When You Wish

by Alexandra Ivy

  Emma remained unimpressed. “You do realize that Mr. Allensway is expecting you to offer him a position?” she pointed out. “It is hardly kind to raise his expectations, only to dash them.”

  “Any expectations he is harboring are nothing more than a figment of his pompous imaginings,” the Devilish Dandy retorted without remorse. “The bishop made no mention of a position in his letter. He merely requested that I be his guest for a short visit.”

  Emma gave a click of her tongue. “There is no bishop. I know quite well that you wrote that letter.”

  Solomon slowly raised his brows. “I fear I must disappoint you, Emma. It was indeed a genuine bishop who wrote the letter. He is an old friend of mine.”

  “You expect me to believe a bishop would be friends with a notorious jewel thief?”

  “Oh, the irony is not lost on me,” her father admitted with a wry smile. “However, in his defense, Francis was not a bishop when we first met. Indeed, we were both grubby school-lads who were far smaller than the other boys and inclined to be routinely bullied. We formed an alliance more out of survival than anything else. Over the years we remained close despite the bishop’s disapproval of my chosen profession.”

  Irony, indeed, Emma acknowledged with an inward sigh. Trust the Devilish Dandy to be hand in hand with a bishop.

  “And this bishop agreed to deceive a fellow man of the cloth so you could follow me to Kent?” she demanded in disapproving tones. “Hardly what one would expect from a leader of the Church.”

  Her prim words did nothing more than widen his smile.

  “Francis is not so easily influenced by my wicked charm as that,” he denied. “When he wrote the letter, the genuine Mr. Winchell had every intention of traveling to Kent. Of course, it was not for the purpose the vicar presumes. He was coming to determine whether the nasty rumors surrounding Mr. Allensway’s indifference to his flock were true. The bishop is a stern believer that the Church is duty-bound to succor those in need. Unfortunately Mr. Winchell fell ill before he could undertake the task, and knowing I had already made plans to travel to Mayford, he requested that I take the place of Mr. Winchell. It was my own notion not to reveal I was not the guest the vicar was expecting. I feared that you might bolt if you learned I was coming.”

  As well she might have, Emma inwardly acknowledged. Had she been given the opportunity to brood upon the arrival of the Devilish Dandy, she was not certain even her promise to Lord Hartshore would have prevented her from fleeing Kent.

  “Well, at least your visit will not be entirely wasted,” she forced herself to say. “The bishop should be told of Mr. Allensway’s wretched behavior.”

  “Oh, he will be told. But not until I have assured myself that you are happy.”

  Realizing that her father was preparing to renew his insistence that she accept his charity, Emma gathered her scattered wits.

  She should have walked away the moment he had approached.

  It would have been far less disturbing to continue with her belief he had pursued her for the emerald necklace.

  “I must return to Mayford. Lady Hartshore will be expecting me.”

  “Emma.” Her father reached out to grasp her arm. “At least think upon my offer.”

  “I must go.”

  Shaking off his hand, Emma moved swiftly through the trees.

  Think upon his offer? Not bloody likely.

  Heavens above. She had assumed she had troubles before. Ghosts, pirates, fortune-tellers, and irresistible lords seemed enough for any innocent maiden to bear. But suddenly they were all but inconsequential.

  How could they possibly compare to a father disguised as an emissary for the bishop, who also happened to be a wanted jewel thief?

  Her thoughts ran in circles as she let herself into the quiet house. What she needed was a cup of hot tea and a few hours in her chambers to soothe her tangled nerves, she decided. Or better yet, a healthy sampling of the fine brandy Lady Hartshore kept beside her bed.

  She certainly would not be the first person the Devilish Dandy had driven to the bottle.

  Her feet were already leading her up the wide flight of steps, but even as she turned to continue up to her chambers, she discovered herself hesitating upon the landing.

  It was odd, but the offhand thought of her employer had sent an icy chill down her spine.

  An unconscious frown tugged at her brows as Emma attempted to dismiss the ludicrous sensation.

