Silence.
A little of the fog cleared. "Flo? Is that you?"
Silence. Followed by loud, heavy breathing.
It took another few moments for Emma to realise what was happening. It wasn't the first time. And knowing who must be on the other end of the phone line brought her fully awake at last. She'd been frightened in the car park, sure, but that had been the shock of seeing him again. She would not let him frighten her with his stupid tricks. Besides, Flo had provided a remedy, months and months ago.
But where on earth had Emma put it? Where?
She pulled out the drawer from the bedside table, emptied all the contents onto the bed and began to rummage around with her free hand. Yes, there. She grabbed the silver metal and put it against the mouthpiece of the phone. Then she blew, hard and long, using every ounce of her lung power.
The whistle was ear-splittingly loud and piercing. Emma thought she heard a cry of pain.
Yes! You won't try that again, you bastard.
She cut the call and slotted the receiver back into its cradle. Then she patted it. "Thank you, Flo," she said and went to make a restorative cup of tea.
The kettle was beginning to sing when she remembered. She ran back to the phone and dialled 1471. No joy. Number withheld.
As usual, he was much too canny to leave evidence when he didn't have to.
She dug out the little notebook from the heap of stuff on the bed, found a clean page and made notes about the time of the call and exactly what had happened. Flo had always said that "contemporaneous notes make good evidence."
The phone rang again.
Emma jumped. Even Julian couldn't be that crass, could he?
Nonetheless, she grabbed her whistle again before she picked up the phone. She put it to her ear without saying a word.
"Emma? Is that you, Emma? It's Flo."
"Oh, Flo. Thank goodness. I thought it was Julian again. I—"
"Julian again?" Flo repeated. "On the phone? Why didn't you say so before?"
"Because it's only just happened. Heavy breathing. But I used the whistle trick, just the way you showed me." Emma was feeling quite proud of how she had reacted.
"Oh," said Flo slowly. She didn't sound all that impressed. "Then I'm afraid— Emma, how did he get your phone number?"
Emma felt the familiar tensing in her stomach. "I'm in the phone book," she said miserably. "Name, address, phone number. How could I have been so stupid?"
Flo was too professional to answer that. She said briskly, "So he knows where you live. Pity. But I'm more concerned about that meeting in the car park. Did he attack you?"
"No."
"What did he say? Were there threats? Can you remember his exact words?"
"He didn't say anything. Not a word."
"Oh." Even less impressed, clearly. "Did he touch you at all?"
Emma could see where this was going. Again. "He didn't come near me. He stood in the shadows, half in the hedge, actually, and stared at me from under that blasted hoodie thing. Until I bolted for the car and drove off."
"Emma, I have to ask this. Sorry, but are you quite sure it was him?"
Emma wanted to scream with frustration. But this was just Flo doing her job. Flo who had supported her through the worst of bad times. If Flo didn't ask the nasty questions, someone else would.
"I know you have to ask, Flo. But yes, I am absolutely sure it was him. I'd recognise that shape anywhere. I had years with him, remember. And after all he did to me, I am very familiar with that particular male body."
"Of course you are," Flo replied. Too quickly.
Emma knew what was coming next. So she supplied it before Flo could. "You're going to tell me that he didn't actually do anything, so he can't be arrested. Aren't you? You're going to say that seeing a shadowy figure in a car park isn't evidence that he meant me harm. And that there's no evidence that it really was who I said it was."
"I believe you, Emma. But a magistrate wouldn't know you the way I do."
"You mean that the magistrate would think I was a hysterical woman who was seeing things in the dark. It's OK, Flo, I know you're on my side. I just wish the law was, too."
Flo didn't answer. After a minute, she said, "The phone call. Did you check for the caller's number?"
"No go," Emma replied at once. "Number withheld. He won't be caught that way. He's too clever."
"So are we. Tomorrow, we'll install call screening and block anyone who calls with their number withheld. We'll block pay phones, too. If he wants to do his heavy-breathing bit again, he'll have to do it in a way we can trace."
