Miss Fortescue's Protector in Paris

by Amanda McCabe

  ‘I am sure my family would disagree with you. I am not trustworthy at all.’

  ‘Then they are fools and you should never listen to them. Just as I never listen to people who decry female suffrage. We should never give credence to people who only want to limit us. Put us in their boxes.’

  He gave her a startled glance. ‘Em, you are really the most extraordinary person.’

  He thought her extraordinary? She felt a warm glow to realise it and she didn’t want to think too much about why that could be. ‘And don’t forget that.’ She wrapped her gloved hands into the velvet lapels of his coat as if she could shake some sense into him. She felt the strength of him under her touch, the heat of his skin through velvet and linen, and she suddenly couldn’t breathe. She peeked up at him to see him staring down at her as if he was just as stunned.

  ‘Em...’ he said hoarsely.

  She shook her head, words vanishing from her mind. She didn’t know what would happen next, but she had never known such a raw sense of longing. She closed her eyes and felt his lips brush hers, as if in question. She couldn’t protest and his lips grew bolder. As always when she was with him, the world vanished in a rush of glorious sensations. She wrapped her arms around his neck and she was surrounded by him: his taste, his scent, his warmth. She felt his hand on her bare upper back and she shivered, wanting more.

  She heard a laugh from nearby and it was like crashing back to earth after floating on a cloud. She stumbled back from him and shook her head when he opened his mouth to speak. She couldn’t bear to hear his apologies, not now.

  ‘I—I must have needed that,’ she gasped, trying to laugh. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Emily...’ he called, but she whirled around and ran back towards the terrace doors, back to the safety of the music and crowds. She smoothed her hair, her skirt, and hoped she didn’t look too dazed and scandalous. That she could make herself be the usual sensible Emily again.

  ‘Miss Fortescue,’ she heard someone say and she knew she couldn’t run and hide now. She pasted a bright smile on her lips and hoped she didn’t look quite so flushed and frantic. Looked as if her world had not just tilted and cracked.

  She turned to see James Hertford standing there, impeccably correct and handsome in his black evening suit, his dark hair glossy in the ballroom lights. He was friends with Gregory Hamilton, or had been when those excruciatingly embarrassing events happened, but James had always been kind to her. He’d asked her to dance at balls, sat with her at teas, was always most polite, albeit a tad bit dull. And there he was now, smiling at her, a beacon of the ordinary world, yet she always felt so odd around him.

  ‘Mr Hertford,’ she said politely. ‘How charming to see you again.’

  ‘And you, Miss Fortescue.’ His eyes, a rich, sweet hazel, seemed to glow as he smiled down at her. ‘I have been hoping to call at your home, but you seem to be terribly busy lately.’

  Emily remembered the flowers he had left a few times, pretty arrangements of white roses and lilies. ‘Yes, there has been a great deal of work to see to. My father is expanding his business.’

  He frowned. ‘A lovely lady like yourself should never be forced to concern herself with such things.’

  Emily had heard such things far too often and as always it gave her a pang of irritation. She pushed it away, though, and just kept smiling, as she often did. ‘I enjoy it. I do hate being bored.’

  ‘Well, I hope you are not too bored this evening.’

  Emily thought of the kiss on the terrace and her cheeks felt hot. She waved her fan in front of her face, hoping to hide the blush. ‘How could I be bored? With such lovely music.’

  ‘We should take advantage of it, then. Would you care to dance?’

  Emily glanced at the dance floor, where another waltz was starting amid the kaleidoscope of silks and satins. She looked back at the terrace doors, but there was no Chris there. ‘I should like that, thank you.’

  James offered her his arm and she let him lead her into the figures of the dance. They twirled and turned in time to the music, a wonderful, distracting swirl. Even though his touch didn’t make her feel as Chris did, James was a skilful dancer and he soon had her laughing at his exuberant spins.

  ‘Miss Fortescue,’ he said softly. ‘You do look most lovely this evening.’

  Emily swallowed uncomfortably, trying not to fidget. ‘Thank you, Mr Hertford, you are terribly kind.’

