Emma doubted her butler's plan would work. Testosterone-fuelled young men would always have an eye to the main chance.
And this might be hers. But she needed to be sure before taking the plunge.
"Did you say that Bendridge required all the footmen to attend?" she asked.
"Yes, m'lady. He is most insistent on that."
"Why, that is outrageous. My front door will be left unattended. Any of the thieves and vagabonds of London could enter and rob me."
"Not unattended, m'lady, no. On prayer meeting nights, Filch begins his duty earlier than normal so that the door will be safely guarded."
"Filch does not attend the prayers, then?"
"Um. I fancy," Bailey began carefully, "that Mr Bendridge takes the view that a man of Filch's advanced years does not need quite so many warnings against vice as the younger men."
Emma had to work hard to stop herself from smiling. "I dare say Bendridge is right, Bailey. And I am pleased to learn that someone is guarding my door against intruders. Go now, then, and enjoy your prayer meeting. Will it have begun already?"
Bailey glanced at the clock. "No, m'lady. It wants another ten minutes until it starts."
"Very well. You will be early for once. And you may be sure that I shall not ring for you while you are engaged in God's work. As I said, I shall sit quietly by the fire until Lady Mumford arrives. Until then, I do not wish to be disturbed."
"As you wish, m'lady. If Lady Mumford should arrive while we are all downstairs with Mr Bendridge, Filch will let us know and I can come to find you."
That was no threat, for no Lady Mumford would arrive.
"Good," Emma said. "Oh, and before you go down, perhaps you would lay out my cloak and gloves?" Bailey nodded and bustled about for another few minutes. She laid Emma's velvet evening cloak across the chest at the end of the bed, along with long kid gloves, a fan, and a little gold reticule suspended from a braided golden cord.
"Will there be anything else, m'lady?" Bailey was obviously itching to join the God-fearing folk in the basement.
Julian would have called them "God-botherers", Emma remembered suddenly. But such modern-day attitudes to religion were totally out of place in the Regency and Emma must not forget it. It was her duty, as a Regency lady, to ensure she ran a good Christian household.
"No, thank you, Bailey. Enjoy your prayer meeting."
Bailey dropped a curtsey and silently hurried out.
So I have a chance after all. God bless Bendridge and his Christian morality.
She looked at the clock and began to calculate. The prayer meeting would probably last the best part of an hour. Or perhaps longer? Bendridge was a pompous and self-satisfied man. If he believed in his own morality and saw it as his duty to impart it to the lower ranks of his staff, he probably would lecture them at length. What mattered, though, was Filch, down in the hallway. The old man would soon be sitting comfortably in his porter's chair. At night, he was always asleep. But would he be asleep this early in the evening?
There had to be a chance of it. If Emma was lucky, Filch would have a Pavlovian reaction to sitting in the chair. Sit down, sigh, slump, sleep?
It was certainly the only opportunity she would get, so she would have to try. She might even say this chance was heaven-sent.
She would wait fifteen minutes, no longer. Then she would steal down the stairs and attempt to escape through the front door without being spotted.
She crossed to the bed for the velvet cloak. It was beautiful, but not exactly warm. And since she didn't know how far she was to travel in Will's hackney, she needed something sturdier. A few minutes of rummaging in her dressing room produced the very thing – a winter cloak of heavy wool. And with a hood, too.
Emma looked down at her feet in their delicate evening slippers. Not the thing for walking outdoors. She retrieved her walking boots instead – she had taken careful note of where Bailey stored them – and put them on under her lace gown. It looked ridiculous, but it was the only practical solution. She rolled her slippers into a rough ball and stuffed them into the silk reticule. She could swap her boots for her slippers and be properly dressed for any grand occasion she might be taken to.
Moment of truth. Time to go.
The prayer meeting must be well under way by now. She was as safe as she was ever going to be. Donning her cloak, she put an ear to the panel of her door. Silence beyond. She opened the door wide – there must be nothing surreptitious about her behaviour, just in case someone was around to see – and sailed across the landing as though it were the most normal thing in the world to be strolling out in a ballgown and boots.