Emma wasn't at all sure that Flo's solution was foolproof but she said warmly, "Thanks, Flo. And I'll keep my trusty whistle by the phone, too. Just in case."
Flo sighed. "Yes, he's devious. Unfortunately, being a devious bastard isn't an arrestable offence. We need more. Can you come in tomorrow to give me a written statement?"
Emma found herself wishing she'd never left that message on Flo's voicemail. Working with the police hadn't got her anywhere last time. Her oh-so-charming ex-husband had produced glib-tongued reasons for everything, even Emma's injuries, and the prosecuting authorities had said there was no realistic prospect of a conviction. This time round, Julian would probably be even better at spinning convincing lies. He'd had lots of practice over the years, with lots of gullible women, though Emma was the only one he'd actually married.
When Emma didn't reply, Flo said, "Look, Emma, I do know how hard this is for you. Last time, when you—"
Emma cut her off before she could start reciting things that Emma most definitely did not want to hear. "I don't want to talk about last time, Flo. Just tell me when and where you want me for the statement and I'll see if I can make it. You have to understand," she added, with a brittle laugh, "that I'm a full-time professional woman these days, with diary commitments that I can't break."
"Yes, indeedy, ma'am," Flo said in a false American accent, laughing back. After a little haggling, they agreed a time and Flo rang off.
Emma's shoulders slumped; a nasty little pain prickled above her left eye.
So the whole horrible circus had started again. With Julian as ringmaster, cracking his whip over the heads of caged female charges to make them dance to his tune. He'd found out where Emma's new home was. He thought he could control her again, get her back into his cage. But Emma had decided, long ago, that she would not do Julian's dance. She was not going back in his fear-cage, either.
Chapter Seven
By six-thirty the following evening, Emma was alone in the deserted museum and back on an even keel, more or less. She'd stolen out in her lunch break to give Flo the formal statement. Emma could not face telling her colleagues that she had a stalker – correction: potential stalker – and that he was, in all probability, her ex-husband.
She'd given her statement, but nothing would come of it. Flo was hopeful. But Flo had been hopeful last time, right up to the point where the prosecutors had abandoned the case against Julian.
Emma had been frightened, a bit, by his heavy-breathing phone call. Shock, really. Flo had urged her to be careful, to take precautions, and she would – she'd taken self-defence classes the previous year and she always carried a rape alarm – but she would not allow Julian to control her life. If she saw him again, she'd take video evidence. What else were smartphones for? And her martial arts instructor had shown her that a well-aimed car key could do a lot of damage.
Her car was parked much closer to the museum entrance today; a long way away from that concealing hedge. She would make sure she always had her rape alarm in her pocket and her keys in her hand when she left the museum. For now, she had more important things to do here. With the lace gown.
In the back of her brain, a warning voice, which sounded rather like Flo's, was telling her that she should have left the museum earlier, at the same time as everyone else. Safety in numbers and all that. But the truth was that she hadn't been prepared to.
Emma wasn't prepared to give up on the mystery of Will and Lady Emma. It was intriguing. She had to find out the truth about them, didn't she?
Rubbish. She was kidding herself and she knew it. It was a lot more than the mystery of it. It was a once-in-a-lifetime love affair, and Emma was desperate to know if it was her love affair.
At the thought of that love affair, she couldn't help but picture Will rising from his bath. That searing image was enough to fill her stomach with tumbling butterflies and make her throat dry. He was built like a Greek god and he made love like— Well, he was a bit like a Greek god in that department, too. Assuming that Greek gods took their lovers to paradise and beyond. From the myths she had read, the love-making of Greek gods was more about the creation of demi-god children than the giving of pleasure, but that might have been because the Greek poets took sexual pleasure for granted. They were usually men, after all.
It was totally idiotic train of thought, but its off-the-wall quality was reassuringly familiar. Emma laughed out loud.
