He even had a woman with him, his arm around the waist of her emerald-green satin gown, her hair an improbable shade of red. It was strictly against club rules for ladies to be there, but Freddy Anstruther was never one to care. Chris looked forward to the day Freddy would be drummed out of the Poseidon.
And yet, he was supposed to be just like the Freddys of the world. Everyone thought he was like that, just as careless, just as reckless. He suddenly felt a pang of disgust at himself, at the way his work made him behave sometimes, the deceptions he carried.
‘Blakely!’ Freddy cried, his voice and breath telling the tale of all the gin bottles he had already been hitting that evening. ‘We haven’t seen you in far too long, man. Come have some wine with us, we’re going on to the Gaiety later.’ Freddy’s friends clamoured their agreement.
Chris wanted nothing more than to refuse, to be left to his own brooding thoughts again, but a sudden reticence on his part might excite unwanted speculation.
He gave a careless grin and pushed himself up from his chair to go join the rowdy party. He noticed Mr Fortescue was still there, quietly writing letters now, seeming to take no notice of the loud newcomers.
Chris followed them to the card tables set near the window, watching as Freddy cut a new deck and more wine was fetched.
‘And you must know Millie, sensation of the Lemon Alley Theatre,’ Freddy said, reaching out to drag the redhead closer. He pressed a damp kiss on her rouged cheek and she leaned away, a disgusted look on her face. No doubt Freddy smelled like a distillery. ‘Be nice to my old friend Blakely, Millie love. It’s like I’ve told you before—if you’re nice to my friends, I can be nice to you...’
Millie tried to pull away, but Freddy’s grip tightened. ‘I have to leave for the theatre soon,’ she said desperately.
‘They can’t pay you as much as I can, now can they, you silly tart,’ Freddy said with a dismissive snort. He dragged her even closer, trying to kiss her again, and she pulled away. Freddy laughed and kissed her anyway. She struggled to get out of his grip, but he just held on to her tighter.
Chris knew he was supposed to be like Freddy, a careless man about town to whom actresses were a penny a dozen, but not even for the sake of his work would he stand to see a woman treated that way. He shoved back his chair and grabbed Freddy’s free arm in a bruising grip. He pushed the man away from Millie, who stumbled back on her high heels. Freddy looked astonished, quickly followed by drunken fury.
‘Leave her alone,’ Chris said quietly, intently. ‘Be a gentleman.’ He shoved Freddy away.
‘Now, see here, Blakely,’ Freddy sputtered. ‘If you want your own tart, you can go out and find one. I bought and paid for this one.’
‘You haven’t paid me a farthing,’ Millie spat. ‘And if you had, I’d throw it right back in your face, you drunken lout!’
‘You...you common little whore!’ Freddy lunged for her, but Chris was faster. He landed a punch on the man’s jaw and a fight broke out like wildfire in the club’s library. Millie ran away sobbing, and Chris was forced to shove Freddy into a table to get the drunk off him. The wood splintered, silencing Freddy’s followers, and attendants appeared to haul them to their feet.
‘You will have to pay for the damage, Mr Anstruther,’ one of them said, dragging the protesting Freddy away. ‘And I’m afraid you are behind on your club dues, as well, which means you are no longer welcome at the Poseidon...’
‘I am sorry, Mr Blakely,’ Ralph said, helping Chris to an armchair and brushing off his coat sleeve. Silence reigned once again in the library. ‘Such things usually do not happen here at the Poseidon. Men like Mr Anstruther should find more suitable memberships.’
‘I quite agree,’ Chris muttered. He suddenly realised his punching hand was sore and flexed his fingers. ‘The boxing ring, maybe.’ He took the cold compress another attendant brought him and held it to his aching jaw. It had been a long time since he found himself in such a melee. It didn’t feel entirely terrible, but rather something of a relief to let his emotions out that way. To be useful to someone. ‘Sorry for all the trouble, Ralph.’
‘Not at all, Mr Blakely. I rather suspect Mr Anstruther has long had it coming. Let me fetch you some more cognac.’