  She had seen Lady Hartshore only an hour before, and she had been in high spirits. In fact, she had been happily chatting about her plans for the upcoming ball and her intention to spend the afternoon sketching her ideas for decorating the ballroom.

  Still, she could not force herself to continue her path to the upper rooms.

  Blast, she was being absurd, she told herself as she moved down the corridor toward the maid busily dusting a pier table. Her unease was no doubt a symptom of her confrontation with her father.

  Unfortunately she knew she would not be able to go to her rooms until she had assured herself that Lady Hartshore was comfortably settled with her sketches.

  “Sally, do you know where I can find Lady Hartshore?” she asked of the servant.

  Pausing in her dusting, the maid gave a jerk of her head toward a distant door. “In the library, miss.”

  “Thank you.”

  Emma continued her way down the corridor, that icy prickle growing more pronounced the closer she came. By the time she reached the library, she was nearly running.

  Muttering at her foolishness, she pushed open the door. She thoroughly expected to discover the countess seated at her delicate desk or even stealing a nap upon the chaise longue.

  What she found instead was Lady Hartshore lying next to the fireplace with a trickle of blood running from a wound on her forehead.

  For a moment Emma was frozen with shock.

  Surely the good lady had not been attacked in her own home? It was unthinkable. And yet, what other explanation was there for the ugly cut and her state of unconsciousness? Unless she had fainted and hit her head . . .

  Her rambling confusion was abruptly thrust aside as her wide gaze traveled over the limp form and came to rest upon the full skirts of Lady Hartshore’s bombazine gown. Unexplainably, the grate had been removed from the front of the smoldering fire and the full skirts had fallen close enough to the coals to have been set ablaze.

  With a cry of alarm Emma dashed to her employer and, falling to her knees, she began beating out the flames with her hands.

  “Sally,” she cried out, praying the maid was still working in the corridor. She had no way of knowing how badly Lady Hartshore was injured. The cut did not appear life-threatening, but any blow to the head was dangerous.

  Thankfully the startled maid appeared in the doorway in bare moments, her gasp echoing through the silent room.

  “Cor . . . is she dead?”

  “No,” Emma snapped, ignoring the pain of her singed hands. “But she is in need of a doctor. Have Mallory fetch one immediately.”

  The maid dashed away, and Emma returned her attention to the wound upon Lady Hartshore’s forehead. Withdrawing a handkerchief, she carefully dabbed at the sticky blood.

  Debating whether or not to fetch the brandy to clean the cut, Emma felt a flare of profound relief as Lady Hartshore’s lashes fluttered, then slowly lifted.

  “Emma?” she whispered in confusion.

  “Do not move. You have had an accident.”

  “An accident?”

  “I believe so—”

  “What has occurred?” a dark, decidedly concerned male voice intruded into Emma’s words, and she glanced up to discover Lord Hartshore crossing the room with vast strides.

  Emma had never been so happy to seen anyone in her entire life. In fact, she might have jumped up and kissed him if her shaky limbs would have supported her. Instead, she waited for him to drop down beside her before flashing him a relieved glance.

  If anyone could be tr
usted in an emergency, it was this gentleman.

  “Oh, my lord, I found your aunt unconscious on the floor. She is injured.”

  “Aunt Cassie, can you hear me?” Lord Hartshore demanded, his countenance unnaturally pale.

  “Yes.” Lady Hartshore raised a limp hand to touch the bump on her forehead.

  “Do you know what happened?”

  Surprisingly, a weak smile tugged at the older woman’s lips. “I am not certain I wish to confess,” she said in rueful tones. “It is so silly.”

  Emma exchanged a startled glance with Lord Hartshore before he lifted his aunt’s hand to give it a warm squeeze.

  “We would never think you silly, my dearest.”

  “But it was silly,” Lady Hartshore protested. “I decided that the room had grown a bit chilled, and rather than bother the servants, I decided to stir the fire myself. Only when I bent down to retrieve the poker, I hit my head on the mantel.”

