Miss Fortescue's Protector in Paris

by Amanda McCabe

  ‘You like me?’ she gasped. ‘You want to—to be honourable?’

  He frowned. ‘I know everyone thinks I am a useless fribble, but I do have honour. I want to do the right thing for you.’

  ‘The right thing for me is not to be married to a man who feels obligated to be with me!’ She grabbed the box and snapped it closed, then shoved it back into his hand. ‘I have to leave. Now.’

  She ran into the drawing room before he could stop her and saw Diana coming back into the room. She ran up to her and grabbed her hand. ‘I have to go, I’m sorry, Di,’ Emily said quickly, gesturing to the footman to bring her cloak. She didn’t dare look at her friend, Diana would see right away what was amiss.

  ‘Emily, my dear, are you ill?’ Diana asked, frowning in concern, her hand on Emily’s arm. ‘Let me send for Will to take you home...’

  ‘No, I’m quite well. I just—just remembered some business I must attend to at once,’ Emily said. She took her cloak, kissed Diana’s cheek and hurried out of the now oppressively cosy suite. She could only think of getting away, of trying to breathe again. She had been so caught by surprise—and she hated being surprised, hating losing control.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she heard Chris ask Diana and the sound of his voice hurried her steps to the lift. She had to get away from there.

  ‘Em, wait!’ she heard Chris call and she couldn’t look back at him. She tried to outrun him, to reach the stairs, but he easily caught up with her. He caught her hand before she could duck into the stairwell.

  ‘Please, Em, I never meant to insult you,’ he said.

  Emily peeked up at him. His golden hair tumbled over his brow, giving him that earnest, boyish look that always seemed to drag people into his orbit. It dragged her in, too, made her want to hold on to him and never let go. But she couldn’t do that to him, to the rest of his life. Couldn’t bear to see that glow in his blue eyes fade when he looked at her. ‘No, of course you didn’t. You said it yourself—you wanted to do the honourable thing.’

  ‘Why should I not want to do the right thing by you? I care about you.’

  His words were like a sharp-pointed dart to her heart. He cared about her; he was sorry for what had happened. ‘And I care about you. That’s why I won’t ruin your life because we had one reckless moment. You always say you can’t marry. We care about each other now, but we will be miserable if we come to resent each other. If we are trapped together.’

  ‘How could we ever come to resent each other?’

  ‘Because you will be sorry you married me! That you closed off all other possibilities in your life. And I must do my work. I don’t have it in me to be happy just being a wife.’

  ‘Please, Emily, give me a chance to try to make you happy. There are things I haven’t told you about myself, things I can’t talk about with anyone. But I would never stand in your way of you living your life however you wish.’

  Emily was utterly confused. What did he hide from her? ‘Then how could we really be happy if we can’t share our full selves with each other? You think you love me as I am now, but it would soon be like other marriages, I’m sure. A woman must give up her passions for work when she has to take care of a house and family, no matter what intentions she has at the start. Surely we should just remember our time in the countryside for what it was—a happy moment?’

  ‘But it can be more than that! Please, Em, just listen to me...’

  But she couldn’t, not at that moment. She was completely overwhelmed by emotions she couldn’t yet understand. She shook her head and spun away to hurry around the corner and down the stairs. She heard him behind her and rushed on faster, determined he would not see her cry. Outside the hotel at last, she turned on to a quiet, narrow lane that led towards her own hotel and hoped she had left him behind, that he would give up on her now.

  She was too determined to get away that she didn’t see the figure in the shadow of a deserted doorway until it was too late.

  ‘Just listen to me,’ a man’s gravelly voice growled, and a hand reached out for her. Emily felt a rush of freezing cold panic—how could this be happening again? She opened her mouth to scream, tried to twist away, to kick out as Chris had taught her. A gloved hand clapped down hard over her mouth and she was dragged off the street towards the dark doorway. She jabbed back with her elbow and heard a grunt as she knocked out her attacker’s breath. His hand tightened, cutting off her breath, and the world started to swim hazily around her.

