“Aunt Rachel, this is Miss Emily Eliot. Miss Eliot, may I introduce my aunt, Rachel Smith?”
Rachel stared back at him glacially and their eyes seemed locked for a few moments. “Yes, we’ve already met. The other morning, remember?” Rachel turned and glanced at Emily and the corners of her mouth rose but her eyes remained cold. “Well, my dear, did you procure the loan for your cousin?”
Emily’s mouth turned cotton dry and her mind went blank.
Alex spoke more quickly than she. “Well, there was a bit of confusion there, but Mr. Jefferson helped to clear everything up. Miss Eliot is an artist with an interest in the Algerian situation and I have come to an agreement to have her book printed.”
Despite his pleasant expression, his eyes were as hard as steel and his tone spoke of finality. He directed Emily to the end of Nancy’s settee. “Take a seat.”
Nancy kept staring at her with frank appraisal and Emily’s discomfort grew as she sat by the woman’s slipper-clad feet.
“Nancy, I’ve asked before, please don’t wear that hat glorifying the carnage in France in my house.” Alex’s voice was hard.
Nancy slowly dropped her book and looked up at him over her spectacles. “When are you going back to sea?”
“Not for some time.”
Nancy wrinkled her nose. “Things were far more pleasant around here without you.”
“Perhaps you’d like to visit your father in London? I’d gladly pay for first-class accommodation.”
A grin cracked Nancy’s face. “Ha! Joyless Tory! Doubtless he’d simply send me back.” Nancy turned her attention back to Emily and scanned her slowly. She clicked her tongue. “You’re so thin! Can’t afford enough to eat? How old is that gown?”
“Nancy, for God’s sake, do not provoke Alex.” Rachel’s voice was sharp.
“Miss Eliot, please forgive Nancy—she’s a mere child of thirty after all,” Alex said dryly.
Nancy blinked several times, then pushed her spectacles up her nose. “What’s your opinion of Ann Radcliffe?”
“Ah—be careful answering, Emily. ’Tis how Nancy judges any female’s worth,” Alex said.
Nancy arched a dark brow. “I simply abhor sentimental trash—turns young girls into giggling, romantic fools.”
“Far better that they follow your example of a vinegar-tongued spinster?” Alex’s lip quirked in a sardonic sneer.
Nancy’s blue eyes narrowed. “You’ve ever been a man of primitive sensitivities.”
“Children, silence!” Rachel massaged her temples. “See why I wish I might run away to Boston?”
“Don’t deny it, Mama—you love the drama of Philadelphia’s social scene,” Nancy said.
Rachel pursed her lips. “Nancy, go tell Sally to prepare a bath and have Mrs. Webbs set out a meal for our new houseguest.” She put a dubious emphasis on the last word. “And tell her to find some clean night attire. The poor girl looks exhausted. Have them prepare one of the bedchambers in the attic.”
“Yes, Mama.” Nancy rose and stalked off.
Alex took her place on the settee. An uneasy silence settled over the parlor and gave Emily time for some disquieting thoughts.
It must say a great deal about Alex that his aunt and cousin automatically assumed Emily was a harlot.
It was one thing to have contemplated letting a few gentlemen take her to bed and pay her. It had been a sacrifice in the name of keeping her liberty so she could continue her art, her mission. It was also another thing if people simply speculated about herself and Alex. But if all of Philadelphia knew she had been playing at being a tavern harlot, then it could go very bad for her work. It would taint people’s opinion of both her and her book.
One misstep, one piece of bad luck…
It was a horribly mortifying position to be in.
The sound of boots on the floorboards cut into Emily’s thoughts. She looked up. A tall, dark-haired gentleman with a stern expression was staring at her.
“Alex, Nancy just told me the most amazing story. She said you’d taken on an artist. Some girl. I must say, I didn’t know what to think.” He blinked, then resumed his wintry stare. “I still don’t.”
Alex came to his feet and turned to look at Emily. “Miss Eliot, this is my younger brother, Mr. James Dalton.”
James’ gaze didn’t warm. “Surely you don’t intend that she should stay here?”