  “An accident that could happen to anyone,” Lord Hartshore said softly. “But we must have someone see to that cut.”

  “I have sent Mallory for the doctor,” Emma assured him swiftly.

  He flashed her an appreciative glance. “Quite right. I shall carry her to her chambers.” Reaching out to scoop his arms beneath his aunt, he suddenly stilled, his gaze trained on the blisters dotting the palms of Emma’s hands. “What have you done?”

  With a hint of embarrassment Emma abruptly buried her hands in the folds of her skirt.

  “The hem of Lady Hartshore’s dress had fallen into the fire.”

  Lord Hartshore’s gaze flickered down to the badly charred material before returning to her face in disbelief.

  “And you put the flames out with your hands?”

  Emma shrugged. “I fear I was not thinking clearly.”

  Lady Hartshore gave a loud gasp. “But, my dear . . . you saved my life.”

  Lord Hartshore’s gaze never wavered from Emma’s growingly pink countenance.

  “She did, indeed.”

  Emma shifted uncomfortably. “Nonsense.”

  “That is the reason Fredrick sent you to me,” Lady Hartshore babbled, only increasing Emma’s embarrassment. “He knew you would save me. How ever can I thank you?”

  The sharp memory of the unease that had sent her in search of Lady Hartshore flickered through her mind. Could it be true? Had Lady Hartshore’s dead husband managed to reach out from the grave to steer her to the library at precisely the moment Lady Hartshore was in peril? Had he brought her to Kent for just this moment?

  Then common sense abruptly returned and she inwardly chastised her nonsensical thoughts.

  It had been nothing more than coincidence.

  A very lucky coincidence to be sure. But nothing unworldly about it.

  “I did only what anyone else would have done,” she said briskly, eager to divert the attention from herself. “You must allow Lord Hartshore to carry you to your room.”

  As if sensing her growing agitation, Lord Hartshore scooped his aunt into his arms and raised himself to his feet.

  “She is right, Aunt Cassie. You have a very nasty bump on your head.”

  The older woman turned to glance toward Emma, who struggled to her own feet.

  “You will come with us, my dear?”

  Although she felt shaky and in even greater need of that brandy she had promised herself earlier, Emma gave a nod of her head.

  “Of course.”

  Following Lord Hartshore upstairs, Emma helped him settle Lady Hartshore onto her wide bed, then, assuring the older woman she would be close at hand, she stepped aside as half a dozen servants tumbled into the room.

  Leaving the horde to moan and cluck over the wounded countess, Emma sought a chair in the far corner. Her knees still felt weak and now her toes ached from being trampled by Lady Hartshore’s amply proportioned chambermaid.

  With a sigh she leaned her head against the thick cushion. All in all, it had been quite an eventful day. Too eventful. First her father’s shocking offer. And then finding Lady Hartshore lying on the library floor.

  It was little wonder she felt drained, she acknowledged as she allowed her lashes to flutter downward. She continued to keep her eyes shut as the crowd in the bedroom swelled to include the gardeners, the groom, and at last the doctor. She ignored the loud chatter as she willed her heart to slow its frantic pace and her taut muscles to relax.

  Emma had no notion how much time passed before her peace was disturbed by strong hands grasping her wrists to turn her palms upward. She abruptly opened her eyes to discover a tall, gaunt-faced gentleman regarding the angry blisters upon her skin with a practiced gaze. The same doctor who had so recently tended to her twisted ankle.

  “Lady Hartshore tells me that you burned your hands, Miss Cresswell.”

  “It is nothing, I assure you.”

  Disregarding her protest, the doctor made a thorough examination of her hands before bending down to pluck out a clean cloth and bottle of foul-smelling liquid from his bag on the floor.

  “Mmm ... they will heal, but they must be kept clean and bandaged,” he informed her as he efficiently set about wiping her tender palms. Then, reaching back into his bag, he withdrew a jar and began smearing a white ointment onto the burns. “This should help with the pain,” he murmured as he set the jar aside and then wrapped thin strips of linen around her hands. “But the bandages must be changed every evening.”