  ‘Let her go!’ she heard someone shout, muffled as if down a long tunnel. She managed to twist around and saw Chris running towards her, his face full of fury.

  His fist shot out and landed square in her attacker’s face, right above her. He was caught by surprise at Chris’s speed and stumbled back, giving her an instant to wrench free. She lurched into the street and in the chaos she saw Chris grab the man by his black coat lapels and slam him into the wall.

  ‘Run, Em!’ Chris shouted, but Emily knew she couldn’t leave him. She glanced frantically down the street, searching for a gendarme, anyone to help. The lane was empty.

  She whirled back around just in time to see the flash of light on something metallic in a gloved hand. Burning fear rushed over her.

  ‘Chris, a knife!’ she cried, but it was too late. The blade sliced down and landed in Chris’s shoulder. His grasp loosened, and the attacker broke free and ran, disappearing into the night like a phantom.

  But the pain he left behind was all too real. Chris fell to his knees, pressing his hand against his shoulder. He looked calm, disbelieving, as he stared down at the red seeping through his fingers.

  Horrified, terrified, Emily ran to his side and knelt down next to him. She gently slid aside his hand and studied the wound. She could see little in the dim light, against his black coat, but she could see the stain spreading slowly, inexorably.

  She tore off a ruffle from her gown and bound it tightly over his shoulder, but the satin and lace seemed terribly inadequate to the task. ‘We need to get you to a doctor.’

  Chris shook his head. He looked worryingly pale. ‘I don’t need a doctor. Just a bandage and a glass of brandy.’

  ‘I think you need a great deal more than that. Here, lean on me, we’ll get you back to your lodgings and then I am sending for a doctor. No arguments.’ Emily slid her arm around his waist, taking some of his weight as he lurched to his feet. She tried to stay calm, not to panic, not to rush. ‘This is all my fault. If I hadn’t run away like a fool, if I hadn’t forgotten...’

  ‘No, Em,’ Chris protested, his voice fading. They made their slow, halting way to the end of the street. ‘It’s only the fault of the villain chasing you. When I think it could have been you who got that knife...’ He shook his head and even that motion seemed to weaken him. He turned even whiter.

  ‘My father should never have asked you to protect me!’

  ‘It was never because your father asked me, Em, you know that,’ he said. ‘I would do anything to keep you safe.’

  He suddenly swayed against her and Emily bit back a flare of panic. They reached his lodgings, and in the hall the concierge peered out her office window.

  ‘Here, now, we can’t have blood on the floors,’ she shouted.

  ‘Send for a doctor—now!’ Emily shouted back. She helped Chris slowly up the stairs and, once in his room, made him lie down on the sofa. She pulled back the makeshift bandage and his evening coat, and carefully examined the wound. It was not wide, but looked fairly deep and was still bleeding.

  ‘Where are your cravats?’ she asked. ‘I need to make a better bandage and clean this up a bit. The doctor will surely need to stitch it.’

  ‘In the second drawer over there,’ he answered, sounding very far away. ‘More important, the brandy bottle is on top of that table.’

  Emily poured him a generous measure of the amber liquid and pressed it in
to his hand before she went to sort through the drawer. Beneath the piles of cravats and clean handkerchiefs, she glimpsed a tiny hint of pink. Curious, she pulled it out—and almost burst into tears at what she saw.

  It was the pink ribbon from her hat that he had taken when they chased through the maze. Carefully pressed and tucked away, like it was a treasure.

  Emily dashed away her tears. There was no time for them at that moment, no time to decipher what had shifted inside her at the sight of her ribbon. She could have no fears now, no uncertainties. She just had to make sure Chris was all right, that he would recover.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Just as she had suspected, Chris’s lodgings were not exactly as equipped as Miss Nightingale would have liked. There were no proper bandages except his own cravats and few medicines, aside from some headache powders for overindulgence, and only a lemon-scented Italian soap that reminded her of the wonderful way he always smelled when he held her.