Chris nodded and studied the now-silent room. Everyone was studiously ignoring him, pretending nothing amiss had happened at all, and he hoped that meant what happened at the club truly stayed at the club. He didn’t need more disappointed looks from his mother. But Mr Fortescue was watching him, a thoughtful frown on his face. He gave Chris a nod and came closer.
‘That was very well done of you, Mr Blakely,’ Fortescue said, sitting down across from Chris.
Chris looked away. This was Emily’s father, after all, who had just watched him brawling as though he was in a common pub. He knew what people thought of him, what he made them think of him, but he hated to know Emily must feel that way, too. ‘Well done for breaking up a peaceful evening at the club, you mean?’
Mr Fortescue studied Chris closely. He did remind Chris of Emily, the same all-seeing hazel eyes, the same thoughtful expression. ‘Well done in defending that poor girl from a bully like Anstruther. I’ve noticed you have a knack for defending those weaker in the world, Mr Blakely. Never an unkind word for servants or beggar children. Always chivalrous with all ladies. You are quite unusual.’
Chris was startled. He was so accustomed to being so careful all the time, to always hiding behind his mask. How had Albert Fortescue seen beyond it, even for a moment?
‘I hate men who mistreat women, or anyone weaker than themselves,’ he said. Ralph poured out two more glasses of cognac and Chris gulped his down. ‘They are just cowards.’
Fortescue held up his glass in a toast. ‘Exactly so, Mr Blakely. You know, I think you might just be the sort of chap I am looking for.’
Chris had already heard that, at work. But what could Fortescue be looking for that Chris might have. ‘Indeed?’
‘Yes. I hear you rather enjoy Paris.’
Paris again. If Chris had been a spiritual sort of man, he would wonder if it was a sign. ‘It is, shall we say, full of fine diversions.’
‘So you might not be averse to a short visit there?’
‘Maybe you’re looking for someone who really knows his French wines, then, Mr Fortescue? For your imports business.’
Fortescue laughed. ‘I do have a great many such experts on my staff, Mr Blakely, but none I can trust with a particularly sensitive bit of important business indeed.’
‘What might that be?’
Mr Fortescue turned his glass in his hand, a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘It has to do with my daughter Emily. I believe you know her? Your cousin Lady Alexandra was her school friend.’
Chris stomach tightened at the sound of her name. Emily, Emily—she was always so close, yet so far away. ‘I know Miss Fortescue, yes. A most—independent spirit.’
Mr Fortescue smiled tenderly. ‘Yes, she is truly that. Most independent, just as her mother was. I couldn’t run my business without her, but something is concerning me.’
‘About your daughter?’ Chris asked, worried. Was she ill? Hurt? He longed to go to her, but knew he dared not.
‘Yes.’ Fortescue sighed. He suddenly looked tired. ‘I know I have indulged her too much, let her have her own way. How could I not? I was a parent alone and she has always been so smart, so capable. Yet I worry now her confidence might make her too easy a prey.’
Had someone hurt Emily, possibly as Anstruther had tried to hurt Millie? A surge of anger broke through Chris and he started to rise from his chair. ‘Has someone like Freddy Anstruther been pestering her, too?’
‘Not Mr Anstruther, no. But she has been followed home after her work with the Women’s Franchise League and she’s received some rather disquieting letters, which I’ve only just learned about.’ His expres
sion tightened. ‘And she was knocked down in the street by an unknown assailant.’
Chris’s anger flamed even higher. It was all he could do not to run out and find Emily immediately. Take her in his arms as he longed to do. ‘It sounds as if your daughter requires hired guards.’
Fortescue shook his head. ‘She would never stand for such a thing. I would never put it past her to run away from any guards set upon her in such an obvious fashion. That’s where someone like you could help me.’
‘Me?’ Chris said, puzzled.
‘Of course. She already knows you; you attend many of the same events. She wouldn’t be surprised to see you there, now and again.’
Chris wasn’t too sure about that. But then again, Emily’s father knew nothing about their quarrels—or their kisses. If he did, he would demand Chris stay far away from her, which was what he should do. But Fortescue’s news that Emily had been followed and attacked had him very worried. ‘You want me to spy on your daughter?’