She sniggered a little nervously to herself. If Filch were to catch her, she would send him off to the basement to fetch something, she decided. Or to take a message. If he were awake, she would have to get him out of the way, somehow, so that she could slip out of the front door. But, if the god of sleep was on her side, she wouldn't have to conjure up any more daft stories.
Drawing her cloak together so that no one would be able to see the ballgown beneath, she began to go quietly down the carpeted staircase. She heard nothing, and no one, until she reached the hall.
Her first step onto the marble floor made a horribly loud crunching noise. She froze. Walking boots and marble floors were not a good mixture.
She listened. There was no sound of movement. If Filch was here, in his porter's chair, he had failed to hear his mistress's arrival. She risked another step. Carefully.
And then she heard it. A delicious little snore.
Bless him. Filch was in his chair. Asleep.
Since he would not see her, Emma could take precautions to ensure she wasn't heard. Rising on tip-toe, she crept across the floor to the door.
Filch's snores were getting louder. Wonderful.
Emma turned the handle and pulled. The door opened silently. Bendridge, master of morality, clearly ran a well-oiled household. It was the work of moments to slip out and close the big black door behind her.
I've made it.
Emma pulled her hood even lower to shadow her face and scampered down the steps to the flagway. Flambeaux were blazing by the doors of two of the houses in the row opposite, but there was no other sign of activity. Holding her cloak close, she scurried along the pavement, round the corner and into the mews behind her own terrace. Sure enough, a hackney was there, waiting. Its driver was slouched in his seat, sucking on a clay pipe, but the moment he saw her, he jumped down, ready to help her in.
"Good evening, yer ladyship," he said. His voice was gruff and he had an accent that Emma couldn't place. "Please to come aboard?" He opened the door and offered a hand. Even through her glove, she could feel the calluses on his fingers.
Emma shivered. She couldn't help herself. "Where are you taking me?"
"Ah. The Cap'n said as I wasn't to blather to yer ladyship."
The Cap'n? Was this one of Will's former crew?
"I see." She wouldn't betray her fears by saying any more.
"But he said I were to assure yer ladyship that ye'd be safe wi' me." He nodded several times to emphasise his point. He was quite an old man, by the look of him, though if he'd been before the mast for years, he might not be as old as he looked. He could probably be a fierce man in a fight – all Navy men were battle-hardened, weren't they? – but at the moment he was smiling at her in a very fatherly way.
In for a penny?
Emma climbed up and in. And discovered, to her surprise, that it was not a normal hackney at all.
This one was sumptuously upholstered in black velvet rather than the normal cracked black leather of London cabs. There were fur rugs too, to put over her knees for warmth as she travelled. Emma almost laughed, though she knew her reaction was mainly nerves. Will Allmay was a Casanova of the first order, clearly. He had done a makeover on a standard London cab so that he could convey his paramours around the capital in comfort without risk of discovery. Very clever indeed.
The drive
r, up on his box, clicked his tongue and gave a swish of his whip. They were off.
She had no idea where she was going. And back in her household, no one even knew that she had left. She could disappear off the face of the earth and no one would have a clue where to start looking for her.
Emma had given herself into Will's keeping. It was now much too late for second thoughts, even though all her experience in modern life had taught her that trust was a mug's game. Will was a rake. And he was going to marry Patience. So what did that make Emma?
The hackney rocked soothingly as it bowled along. Somewhere in the back of Emma's mind, that rebellious inner voice suggested that Will must have had the springs replaced, as well as the upholstery. The blasted man was determined that nothing would be allowed to upset the amiable and obliging mood of his lovers as they were delivered to him.
Like a sultan ordering his concubines to be primped and pampered before they were carried to his bed, Emma thought, with a jolt. Is that what I am? Is that what HE is?