"Good," she said, grinning at the empty research table. "I'm me again. Daft as a brush under the businesslike exterior. But back in control of my life." She glanced out at the church clock. She had just under fifteen minutes.
"Right. I'd better go and find the magic lace gown, hadn't I?"
~ ~ ~
This time, Emma was no longer shocked by the blue lightning or the sucking cold. She expected those. What mattered, and what she could not forecast, was where she would appear. Would she be in Will's dressing room again?
No such luck.
She'd arrived somewhere completely new: the marble-floored entrance hall of a grand house. Where was she? When was she? She nudged aside the edge of the velvet evening cloak that covered her from neck to toes. The cloak told her nothing. But underneath? Ah. The magic lace gown. A quick glance round showed that she was alone in the hall, so she pulled up her skirt to examine the hemline. Yes. The temporary repair was quite noticeable. If more than a few hours had passed, someone with sewing skills would have made a better job of mending the tear, she was sure.
She dropped the hem to the floor where it danced across the toes of her evening slippers. Another clue. She stuck out a foot. Yes, she was wearing the same slippers she had worn at the soirée. So, apart from a velvet evening cloak, she was dressed exactly as she had been when she last saw Will by the oriental vase. It looked as if hardly any time had passed since she left him.
She looked harder at her slippered foot. There was no sign of dirt or wear to be seen. So how had she got to this mansion? And whose house was it?
She hesitated. Should she find a bell and ring for a servant? How would she explain her arrival if she did?
A scuffling noise behind her. Then a voice. "Oh, your ladyship. So sorry, your ladyship. I didn't hear the carriage. Or the door. Oh, your ladyship, I—"
Emma turned to see an old servant who appeared to have shot out of the porter's chair near the door. He looked a little bleary-eyed but he was also bright red with embarrassment. Did he expect to be fired for failing to open the door to her? Emma was pretty sure she had arrived without opening the front door at all.
Her understanding smile cut his apologies off in mid-sentence. His high colour began to fade a little.
"No matter," she said, wishing she knew what he was called. She smiled again to cover up her failings in the naming stakes. "I am here now. Can you tell me what time it is?"
The porter glanced past Emma to a small carriage clock on a shelf above the oil lamp. "It's just gone half-past three, your ladyship. Shall I ring for Miss Bailey?"
Who on earth was Miss Bailey? The porter seemed to think it was normal to ring for her, so Emma agreed he should, in spite of the ungodly hour. Behind her back, she crossed her fingers. She was counting on being able to tell from Miss Bailey's dress and demeanour whether she was hostess or servant.
Emma smiled encouragingly at the porter. "So Miss Bailey is waiting up?" That was a fairly safe question, she hoped. Her fingers were still crossed.
The man nodded vigorously. "Her said she would wait downstairs for yer ladyship's return. Said I was to ring the moment yer ladyship stepped through the door." His accent was becoming more pronounced. He was clearly relaxing a bit.
"Tell me—" Emma began, but was cut off by the arrival of a stately woman dressed in a neat dark gown made high to the neck. Not evening wear. Did that make her a servant?
"Good evening, m'lady," she said, dipping a tiny curtsey. "How late you are. And you must be cold in that thin gown. Shall I make you a hot drink before you go up?"
A servant, certainly. Her own servant? Probably. And Emma was obviously expected to sleep here. Did that make this her house? Or was she merely a guest here?
Whatever she was, she had no chance of finding the way to her bedroom on her own. "Thank you," she said quickly, "but I'd prefer to go straight to bed." Then, trusting to luck, she added, "I am very tired. Lead the way, if you please, Bailey."
The servant gave her a questioning look. Was that because Emma had called her "Bailey"? Surely that was the usual mode of address in the Regency? Or was it because the maid had been invited to precede her mistress? No way of knowing. Aristocrats were allowed to have their foibles – they were the bosses, after all – so even if Emma had got something wrong, Miss Bailey was unlikely to say so.