‘Not at all! Merely keep an eye on her.’ Fortescue tossed back his wine. ‘She is going to Paris, you see, on a business errand, and she won’t be put off the trip. I have tried to dissuade her, but short of locking her in her room she won’t be turned away. Her work is important to her and I have no desire to be her jailer. I love her more than my own life. But I must keep her safe.’
Chris wanted nothing but to do that, too. But how could he trust himself with her? ‘So, I should follow her to Paris?’
‘It should only take a few days. Just see where she goes, make sure no one is watching her, that she is not harassed.’ Fortescue’s eyes narrowed. ‘I can pay you generously for your time, Mr Blakely. One does hear that your family is not quite so open-handed as they once were about allowances.’
That was just what Chris wanted people to think—that he was too irresponsible to be approved of, even by his own family. Still, the words stung a bit. Was that what Emily thought, too? ‘I am no pauper, Mr Fortescue. I don’t need your money. And I am not a spy.’ Not on his friends, anyway. And especially not with Emily.
‘I am sorry I insulted you,’ Fortescue said. ‘It was not my intention. I am just very concerned about my daughter. And you seem like a man who could keep her safe. Who knows how to treat ladies.’
Chris was also concerned about Emily. Much more than he wished he could be.
‘I will think about it,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Send me the particulars of your daughter’s journey, Mr Fortescue, and I will let you know my answer.’
A look of profound relief swept over Mr Fortescue’s face. ‘Thank you, Mr Blakely. You will certainly have my deepest gratitude, and any favour I might give you in the future, it would be yours. Come by the house and see her yourself. I am sure we can find a way to work things out.’
Chris nodded, but he knew he could never do such a thing for favours or money. Only for Emily. And that was what scared him. He pushed back his chair and left the club without another word.
Out on the pavement, Millie waited, her red hair and bright green dress a beacon in the gathering, foggy night.
‘Oh, Mr Blakely!’ she called, grabbing his arm. ‘You were ever so brave in there, saving me like that. Just like a knight in a play! Sir Lancelot or something.’
Chris knew he was very, very far from some Arthurian knight, slaying dragons and rescuing damsels. He was only someone who told lies for a career. He had to do what he had to do.
‘It was nothing,’ he said. ‘Freddy Anstruther is a bully, I would stay away from him if I were you.’
‘Oh, yes, you’re quite right.’ Millie pressed closer to him and gave him a rouged smile. Her tuberose perfume was heavy and cheap, the satin of her gown shiny and bursting at the seams of her impressive bosom. Completely unlike Emily Fortescue, with her intelligent, serious eyes, her elegance, her stern disdain.
He suddenly wanted nothing more than to forget Emily, to forget his worry over her, his disgust for himself, everything. Even agreeing to help her father deceive Emily made him feel discomfited. He only wanted to forget it all.
‘Come on then, my dear,’ he said, letting Millie loop her arm through his. ‘Let’s go have some supper, shall we? Then I will escort you to your theatre and you can tell me all about your role there...’
* * *
Albert Fortescue was sure he had just seen the answer to his wishes.
Christopher Blakely. Who would have thought it? The man’s reputation in society was not the best; he was adored by the ladies, but not a prospect for marriage for their daughters. Charming, friendly, energetic, but rakish. Yet Albert had glimpsed another side to the man, one that rather reminded him of Emily herself. Kind and strong, the first to rush to defend someone. Someone with secrets behind their eyes. Albert decided to make enquiries about Blakely, try to learn more about him. The real him.
Albert tapped his fingers on his papers, his mind racing as it often did at business plans. But this could possibly be the most important scheme of his life. Blakely would surely agree to keep a protective eye on Emily in Paris. Albert could tell the man cared about her. Could he be persuaded to do even more?
An idea was slowly, carefully taking form in his businessman’s sharp mind...