  As she inhaled its clean, citrus sharpness, she felt a wave of sadness and fear wash over her. She closed her eyes and there in the darkness she saw again the whole terrible scene. The flash of the blade, Chris falling.

  What if she had lost him in that second? Until that one flashing instant, she had never realised what that could be, an earthquake chasm splitting her world in two. With Chris, the world was bright, exciting, full of possibilities. Without him, it was shadowy. A cold blank.

  And it was her fault! If they hadn’t quarrelled; if she hadn’t been foolish. None of this would have happened.

  She would never be so selfish again. She would leave Chris to his own life, far from the chaos of her own. It was the only way. When they were together, it only meant trouble. Delicious trouble, sometimes, just like that perfect afternoon at the country inn. She would never forget that. But she would never let him be put in danger because of her again, either. She couldn’t bear it.

  Resolved, knowing she had to stay strong to get Chris safely through this crisis and then leave him, she reached for the soap and a pile of towels, plus a clean sheet she found in a cupboard, and discovered a bottle of brandy and pitcher and basin of water on the sideboard. She went back to the small sitting room to find Chris trying to sit up by himself. His face was as white as the linen, his jaw set in a hard line.

  ‘Here, let me help you! You’re going to start the bleeding again,’ she cried. She ran over to take the hem of the shirt from his stained fingers. She eased it away and carefully examined the cloth she had bound around the wound earlier. It was already soaked through.

  Trying to hide her panic, she tsked and said, ‘See, it’s bleeding again. I think you need stitches. Let me get you a bit tidied, then I’ll fetch a doctor. It seems the concierge isn’t going to do it.’

  Chris scowled. ‘Can’t you do it?’

  ‘Me? Surely you can guess my level of embroidery skill. You need a proper physician. Now, sit down before you fall over.’

  Emily spread the clean sheet over the sofa and plumped a few pillows behind his back to help make him a bit more comfortable before she took a closer look. He took a deep swallow of the brandy.

  She dabbed at the wound with the dampened cloth, clearing away some of the dried blood so she could see it clearly. Luckily, it did not look too deep, but it was still oozing blood, and she feared it could become infected. ‘Oh, Chris,’ she whispered. ‘I can never tell you how sorry I am. If I wasn’t so impetuous...

  ‘Em. Em, no.’ He reached out and caught her face between his hands. When she looked up at him, everything blurring through her tears, his golden hair like a halo, his expression was so worried. His touch was so tender, light as a feather on her skin, as he brushed away her tears with his thumbs. ‘Don’t you know I would do anything to make sure you are safe? You deserve to walk free, run free in the world. I would do anything to make that for you. Go through any danger.’

  ‘But you shouldn’t have to! You have your own lovely life to lead. The Moulin de la Galette, the races—you should never have to worry about me.’

  ‘But without you, my life is no fun at all. I never danced like I do with you before, never saw Paris the way we do together. I see things I never could before and I—I have to tell you...’

  He suddenly swayed, his face turning grey, and Emily felt a rush of fear. ‘No more talking, Chris. Lie down, let me clean this up and then I am going to get a doctor, no arguments.’

  ‘Will you stay with me until I sleep?’ he murmured, reaching for her hand. ‘I am sure I won’t bleed to death any time soon.’

  Emily smiled at him gently. ‘I will sit with you for a while, if you promise not to worry, or exert yourself.’

  She washed the wound as carefully and gently as she could, trying not to cry out when she saw the fresh blood. She tore a strip from the towel and wrapped the makeshift bandage over his shoulder, tying it tightly before she mixed up a dose of the headache powder for him.

  ‘Hopefully this will take some of the edge off the pain before help can get here,’ she said. Morning light was beginning to appear at the window. ‘Just lie still, try to sleep. I won’t be gone long at all.’

  ‘Em...’ His eyes were already a bit blurry, but his hand was strong when it grasped hers. ‘You cannot go out alone.’

  ‘I have to! It’s light outside now. I will stay on the busy streets and watch very carefully. I won’t be so foolish again, I promise.’ She pressed a kiss to his forehead, worryingly warm now. ‘Just sleep, my darling.’