  ‘Not kind, just honest. You are lovely and sweet. You deserve to have everything a lady requires in life, a home, a family, proper concerns. It’s wrong for you to work thus. Surely your father sees that.’

  Emily’s laughter faded as she looked into his eyes. He seemed so very earnest, so sure of his words. Most men were when it came to what ladies ‘ought’ to do. Perhaps he was one of those ‘parfit knight’ sorts, who thought she needed rescuing? She felt suddenly unsure and looked back down to keep from tripping on her train. ‘That is a sweet thing to say, Mr Hertford, but I assure you I am doing exactly what I wish in my life. Now, what do you think will be served at supper? I am hoping for ice cream, myself.’

  They turned again and she caught a glimpse of Chris’s bright hair in the crowd. She couldn’t quite breathe, she wanted to run away and at the same time run to him. It was maddening.

  Then she saw his companion. Lady Smythe-Tomas, one of the great ‘professional beauties’ of the Season. She leaned close to him, the green plumes in her auburn hair brushing his shoulder as she touched his arm and whispered something into his ear. He laughed and Emily felt quite deflated. As if all the air and light had gone out of the room.

  I don’t care who he talks to, the rogue, she thought fiercely. But she knew she was lying to herself. She had to forget him—and fast.

  * * *

  ‘My heavens, Christopher, but you do look even more at sixes and sevens than usual,’ Lady Smythe-Tomas said with a laugh. She tugged his cravat straight. ‘Do you have no valet?’

  Chris had thought he had composed himself after the terrace and felt terribly uncertain now. Could everyone see it on his face, the rage of desire and fear that swirled inside of him when it came to Emily? ‘Perhaps I would if Ellersmere paid me what I’m worth.’

  She laughed louder, like a peal of silvery bells. ‘Oh, my dear, none of us are paid what we’re worth. We do it for love of the game, yes? Where did you run off to for so long?’

  ‘Just needed a breath of air.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm. We all need that once in a while. Do walk with me for a while and tell me all about it. I love the romantic tales of others.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you, then. No romantic tales at all. No time for them.’ He remembered Emily’s kisses on the bench at Miss Grantley’s, the maze in France. And just now, in the garden. The most golden moments of his life. But they were not the real world.

  ‘I am quite sure that’s not true. But walk with me anyway, we can gossip about everyone else’s scandalous affairs.’

  He nodded and offered her his arm, leading her on a winding path through the gilded chaperons’ chairs, the refreshment tables, half-listening to her whispered gossip about the couples they passed. He studied the dancers and caught a glimpse of Emily’s diamond headdress as she waltzed past with James Hertford. Her cheeks were rather pink, but she was smiling and nodding with him, as if their kiss had meant nothing at all to her.

  He looked away sharply, trying to concentrate on Lady Smythe-Tomas’s words, but it was no use.

  When he didn’t see Emily for weeks or months, he could almost tell himself he had forgotten her. But he never could, not really. She was too vivid, too bright—too Emily to forget. He shouldn’t have kissed her again, shouldn’t have reminded himself of how sweet she tasted.

  ‘Have you ever heard of the Women’s Franchise League?’ he asked Lady Smythe-Tomas.

  She broke off in mid-
gossip, looking startled. ‘I am a member. Why?’

  Chris knew he couldn’t tell her about Emily’s confidences. Even he deserved to keep secrets sometimes and Emily was someone he could never betray. ‘Is it a reputable organisation?’

  ‘That depends on what you consider reputable. As I said, I am a member, so not entirely. But the cause is just and they are smart and organised. What have you heard?’

  Chris watched Emily dancing and concern was all he could think about. Was it because of this League that she was being followed, or something else entirely? He didn’t like it at all.

  ‘Nothing that need concern us yet, I think,’ he told Lady Smythe-Tomas. ‘Just be careful about what goes on with this League.’

  ‘Oh, believe me,’ she murmured, ‘I am always careful. I would advise you to be the same.’

  * * *

  ‘Would you care to take a turn on the terrace, Miss Fortescue?’ James Hertford asked Emily. He tried not to sound too eager, but he feared he had failed. Time was running out for him, and he needed to close in on his goal—soon.