There was no point in going there. She pulled the fur rug up to her waist, leaned back into her corner, and closed her eyes. It would not do to spend too much time and effort wondering about what might have happened during Will's other liaisons.
Or what might be about to happen with hers.
Chapter Sixteen
The slowing of the carriage shocked her awake.
How long had she been asleep? She had no idea. Nor how far she might have come. She peered out, but it was impossible to see where she was. Everything was so very dark.
Ah well. She was probably arriving at wherever it was that Will wanted her to be. No doubt she would see him soon. She took a deep breath. And then several more, trying to slow her unruly pulse. He must not be allowed to think that she was afraid.
But, in truth, she was. A little.
The cab wheels were crunching on gravel now. And it was slowing even more. After what seemed a long approach, but was probably less than a minute or so, the cab swung sharply to the right and stopped. She had finally arrived at her rendezvous with Will. She took a deep breath and swallowed hard.
She was not afraid. She was not.
After all, she was wearing the lace gown. Just a few seconds of isolation and she could disappear from anything, or anyone, that threatened her.
Emma fancied she could smell woodsmoke. But how could she smell smoke in a closed carriage? And yet it was a cheering, homely smell. It conjured up pictures of hearths, and blazing logs, and comfort. Nothing frightening at all. The smell of woodsmoke seemed to be even stronger when the carriage door was opened. Where could it be coming from? She strained to see, but there was almost no light. She fancied she heard a very low voice – Will's voice? – murmur, "You have brought her then?"
"Aye, Cap'n." The driver's voice was right next to the door. He was probably holding it open for her, but Emma could not make him out in the gloom.
Will's voice, less strained now, said, "Thank you, Sanding. I knew you could do it, if anyone could. I need you in the house. I am having trouble with the fire in the saloon, as you can probably smell." He chuckled. "And when you've seen to that, light a fire in the blue bedchamber, will you?"
"Aye, aye, Cap'n."
In the blue bedchamber? Among Emma's tumbling thoughts, two things registered: bed and blue. Not the Lamb House then? But a bed, all the same.
I will not sit in this hackney, trembling like a leaf. I am not in anyone's power. Not even Will Allmay's.
She rose from her seat, gathered up the skirts of her stout cloak and prepared to climb down. She expected Sanding to offer his callused hand to support her, but there, dimly outlined by the flickering carriage lamps, was Will. He simply reached up, put his hands to her waist and lifted her down. His hands lingered and stroked; he was holding her much closer to his body than any man should. But then, who was there to see or to object? Over her shoulder, he said, "Take the cab to the stables, and don't forget those fires. Supper can wait until you've done that. We don't want our guest to be cold."
Emma could hear the man climbing back onto the box behind her. And she could smell the smoke from Will's jacket. It had seemed comforting before. Now she was not so sure.
"My dearest Emma." Will dropped a kiss onto her hair. "Thank you for trusting me enough to come."
"But where am I? Your man would not tell me our destination." At that moment, the hackney started to move, presumably making for the stables. She could just make out the open front door to the house. Above the lintel, a stone lamb was eerily shadowed by the flame of an oil lamp in the hallway. "Oh," Emma breathed. "It is the Lamb House. I had not thought we had come so far."
Will smoothed his fingers down the side of her cheek. "I think you may have slept a little, my sweet. My hackney does that, I'm afraid. I did not design it to be so, but I know that it does happen."
And it has rocked many a lover to sleep in the past, has it not, O sultan of concubines? That image, bitter and resentful, rose unbidden in her mind.
But it didn't matter how many women he had had in the past, nor even that Patience was waiting in the wings. Emma was here, in Will's arms, and she realised that he was all she cared about.
It was not at all rational, she knew. Her emotions were seesawing about – anxiety, fear, panic, and then blind lust and longing. One moment she was afraid of being in his power, and the next, it was the only thing she wanted. Love was an arbitrary god. And that was the trouble. She loved Will. When she was not with him, she could see all the risks: she was well aware of the power imbalance between them, that men in the Regency ruled everything, while women had no status at all. But when she was with him, all her fears just melted away.
