it is. I would not have left my own home so early if it weren't dire. Please. Wake him. Give him the note. I'll wait outside if you like. You can send me away if he refuses my plea."

  The young, round-faced man looked from her face to the note. He was visibly torn between protecting the sanctity of a viscount's home and treating a supposed lady as she should be treated. And he had clearly not had much expe­rience with this type of thing, if any; it occurred to Emma that this young man was the best butler that Lancaster could afford.

  "Please follow me to the morning room, Lady Denmore. I'm sure Lord Lancaster would be happy if you warmed yourself with tea while you wait."

  Emma let out a deep breath and felt the prick of actual tears at the thought of hot tea and a warm room. "Thank you."

  The butler took the note as well as her cloak, and led her to a yellow morning room before he left to wake his master.

  It would be quite a wait, and she was thankful for the time to
compose herself. Lancaster would need to be awoken, he'd need time to read the note and dress. Shave. Perhaps even brace himself with a cup of tea.

  The maid arrived with tea and hot rolls. Emma devoured them, suddenly starving. She barely had time to wipe the crumbs from her mouth when Lancaster strode in.

  "Lady Denmore?"

  Emma was struck dumb by the sight of him. The man was normally the very picture of neat elegance. Not so this morning. He was dressed in boots and buff trousers, a wrin­kled white shirt and black coat, but there the modesty stopped. His shirt gaped open to mid chest. His hair was a tousled, golden mess, lighter than the brown stubble that glinted against his jaw. And she could have sworn that there was a smudge of rouge on the collar of his shirt.

  "Lady Denmore, what is wrong?"

  She snapped her eyes up from the triangle of naked chest that she hadn't meant to stare at. "I. . . I need your help, Lancaster."

  He nodded, an impatient jerk of his head. "Of course. Are you in trouble? In danger?"

  "No, I . . ." Her nerves were taut, straining, so Emma jumped to her feet. "I'm sorry to come at such an ungodly hour."

  "For God's sake, Lady Denmore, will you only tell me what is wrong?"

  She didn't know how to start. "Please call me Emma."

  "Emma." He didn't make her name a caress as Hart did. It was more of a growl really, a threat of violent impatience.

  She was staring at his chest again and noticed the strange roughness of a scar against his neck. The whole width of his neck. When she frowned, Lancaster's hands rose to fasten the buttons of his shirt, and he scowled when she met his eyes.

  "I need help," she finally said. She paced over to the small hearth and the fire the maid had started. When she glanced back, Lancaster was standing with hands on hips, still scowling. She had no choice. "Someone . . . a man from Cheshire has followed me."

  "Followed you?"

  "He was . . . He developed an interest in me even before my husband's death. After Lord Denmore died, he became . . . intent. He would not leave me be, he insisted that he loved me and we must marry. He would not accept my refusal. And then he began to imagine things."

  Lancaster shook his head. "I don't understand."

  Emma bit the inside of her lip and called up the lies she'd created. "He began to speak as if I'd never been married. He claimed that Lord Denmore had not been my husband. I grew frightened. I decided to move to London and put him and my husband's death behind me. But he has followed me here."

  "You saw him?"

  "Yes." Emma did not have to feign her distress as she pressed a hand to her stomach. "I came home last night and found him in my bedroom. Waiting."

  Sharp alarm sparked in his eyes. "Emma?" he asked, but she shook her head.

  "I talked him into leaving. He is coming back this after­noon. He insists that we will return to Cheshire and marry, says he'll ruin me if I don't agree."

  Lancaster's eyes narrowed, he cocked his head in question. "He did not hurt you? Is that the truth?"

  "I'm fine. Just frightened and. . . I need some time. I will move my household, but I need days, maybe weeks, to find lodging and make arrangements . . ."

  "Do you wish to stay here?"

  "Oh! Well. . . I'm flattered, I'm sure."

  He flashed a quick smile that made him look quite wicked. "I meant that I would decamp, of course."

  "Oh, um, of course. No, I would not risk angering him or . . . anyone else."

  "And why have you not called on Somerhart for help? Not that I mind at all, you understand."

  Emma clasped her hands together and held on tight. "Things are not as they seem. We are no longer involved. Even if we were, he is not the most understanding of men."

  "Ha. Very true. Well then, I'm relieved you are uninjured and I'll do anything I can to help." He waved her toward the settee and followed her over. "You sound as if you have some idea you'd like set in motion."

  "Do I?"

  He smiled again as she poured him a cup of tea. "You may be in need of help, but I seriously doubt that you are ever helpless."

  "Mm. I do have a small plan. I just need him kept from me so that I can leave."

  "But where will you go? He will find you again. He may hurt you."

  "I don't wish harm to him or his family. They were kind to me."

  "But you mean to give up your life here and run from him?"