Miss Bailey started up the stairs and Emma followed, feigning tiredness by leaning heavily on the bannister rail. Halfway up the first flight, she stopped, shocked into momentary immobility. Her husband. Heavens, was this her husband's house? Was he here? Would he expect to share her bed? She had been thinking so much about seeing Will again that she had completely forgotten the anonymous husband.
Nothing to be done. It was a dream. What happened in dreams, even with an unknown husband, was not real. When she took off the lace gown, she would wake up, and then she would laugh at her fears.
She crossed her fingers yet again and continued to climb.
On the second floor, Bailey flung open a door for Emma to precede her into the bedroom. It proved to be empty, to Emma's great relief. Head held high, she crossed to the blazing fire, holding out her hands to warm them.
"I knew you were cold, m'lady," Bailey chided, taking the cloak from Emma's shoulders. "Are you sure you wouldn't like a hot drink?"
Definitely a lady's maid. An abigail, as they called them back then. And from the familiarity of her comments, the woman might have been with Emma for many years.
Go carefully with this one.
"Thank you, no. I should like to sleep for a little. I have to go out again soon. I promised to meet— Um, that is, I have decided to go for a walk in Green Park. As soon as it's light."
The abigail's eyebrows almost hit her hairline. She opened her mouth, presumably to remonstrate, and then closed it again. Firmly. But she was frowning as she reached for the fastenings of Emma's gown. "I will be ready to accompany you whenever you wish, m'lady," she said, fingers working rapidly.
"Oh no. Don't do tha—"
Too late. The gown was whisked over Emma's head. She waited for the inevitable.
Nothing happened.
Emma was standing in front of the fire in her underthings. Bailey had the gown in her hands and was examining the hem critically. She tutted quietly. "A very poor quality of repair, I must say. Done at the soirée, was it, m'lady?"
"Er, yes." Why was she still here?
An even more frightening thought crowded in on her. Would she be here for ever, now? In the power of her unknown husband?
He might come through that door at any moment, demanding his conjugal rights. He might be mean, or cruel, or even violent. And there would be nothing at all that she could do to fight him. For he would own her. Everything she had, including her body, would be his property.
She closed her eyes, desperate to will away the presence of this alien world. She longed to be back in her own time. Where she was safe. How could it all have gone so terri
bly wrong? She began to shiver in earnest. She had been a fool to do this again when she had not the slightest idea how the golden gown worked its magic. This was no game. The Regency world was suddenly all too real, and very threatening.
Bailey wrapped a heavy robe around Emma's shoulders and pushed her closer to the fire, scolding in an undervoice as she did so. Eventually, Emma's shivering stopped. The warmth, and the contact, was bringing her back to reality.
Regency reality.
She swallowed hard. She had better know the worst. Who was this man who owned her? Was he here, in this house, ready to pounce?
She had to know. But she couldn't blatantly ask who her husband was. Perhaps if the abigail could be made to start talking about him? A confidential servant was bound to know everything that went on, even in the bedroom. She'd been with Emma for ever, clearly, so she might open up about Emma's husband.
Staring down into the fire, Emma sighed dreamily and murmured, "My husband…?"
Bailey gave a snort. "Your husband, God rest his soul, would not have approved. He—"
Eureka! I'm a widow. A WIDOW.
No furious stranger was going to force himself into her bed. Or beat her for her adulterous liaison with Will.
No, that wasn't right. If she was a widow, she wasn't an adulteress after all.
The relief was overwhelming. Emma wanted to sing at the top of her voice and dance around the room. But Bailey was grumbling on about what Emma's late husband would have thought and said. In that moment, Emma realised she needed to curb her elation and pay attention. Important information could be gleaned from what Bailey had to say.
"—and as for meeting someone in Green Park when all right-thinking folk are abed— Sir John would not have approved, that's certain. It might have been his dying wish that you should marry again, m'lady, but he would not have held with your meeting a gentleman in the park at dawn."
"What makes you think that—?"
Lady in Lace: Regency Timeslip Page 6