  He had received another letter from his creditors, one filled with barely veiled threats. Their patience was wearing thin; soon, none of his excuses, his promises, would hold them off any longer. He was constantly looking over his shoulder now, hearing that ticking of the clock that spelled his ruin. Emily Fortescue, as maddening as she was, was his last resort.

  He looked down at her as he led her off the dance floor. She was pretty, there was that at least. He would never be ashamed to call her his wife. She was also stylish, at ease in society despite her business-world background. Surely she would be a good hostess. She was much too independent, too clever for her own good, yet that would change once she belonged to a man and knew her true place.

  The important thing, the only thing really, was that she was rich. She could save him. If only she would listen, damn her! He had tried so many things. He had been gentlemanly, defending her from that lout Hamilton. He had tried fear, making her see that she needed protection when wandering the city. He had been her friend. Maybe courtship would work. A ridiculous, old-fashioned wooing, as in those novels ladies like her seemed to enjoy. Flowers and compliments.

  She gave him a quick smile, her cheeks turning a bit pink, and he hoped she was ready at last. That his salvation was in sight. Her money would save him.

  But she wouldn’t meet his hopeful gaze and she turned away to snap open her fan. ‘I think it’s almost time for me to depart, Mr Hertford, but thank you so much. I enjoyed our dance.’

  Her hand slid off his arm and she started to turn away, that ungrateful chit. James saw his last chance slipping away from him and a red mist rose before his eyes. How dare she turn away from him! From what he could offer her!

  Before he realised what he was doing, he grabbed her hand hard and spun her around towards him.

  She looked at him, her eyes wide and startled, and he was glad he could ruffle her smug pride after all.

  ‘Mr Hertford, what are you...?’ she gasped.

  ‘Miss Fortescue, I must beg you to listen to me,’ he said, hating every begging word he gave her. Hating the dark hole he had fallen into. ‘I need to tell you...’

  ‘There you are, Miss Fortescue,’ a voice said, light, full of laughter, yet insistent.

  James turned to see Christopher Blakely standing there, watching them, a wry smile on his lips. James knew the man’s reputation. Surely he was not after Miss Fortescue himself? Was he only trying to embarrass James?

  ‘I believe you have promised me the next dance,’ Blakely said. He smoothly took Emily’s hand, drawing it into the crook of his arm.

  Emily nodded and they hurried away to vanish into the crowd, not even glancing back at James. He had never felt such a burning anger before. How dared she, a tradesman’s daughter, choose someone like Blakely over what James could offer her? He needed a new plan, one that would make her his—and then make her sorry.

  Chapter Seven

  When Chris arrived back at his lodgings the next day, after long meetings about the questionable German Herr Friedland and his possible errands in Paris, he found he was not alone. His brother William was waiting, sitting by the window with a book, a bottle of burgundy and a tray of sandwiches, as at home there as Will always was everywhere.

  And Chris was secretly delighted to see him. Will had been at his post in Vienna for many months with Diana and the family had seldom seen them in that time. Not that Chris could blame him for protecting Di from the dark cloud of the Blakelys; Will had a career, a life to build. A wife he adored.

  And Chris envied him that. Not that he would ever say so. He wouldn’t give his brother the satisfaction of knowing he still felt sibling jealousy!

  Chris grinned at his brother and tossed his coat and hat on to the table. ‘I see you have not hesitated to make yourself at home.’

  Will smiled back and poured another glass of wine as Chris sat down beside him. ‘Your landlady is very obliging. She insisted on making me a repast while I waited and told me all about her rheumatism and the gossip about your neighbours.’

  ‘Mrs Hodges. Yes, she does keep fine lodgings indeed, but she will also chatter on if she can corner a person. Especially an unwary stranger like yourself.’ Chris reached for one of the sandwiches.

  ‘It sounds as if she can rarely corner you, Christopher. She says you are “gadding about at all hours”, seldom home.’

  ‘I would think she would appreciate that. Saves her on my board.’