  She met his worried gaze and decided to tell the truth. "I never meant to stay here, Lancaster. I could not afford to do so even if I meant to. I only came to—"

  "It is clear why you came here, Emma. You came to make your fortune." His eyes were sympathetic. Understanding.

  She looked away. "It is not so much of a fortune."

  "I know. But you have a right to it. More so than I will have to mine. You have worked for yours; I will simply marry."

  Emma gave into a watery laugh. "Some would consider that a lifetime of work."

  "Perhaps." His hand covered hers. "If I had a small for­tune to spare I would give it to you and send you on your way. Or not."

  She blushed as she laughed. Even in her distress she could still find him charming. Attractive. And not the least bit tempting. And she wasn't honestly sure that he was tempted by her. She was a diversion from the very real fact that he would need to find a wife in short order. Any wife, as long as she came with money.

  And she was not the only diversion if the state of his shirt was any indication.

  She smiled more easily and met his eyes. "I do have a plan, but I need your help. I would like to have Matthew ar­rested. I'd like him held for a week or two; held but not harmed. But I do not know how to find the right constable, someone willing to take bribes. Someone dishonest, but trustworthy." She laughed again, though surely it wasn't ap­propriate.

  He grinned. "And so you thought of me?"

  "Only because you're my friend, Lancaster, not because I think you a scoundrel."

  "No, I may be too honest a friend for you. I'm not sure I know how to find an honorable constable who's open to briber)?. But I will try my best."

  "Thank you. I could never repay you for this."

  "Oh, I imagine you could but, again, there is that damned nobility of mine."

  "A burden, I'm sure." "What time will he return?"

  "Three o'clock. I appealed to his sense of decency. He won't return until then."

  "Well, then, I will be in contact before then. Either I will deliver a likely constable or I will come and retrieve you and beat the daylights out of your spy."

  Emma's throat closed. She was choking on tears of relief and shame. She needed his help and wanted his friendship, yet she lied to him at every turn. She felt guilty about what would happen to Matthew, but she could not let him con­trol her life. And Hart. ..

  She drew a shuddering breath and squeezed Lancaster's hand. "I am truly sorry."

  "Nonsense. I'm relieved that you asked me for help."

  She nodded, and let him think that she was apologizing only for the inconvenience and not for the betrayal of him and everyone he knew.

  Chapter 14

  The simple white china felt cold against Emma's hands as she leaned over the chamber pot. Her fingers trembled. A drop of sweat fell from her temple and landed on one pale knuckle. When Emma realized that she wasn't going to be sick, she sat back on her bed and wiped her brow with a sleeve.

  She had done it. She'd sent Matthew off to a little stone room with barred windows. She'd locked him up. The con­stable had promised that he would be kept safe and comfort­able. He'd have his own cell and plenty of food and special luxuries not afforded to the other inmates. Still, Emma was sick with guilt.

  If only he hadn't followed her. If only he'd waited one more month.

  "Stop it," she whispered, pushing her clenched hands to her forehead. "Stop it, stop it." She'd had him arrested. It was done. It would only be worth it if she moved forward with her plans.

  Bess scratched at the door. "Lord Lanca
ster has gone, ma'am. He asked me to convey his concern and requests that you contact him tomorrow. He was very worried."

  She could see that Bess was very worried as well, but the housekeeper held her tongue. She'd been sent on an errand before three o'clock and had only just returned.

  Emma forced her shoulders into a straight line. "I'll need the red dress pressed."

  "Ma'am?"

  "I'll be leaving at nine."

  "But. . . I thought we were to begin packing."

  "Yes, but slowly. We will go in a few days."

  "But this trouble—"

  "The trouble has been contained. We will be fine, Bess. The red gown please," she reminded. Bess left without another word, though she gave Emma one more disapproving glance as she stopped to retrieve the gown from the wardrobe. They'd never taken it out before. It was too red, too beautiful. It couldn't be worn more than once, but that wouldn't be a prob­lem now.

  Even if Matthew would simply go away, Lancaster had heard all the accusations. He'd watched her carefully as Matthew had ranted, spitting that she wasn't Lady Denmore, that she was Lord Denmore's niece. He'd sworn that Emma was a fraud, a virgin shaming herself by living as a widow. He'd raged that she belonged to him and had promised to be his wife.

  Emma had watched in horror, she hadn't had to pretend at that, but she'd seen the dull glint of suspicion in Lan­caster's eyes. The constable had been calm and fatherly through the entire incident, even when Matthew had begun his favorite speech. The one where Emma was Eve tempting them all with the apple. Or Jezebel. Or even Mary Magda­lene, the redeemable harlot.

  At those words, Lancaster's suspicion had disappeared in a blink, replaced by disgust. Emma had maintained her composure as the accusations flew. She'd maintained it as Lancaster and the kind old constable had wrestled Matthew into a police wagon. But when Lancaster had returned and reached for one of her shaking hands, Emma's composure, already frayed, had snapped, and she had turned and fled up the stairs to her room.