“I don’t see why not. Aunt Rachel will prove an adequate chaperone.”
“Alex, I plead to your higher nature. I know you have no care for gossip or what your actions do to our good name, but some of us do care.”
Alex shot his brother an irritated look. “Stop being such a clucking hen.”
“You recently brawled in a Hell City tavern with our cousin,” James said.
“What?” Rachel cried with her hand to her chest.
“Aye, he fought Richard Green, bare knuckled—they grappled on the sand-strewn floor like two common tars.” James turned back to Emily, raking his eyes over her body with scathing effect. “They fought over the dubious honor of a girl who very much fits the description of Miss Eliot here.”
“Oh, my God! We shall be ruined! Ruined!” Rachel’s voice rose in pitch and with her pug in her arms, she hurried from the parlor, her skirts swishing loudly.
“Surely, James, you are not suggesting that Miss Eliot is a tavern girl?” Alex said smoothly. But there was an undercurrent of steel that sent icy chills down Emily’s spine.
James compressed his lips a moment, the edges of his mouth turning white and revealing just how vexed he really was. Just how much he must be holding back. “Alex, I don’t find your peccadilloes amusing. This is serious business and you are threatening to ruin our chances with one of your infamous scandals. I think you create these situations just to make my life harder.”
“Miss Eliot comes from a very worthy family. She was recommended to me by Mr. Thomas Jefferson himself,” Alex replied calmly.
“Alex, you promised me.” James’ voice rose. “You promised me you would be attentive to things. You explicitly promised me you wouldn’t go off traveling—or girling—or getting yourself into some horrid scrape until this Navy business is completed.”
“Enough,” Alex said. “This is still my house and I shall do as I see fit.”
James clamped his mouth shut and cut Emily a glowering look.
Emily’s insides knotted. How would she ever live here with these people who didn’t approve of her? What exactly had she signed onto with that contract?
* * * *
“Did you ready a chamber in the servant’s attic for her?” Rachel’s voice echoed from the other side of the screen that had been set up in the large kitchen.
“Said to put her in the blue room, Mr. Dalton did,” Sally, the maid, said.
“The blue room!” Rachel cried.
Emily sank deeper into the warmth of the huge copper tub that stood before the large stone hearth. But with a headache brewing, she’d drained the glass of claret she’d been given. Now her head had begun to pound harder and she felt so woozy that she didn’t even care that those women sat chattering about her as if she weren’t a human being with feelings. In fact, this all seemed so unreal—perhaps it was all just a dream.
“An artist? That’s rich.” Nancy’s whisper carried on the air in a hissing tone. “Do you really think there even is a book, or does he think we’re blind fools?”
“So he intends to carry on with her here?” Rachel made little attempt to lower her voice. “Well, we must be civil to her, I suppose, but—oh, I shudder to think how the gossips will see this. A tavern harlot! She looks about sixteen… Imagine! Brawling in a tavern! How shall we hold our heads up after this?”
“Calm yourself, Mama—if society shuns you, then we’ll simply return to Boston.”
“You think this won’t follow us to Boston? We’ll have to go abroad,” Rachel wailed. “Oh, how I hate the idea of English summers and all that infernal rain!”
Nancy sneezed several times.
“You simply must get better before tomorrow or James surely will have a conniption,” Rachel said. “He acts as if everything is riding on this precious supper party. I can’t image how he feels about this girl being there.”
“I’m so tired of playing hostess at his dreadful, dull parties,” Nancy grumbled, then blew her nose noisily. “When will one of these bothersome cousins of mine get married?”
“Not any time soon, with a tavern girl living in this house,” Rachel remarked dryly.
“What is this?” A new, female voice sounded from the other side. “Sally, why are we bathing this child in the kitchen?”
“Because I thought she was going to sleep in the attic with the other servants,” Sally said.
“We had to bathe her.” Rachel said. “No telling what sorts of vermin she’s carrying—Mrs. Webbs, you make sure her hair is clean, no nits.”
It was too much, having them think she was unclean.