  Will was quiet for long moment, the two of them drinking their wine in companionable silence, as if it had been only a day they were apart and not weeks. ‘Is Ellersmere keeping you hard at work, then?’

  ‘At times, yes,’ Chris answered. ‘I’ve been asked to go to Paris again, to look into the doings of a man called Friedland.’

  Will frowned. ‘Paris. Interesting. I am headed there myself.’

  ‘Are you? I did wonder what brought you to London.’

  ‘We’re just here for a few days before we leave for France, doing our duty by subjecting Di to dinner with the parents. She has a commission from Ladies’ Weekly to write a series about the new Parisian hats.’

  ‘Of course she does. All the magazines want articles from Diana now, she’s an amazing writer. And what will you do while she peruses the Champs-Élysées?’

  Will shrugged, his smooth, angular face hiding his thoughts as always. ‘Oh, make the diplomatic rounds of the embassies, as usual. The Exposition may have closed, but plenty of important people still linger there. They say the Prince of Wales may make a return visit soon—without the Princess. The races are starting.’

  ‘I have heard talk of it at the office. Bertie’s visits are a constant nuisance.’ Chris took another bite of his sandwich, thinking as he slowly chewed. ‘What have you heard of this Herr Friedland?’

  ‘Not a great deal. He seems to be one of those radical sorts who seem to keep popping up everywhere lately. They don’t like that sort of thing in Vienna. Stuck in the sixteenth century there.’

  ‘I would imagine they don’t.’ Chris knew how etiquette-bound and strict places like Vienna could be. And yet he wouldn’t mind trying such a job himself, not now.

  ‘But he does seem to be acquainted with Empress Elisabeth, which is something of a worry. She is very—unpredictable in her opinions, unlike her very predictable husband. I am sure the Foreign Office in Vienna would be interested to learn all about Friedland.’

  ‘As they would be here.’ Chris toyed with the stem of his glass, thinking of Emily at the party, the enthusiasm on her face as she talked of her League. Her concern about being followed. He worried about her. ‘It’s been hinted that if my work is satisfactory in Paris, there may be a—change in my career direction.’

  Will slowly nodded. He didn’t seem very surprised. ‘And what do you think of t
hat?’

  Chris shrugged. ‘If a diplomat’s post makes a man look as happy as you, Will, I should consider it.’ And his brother was indeed looking well, content and calm, a hint of laughter in his dark blue eyes that had never been there before.

  Will smiled. ‘I suppose marriage suits me. Maybe you should try it soon.’

  ‘Me? Never.’ Chris remembered Emily again, her face in the moonlight, the touch of her hand on his arm. ‘No lady would have me.’

  ‘If you were to become established in a respectable career, set up a real home...’

  Chris shook his head. ‘It’s true I’m becoming too old for the work I’ve been doing. A young rogue is winked at, indulged. An old one just becomes pitiable. And I am rather bored at times.’

  ‘Well, diplomacy is seldom boring in Vienna, I promise you. It’s like constantly learning new, silent languages. I could never do it all without Diana’s help.’ Will poured himself more wine. ‘Is the Friedland business the only thing taking you to Paris?’

  ‘Well, there is the races. Like our good Prince Bertie, I am something of an aficionado of the turf. Have to take the perks of the job where we find them.’

  Will studied him for a long moment. Chris could tell that his brother did not quite believe him—Will’s career was built on reading people’s secret thoughts, just as Chris’s was. But Will said nothing, just nodded and finished his wine.

  ‘Be careful with these people like Friedland, radical sorts,’ Will said. ‘Anarchists, suffragettes. They care only about their cause and will never hesitate to be rid of anyone who gets in their way. Now—will we see you at dinner at the family manse tomorrow? I know Di is eager to find out all about your doings of late.’

  ‘Of course I will be there. Even dinner with the parents would be worthwhile to see my lovely sister-in-law again.’

  After Will left, Chris sat staring out the window for a long time, not really seeing the crowds hurrying past. He thought about Will’s words—Never hesitate to be rid of anyone who gets in their way. And he also thought of Emily and her father’s worries about her. Had she got in someone’s way? Was that why she was being followed?