Chapter Six
Emily watched in her dressing table mirror as Mary curled her hair for that night’s party. The Marchioness of Lyon’s ball was always one of the great events of the Season, and for the Fortescues to secure an invitation was a great prize. She knew she had to look her best, to be at her sharpest wits at every moment, yet she found herself to be distracted.
All the recent drama was making her feel nervous, jumpy, not on her best business game. She had to find a way to push it away.
‘What do you think, Miss Emily?’ Mary asked. ‘The pearl bandeau or the diamond aigret?’
Emily glanced at her reflection, studying the thick chestnut waves Mary had so carefully curled and pinned into an elaborate coiffure. ‘Which do you think, Mary?’
‘To go with the gown?’ Mary gestured at that night’s creation, white satin and Brussels lace with cascades of pearl beading from Worth. ‘The aigret, I think.’
‘The aigret it is, then.’ Emily shook away the last hazy vestiges of worry and tried to concentrate only on what she had to do in that moment. Put on perfume; find her white satin shoes. She opened her jewel case and took out her mother’s pearl necklace, searching for the matching earrings.
She held them up to the light, the diamond clasps in the shape of fleur-de-lis sparkling. They’d once been her favourite gems, yet she hadn’t worn them in a while.
And suddenly she remembered when she last wore them. Her familiar London bedroom faded away and she was back in a sun-splashed French garden, racing between the tall green hedge walls of a maze as she heard the echo of chatter from the faraway party...
She stifled her giggles as she ran over the gravel pathways, trying to move as quietly as she could on her velvet shoes. She knew very well she should not be there, not with him. Being with him was always trouble. But Rippon’s party was so dull, the maze so fun and her head was buzzing delightfully with champagne.
‘I can hear you, Emily,’ Christopher called from beyond the green wall to her left. He sounded full of laughter, giddy just as she was.
‘But you can’t find me,’ she sang in return. She turned a corner and found herself at a dead end, a cosy nook with a wrought-iron bench and a burbling fountain, topped with a plump little marble cherub that seemed to laugh along with her.
She spun around, and found Christopher right behind her, his golden hair tousled in the light, laughing.
‘I’ve caught you now,’ he declared and his arms swept around her. He lifted her off her feet, spinning her around and around until the turquoise sky above them tilted and spun.
Emily couldn’t stop laughing. Her sides ached with it, her mind was a blur
. It was always thus with Chris. She always wanted to either strangle him—or never let him go. No one could make her forget herself, forget all her responsibilities, as he could.
And that made him so dangerous.
‘Oh, do put me down, Chris, or I’ll be sick,’ she gasped.
He stopped spinning, but still held her off the ground. His arms were strong, hard, his shoulders broad under her hands, and he smelled of some delicious lemony cologne of sun and fresh air. Delicious.
‘Very well, but only if you pay a forfeit, seeing that I am the winner of our little game of tag,’ he said.
Emily frowned at him warily. ‘What sort of forfeit?’
‘Hmm. How about a ribbon from your hat? Just like a jousting knight of old, given a favour for the tournament by his lady fair.’
Emily laughed and smacked his shoulder. ‘You are hardly Ivanhoe, Christopher Blakely!’
‘No, I am merely a useless wastrel,’ he answered. He put her down at last and she stumbled over to collapse on the chaise. ‘Good for neither Queen, country, nor my family, according to my parents.’
‘It doesn’t have to be that way, you know,’ Emily said. She knew he wanted everyone to think that; maybe it kept him from finding his responsibilities. But she had seen his sharp intelligence flashing under the smile in his blue eyes, the hardness and strength he wanted to hide.
He sat down beside her on the chaise and took out a silver flask from his pocket. He offered it to her and she took a sip of the warming brandy even as she knew she shouldn’t. The combination of the sunshine, champagne and Chris himself made her feel quite wonderfully reckless. Quite unlike herself.
‘What do you think I should do, then?’ he asked, taking a swallow of the wine.
‘Oh, I don’t know. You don’t seem like the army sort and definitely not the church. The City? Banking, maybe, or imports, like my father.’
Chris shrugged. ‘My mother’s constant idea is that I should marry an heiress.’
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