  ‘There’s an umbrella with a sharp tip by the door,’ he murmured, his eyes closing. ‘Take it with you.’

  ‘I will.’ While she still had the strength to leave his side, she tucked the blankets tightly around him, snatched up the umbrella and hurried down the stairs. True to her word, she studied the crowds carefully as she went, but all she could see were bleary-eyed gentlemen heading home. No one who looked suspicious at all, but surely he was long gone now.

  Once she found the physician’s office, which was just opening for the day, and sent him back to Chris, she found herself suddenly shaking, as if all the strength that sent her dashing through the streets drained out of her. She made her way to a bench in the shade of a beech tree, near where a noisy group of children on their way to school chased the birds, and sat down with a long sigh. She let the sadness and worry wash over her.

  She remembered again that split-second moment of the attack. The tall, shadowy figure appearing out of nowhere. Chris—who fought most skilfully for a man who liked to play the dilettante.

  She frowned as she thought back over it all. Surely something was strange in that scene. Surely Chris, as she had long suspected, was so much more than he wanted anyone to believe.

  But how had it all led them here, to this moment? Why were they surrounded by so much danger? Who was after them?

  She glanced around at the passers-by, suspicious, tense, about all the world around her. It was only nannies and their charges, a few businessmen, ladies going on their calls, but she felt cold, unsteady, most unlike herself.

  She stood up, clutching tightly at the umbrella handle, and turned towards Chris’s street. A group of men in their sombre, dark professional suits and bowler hats pulled low waited to cross at the corner. Among them, she glimpsed one familiar face. James Hertford. Just like at the races, the Moulin de la Galette.

  And on his cheek was a long, red scratch.

  ‘No,’ she whispered.

  His eyes widened as he glimpsed her and Emily spun around to run away before he could cross the street. The scratch could be coincidence, of course, yet some icy feeling deep inside told her it wasn’t. He had been so attentive to her in the last few months, had appeared at so many places. Could he really be her insistent suitor? Chris’s attacker?

  She found herself at the corner of a quiet, wide, prosperous lane, lined with fine shops and apartments. It was quite a long wal
k back to Chris’s lodgings, but she knew what was nearby. The Foreign Office post where Will worked, and Chris, too, as he claimed. Surely she would be safe there and maybe even find some answers.

  She ignored the clerk who called out, ‘Mademoiselle, non!’

  ‘I am looking for Monsieur Blakely,’ she answered, running up the gilded stairs. ‘Or Lord Ellersmere. Anyone!’

  ‘Perhaps I could help?’ a gentle voice said from one of the office doorways.

  Emily looked up from the landing and to her surprise saw Lady Smythe-Tomas standing there. She was as stylish as ever, in a purple-velvet walking suit, amethysts glinting in her ears, but her face was very serious. Not even curious to see a dishevelled, blood-stained lady racing through the silent, elegant building.

  ‘Chris has been hurt,’ Emily blurted. ‘And I think I know who did it. But I am not sure why.’

  Lady Smythe-Tomas smiled. ‘You had better come in, then, Miss Fortescue. Should I send our physician to Christopher?’

  ‘No, I have sent one already. He was sleeping when I left him.’ She went through the door Lady Smythe-Tomas held open, feeling rather dazed. ‘Do you work here, too, Lady Smythe-Tomas?’

  ‘Oh, Laura, please. We do know each other quite well now, don’t we?’ She sat down behind a carved Louis XV desk, piled with papers, and indicated a velvet armchair across from her. Emily dropped down on to it gratefully. ‘And I only have an office here when I need it. A base, if you will. My real task is wherever it may find me.’

  ‘You are not just a professional beauty.’

  Laura laughed. ‘Those photographs do make me a penny here and there, which a widow always needs, but, no, it is not my only job. It’s a useful front. Like with your Christopher, as I am sure you have guessed.’

  Emily had guessed, but the knowledge of it was still startling. She had always thought she knew Chris so well. ‘I think you had best tell me what is really happening.’