Besides, she told herself soothingly, what has Will ever done to suggest that he might control or coerce me? Nothing at all. He has even promised, more than once, that I am to set the rules for our relationship.
She leaned into him, allowing his warmth to enfold her. Her last coherent thought was: I don't understand any of this. I love him. I trust him. I refuse to be afraid.
With his arm round her waist, he led her up the steps and into the house, closing the door behind them and shutting out some of the cold. "I'm afraid it is not very warm and you can probably smell that I have made a pretty poor fist of lighting the fire in the saloon."
In the back of Emma's damped-down rational mind, a question poked up. "Surely the servants w—?"
"The servants are not here," he said, before she could finish her question. "There is only Sanding, my Navy steward, and the grooms in the stables. Everyone else has been given a holiday. I promised you discretion."
"And you keep your promises."
"Indeed. As do you, my darling Emma. I fear your supper tonight will be whatever Sanding can put together, though he can be a fair cook, as I discovered during our many years together on board ship. Supper may have to be delayed, however. I want your bedchamber to be warm first."
Emma felt herself blushing. "The blue bedchamber?" she said uncertainly.
"Ah, you have put your finger on the nub of things, my sweet. I am hoping, fervently hoping, I should say, that you will agree to share my bed; but a lady must have a bedchamber of her own, to dress in and to retreat to, if she wishes. So I have had another bedchamber prepared, just for you. It happens to be blue."
"Prepared just for me?" Given Will's reputation, surely any number of other females might have been installed in the blue bedchamber?
"I see that you doubt me, Emma. Shame on you, love. I have brought no other lover to this house. And the blue bedchamber was created especially for you. No other woman will use it, I can promise you that."
No one? Not even your wife? The question rose instantly to her lips but died before the words were spoken. The love in his face was so strong, and so all-embracing, that she could not resist its pull. The hateful words were vaporised, like morning mist in sunlight.
He led her into the saloon. Sure enough, his fire was a failure. It wa
s giving out much more smoke than heat.
"Let me see to that," Emma said with a quick smile. Fires, she could do.
"No, you—"
But he was too late. She had thrown off her cloak, stripped off her gloves and was kneeling by the hearth, tending to the logs and then plying the bellows. In a very few minutes, the fire was drawing beautifully. What little smoke it produced was going up the chimney, as it should, and the flames were licking eagerly at the wood. Pleased with having achieved something useful, Emma rose, dusting off her hands.
Will was gazing down at her, with a glint of amusement in his eyes. "A lady of many talents," he said admiringly.
"A lady who needs to wash her hands," Emma said, holding out her dirty fingers for him to see. "And to change into her evening slippers, too," she added, poking a booted toe out from under her lace skirts.
He grinned at the absurd picture she made, in priceless lace and stout boots. "Come than. Let me take you upstairs. I'm afraid it will have to be the master bedchamber for the moment. Yours has no fire yet."
The green bedchamber. Where she'd first set eyes on Will. Oh well. What was it she'd told herself at the start of this evening's adventure? In for a penny?
~ ~ ~
The bedchamber was almost exactly as she remembered – the fire blazing behind its screen, the velvet-hung bed and windows, the silver candelabra. But this time, there was no bath and the candles were unlit.
And Will was wearing far too many clothes.
Emma's mouth went dry.
Will busied himself with lighting the candles on the mantelpiece and on the table by the bedside. He did not light the others, she noticed. It made the huge room seem less grand and intimidating. He crossed to the dresser and poured water into the china basin for her. "It is not hot, I am afraid, but at least there is soap, and a towel."
Emma nodded and joined him. She was incapable of speech. Automatically, she picked up the soap and washed her hands. Will was holding the towel for her. Like a servant. She took it, nodding her thanks. She still couldn't speak.
Lady in Lace: Regency Timeslip Page 14