Wearily, Emily rested her head against the edge of the tub and closed her eyes. She let loose a sigh. That contract. She had signed away all her rights to govern the use of her own work. She had promised to do whatever he wanted.
No—not whatever he wanted. She wouldn’t be a willing whore for the sake of the contract.
The details of her life seemed scattered. Her wits scattered. Her belongings scattered. Dalton had said that he would send a maid to her boarding house rooms tomorrow to pack up her belongings.
Tomorrow she’d also sort out what to do.
The floorboards squeaked behind her. Her eyes popped open. Two large, warm hands touched her head and she went rigid all over.
Soft fingers massaged her temples. Warmth and energy passed through her and the pain began to ease.
“Now, Miss Emily,” whispered a deep yet feminine voice. “Don’t you pay those cackling hens any heed. This is Mr. Alexander’s house and if he intends you to stay here, then you’ll stay.”
Emily turned.
Kind, hazel-brown eyes met hers. A perfect oval face the color of coffee lightened by cream with high-sculpted cheekbones and full, well-shaped lips. Instead of the normal white, lace-trimmed cap, she wore a turban of yellow and purple-striped cloth. Heavy lines creased by the eyes as the woman smiled, softening the aura of almost intimidating self-possession that emanated from her.
Emily smiled in return, her spirits lifting.
“I am Mrs. Webbs.” She glanced about. “This is my kitchen and you’re always welcome here.” Mrs. Webbs touched Emily’s hair, taking one of the pins out and handling a tress. “You have very fine-textured hair.”
“I don’t have lice,” Emily said.
Mrs. Webbs didn’t reply. She seemed totally consumed with a close examination of Emily’s hair.
Emily’s face flamed with the shame of having anyone think she was infested with vermin.
The woman held the tress up to Emily’s face and between her thumb and forefinger. She grimaced. “You use too much soap and it leaves a residue. It makes the color dull and the hair limp. We must rinse your hair in red wine vinegar and bring out its natural beauty.”
“That’s all right, I can—”
“Nonsense, we’ll do it now. Maybe we’ll add some herbs to brighten it. And afterwards, we’ll get you a decent meal. Need to start getting some meat on your bones.”
Mrs. Webbs hummed to herself and the sounds of pouring fluids echoed. She returned. “Lean your head back, child, and let me wash your hair with this.”
Emily complied. Just to be agreeable. She didn’t really believe much could be done with her hair. But the feel of Mrs. Webbs’ fingers massaging her scalp and the cooling sensation of the liquid was relaxing. The last of her headache was fading and it left behind a relieved sort of fatigue.
“Mr. Alexander spends all his time away from here, chasing something…something I think he will never find.” Mrs. Webbs spoke in a low, confidential tone, as if they had been friends for a long time. “He lets his mother’s sister live here in his house like an ungrateful squatter. If he had a wife, then he’d have a reason to long for his privacy.” Mrs. Webbs chuckled. “All these squatters would be gone.”
* * * *
After the bath, Emily changed into the nightgown and wrapper provided for her. Then she ate a meal of cold roast beef, cheese, cider and bread in a chair there by the fire.
The garments hung on her like sacks and pooled at her feet. She held the hems up to avoid tripping as she went around the screen. The trio were still sitting around the large pine worktable, gawking at her with open speculation.
“All done? Want to go to your chamber now?” Rachel said in a tone that suggested there was no other place in the house Emily would be welcome.
Wanting only to close her eyes and sleep off this troubling day, Emily nodded.
Expressionless, Sally stood, silently leading Emily back to the opulent hallway, then up one side of the double-sided, rounded staircase. A sizeable porthole window near the ceiling spilt light into the space and gave one the feeling of ascending into the heavens. It was like being in another world. The large central candelabra was lowered on its chain to the upstairs landing and two young housemaids happily chattered while cleaning and polishing it. Sally didn’t introduce them. They grinned in eager welcome. Emily smiled back, nodding.
Sally coughed pointedly and the girls returned to their work. “Come now, Miss Eliot.”
Emily hurried after her, trying not to trip on her too-long clothes.