  The pain had already begun to subside, but Emma gave a nod of her head. She knew from experience that there was little use arguing with this man.

  “Very well.”

  Straightening, the doctor regarded her for a silent moment.

  “You performed a most courageous deed today, Miss Cresswell. The entire neighborhood is in your debt.”

  Emma gave an awkward shake of her head, knowing that her actions had been performed more out of panic than courage.

  “I am only relieved that I was in time.”

  “It was a miracle.”

  A faint smile softened Emma’s tense features. “Or the work of Fredrick, if we are to believe Lady Hartshore.”

  Expecting the sensible doctor to chuckle at her words, she was surprised as he gave a rueful shrug.

  “Perhaps it was. When you reach my age, Miss Cresswell, you learn that there are many things in this world that we do not comprehend.”

  Before today Emma would have dismissed the mere notion with a loud snort. Now, remembering those forbidding chills, she could not so readily laugh aside the absurd sentiment.

  “I suppose,” she agreed in faint tones.

  The doctor reached out to kindly pat her shoulder.

  “You just concentrate on caring for those burns.”

  “Do not fear, doctor.” Lord Hartshore abruptly appeared beside Emma’s chair, his gaze trapping her own in a golden warmth. “I will ensure that she receives the greatest care.”

  Eleven

  Cedric did not allow his gaze to waver from Emma’s too-pale face. Not even when the good doctor performed a small bow.

  “Then I shall leave my patient in your care,” he murmured.

  “Thank you.”

  Barely noting the discreet withdrawal of the older gentleman, Cedric reached down to gently brush a stray curl behind her ear.

  A soft, poignant tenderness washed through him. He wished they were alone so that he could pull her into his arms and assure himself that she was truly unharmed.

  When he had first entered the library, his thoughts had naturally been upon his aunt. He had been terrified that she had been overcome by some dread illness. But once assured that Cassie had suffered only minor injuries, his concern turned to Emma.

  He felt her pain as if it had been his own hands burned. She had been a fool to battle the flames with such disregard for her own safety.

  Certainly he was deeply grateful for her saving his aunt, but he could not deny a desire to shake her for putting herself in harm’s way.

  If she
had been seriously hurt ... gads, it did not even bear thinking of.

  Growing uncomfortable beneath his steady regard, Emma shifted in the chair.

  “How is Lady Hartshore?”

  “Already complaining that she is far too busy to remain in bed. I believe she feels the world will come to a halt if she is not personally involved in keeping it spinning along.”

  Thankfully his light tone managed to coax a faint smile to her lips.

  “I suppose that is a good sign.”

  “Yes, although she will no doubt attempt to bully the servants into allowing her to rise,” Cedric retorted, all too familiar with his aunt’s perverse nature. “I fear I will have to remain at Mayford to keep her from any sort of foolishness.”

  He was not at all surprised when she stiffened at his determined words.

  “You intend to stay at Mayford?”

  “You need not sound so horrified,” he mocked softly.

  That charming color instantly flooded her cheeks. “I was merely surprised.”

  “Who else will change your bandages?” he inquired, then, as her lips parted to protest, he pressed a finger to them. “Besides, I intend to ensure you do not risk yourself again performing heroic deeds.”

  “I did nothing heroic.”

  He leaned forward, his finger moving to trace the line of her stubborn jaw.

  “You saved Cassie’s life.”

  She trembled beneath his touch, but astonishingly she did not jerk away. Cedric could only presume that she was still in shock.

  “I did nothing that you or even one of the servants wouldn’t have done had you entered the library.”

  He gave a slow shake of his head. “Be modest if you wish, but the truth is that my family owes you a debt that can never be repaid.”

  Her head ducked at his insistent words. “Please, I wish you would not talk such nonsense. It quite puts me out of patience.”

  “Well, we cannot have that.” Cedric struggled to hide his amusement at her embarrassment. “I shall respect your wishes. However, I do insist that you devote the next few days to recovering from your injuries.”