Stopping near the end of the hallway, Sally entered a sizeable chamber furnished with a mahogany writing desk, armoire and large curtained bed, all crafted in the Chippendale style. Light blue walls with white crown moldings, along with blue and white bedding, complemented the darker blue wool rug covering the center of the floor.
“This can’t be my chamber,” Emily said.
“Mr. Dalton specifically said the blue room—we only have one,” Sally answered snappishly. “Here’s the bell pull. You need anything, pull that. Mr. Dalton says you’re to have anything you want, but we’re only human so you give us fair notice before you go complaining to him, eh?”
Emily startled at the brisk tone and nodded rapidly. “Of course.”
She had no wish to be trouble to anyone.
“Privy closet’s there.” Sally pointed to a paneled door. “Washstand and wardrobe’s behind that other door—oh, and there’s a sitting room on the other side of that, stocked with Madeira and claret, but I can bring anything else if that don’t suit.”
“It will be fine, I am certain,” Emily said when Sally appeared to be waiting for an answer.
Sally grunted a response and removed a long-handled heating pan from the bed, then banked the fire.
After she’d left, Emily climbed three wooden steps to the large, down-soft bed, sinking into its heated depths.
She rolled on her side and snuggled up, adjusting the downy pillow between the crook of her neck and her shoulder. She had some serious thinking to do. Was she really going to stay here? Would Dalton really use that contract to keep her here? Against her will?
They were in the vestibule again. He tossed his hat on the side table and then he leaned down, coming closer and closer. She could taste his breath. His lips, slightly parted, touched hers.
Emily’s eyes snapped open as she fought sleep. She had no time for useless dreams. She must think everything out. But oh, if only things had been different today. What if Alexander Dalton was still just any gentleman, and she could simply be his…
Someone was shaking her awake. She startled awake and jolted to a sitting position, her heartbeat hammered in her ears. “Wh-what?’ she asked, drowsily.
One of the young maids from the stairwell stood there yawning, her long, dark braids hanging over her shoulder and her nightcap askew. “Miss, you must get up right away. Mr. Alexander wants to see you in his study.”
* * * *
Dancing flames from a m
odest fire cast scant, inconsistent shadows as Emily entered the study, taking one halting step, then another. Every part of her ached to return to that warm, cozy bed and sink into its hugeness. She wouldn’t even have answered his summons, except that the damned contract had stipulated she must obey his dictates if they applied to the work.
But what possible reason could Alex have to call her so late? If he thought she was going to play the harlot for him now, after he’d made her sign that contract…well, then he must be insane.
“Take a seat, Emily.”
His deep voice startled her. She hadn’t seen him in the shadows.
Sudden light illuminated the room, increasing as he lit the three candles on his desk. The aroma of jasmine-scented beeswax immediately filled the air. Then he leant back behind his massive, mahogany fortress of a desk, folding his hands behind his head. He observed her with a relaxed authority reminiscent of some fairy-tale Eastern potentate.
She sat down in the wingchair opposite him, waiting for him to indicate what he wanted. He merely continued silently studying her, as if casually taking her apart piece by piece, until she felt ready to jump out of her skin.
“It’s very late, Alex,” she complained.
“Is it?” Moving with languor, he pulled out his pocket watch. “Yes, I suppose it is. Sorry—time gets away from me when I must linger over dinner parties.” His tongue sounded thick, as if it were tiring out over the long sentence.
“You’re drunk.”
He leant back in his chair. “Yes, I think I am very drunk. We thoroughly toasted America. Also France. Liberté, fraternité, égalité. Vive la Revolution!” His voice rang with sardonic amusement. “May she move her enemies through the guillotine with the speed of the wind. No toasts tonight for England, however—there were too many Democratic-Republicans present.”
He adjusted the papers on his desk. “I require a favor, Emily,” he said commandingly. “The first of your official duties, per the contract you signed today.”
At his tone, she stiffened her back, suddenly not feeling like doing him any favors. “What?”
“Now, don’t be so suspicious. It’s nothing sinister. Nancy’s cold has taken a turn for the worse. You must take her place at my dinner party tomorrow.”
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