by Eva Devon
“Why would he not?” Mrs. Darby asked sincerely.
“Well. . .” Emmaline swallowed, always hating to have to explain her situation to those who might not understand. Then again, Mrs. Darby had, no doubt, heard things that would shake even her. “You see, Mrs. Darby, some might suggest that I am not the best influence. My money, of course, is valuable but—”
“I think you will find our patron is not a hypocrite,” Mrs. Darby suddenly said, her face now serious and rather motherly. “You are capable of taking care of yourself and seem to be living quite a good life.”
“Who is your patron if I may ask?”
Mrs. Darby’s gaze grew guarded.
“Why do you hesitate?” Emmaline asked. “Could it possibly be a secret?” Who would wish to hide some good work? One would have thought that they would proclaim it far and wide so that others might emulate them. For clearly, whoever it was, was a person of means. Possibly even an aristocrat since they had properties in the country.
“Not exactly,” Mrs. Darby hedged. “But he does not wish for his identity to be bandied about.”
“Well, I should like to meet him and seek his advice.” Emmaline gave Mrs. Darby an imploring glance. “Could you arrange it?”
“I certainly can try,” she replied, though she did not look overly hopeful. “At the very least, I can let him know you very much wish to meet.”
“That would be most acceptable,” Emmaline replied gratefully. “Now, may I see the rest of the establishment?”
Mrs. Darby nodded, contented that they had settled the slightly difficult matter. She was clearly eager to show Emmaline the rest of the home she ran so well.
As they trailed through the rooms, Mrs. Darby explained how everything took place and was taken care of. Emmaline wondered how she had managed to be so lucky. She had never found herself in such a position to need such a place like those that came to this particular refuge. Those who came here were lucky compared to the others with no place to harbor or were forced into places which shamed them and took their infants. What had made her so very different when she had been shamed?
Her father and his fortune that she had grown.
It was as simple as that.
If it had not been for her father, she’d have had little recourse but whoredom. A bastard child inevitably would have resulted, and then she’d have been on the street.
So it was that she was determined to put a good portion of her resources to the care of women and their children. Of all walks of life, fallen women, seamstresses, servants, women with little help especially when they had children.
As it was, it was monstrous the way mothers and babies were put into workhouses and the state of orphanages was not to be discussed.
No. She did not care if she spent hundreds of thousands of pounds, she would do all she could to help people. It was possible, she believed, to be both grand and good. And she was most excited to meet the person who had made this place possible, and apparently several other places, too.
Would the patron sneer at her? An actress? A notorious figure? Mrs. Darby seemed to think not. But sometimes, it was hard to tell.
Still, she’d bear it. For such a man deserved her respect even if he might be reticent in giving it to her.
After spending another hour in the mothers’ home and having dinner with the young women, she at last stepped out onto the pavement, feeling a touch of hope.
The world could be a brutal place. But sometimes, one could see the light. She smiled and headed for her coach. Quickly, she climbed up and as the sumptuous vehicle rolled away, her stomach dropped as she caught sight of him.
Edward Hart strode down the crowded street, a god amongst men, his greatcoat flying behind him, his hat cocked to the side, his black-gloved hands flexing.
He looked utterly at home amidst the East End. As if he had never worn a fawn-colored coat or danced the minuet. As if he had not been raised in silk-decorated rooms. No, from the way he walked through the throng of people, he looked like a man who had pulled himself up from the gutter.
It was there in the hard line of his jaw, the stony glance of his gaze and the squared jaunt of his shoulders.
Was she never to be free of him?
She’d come back to London, determined to prove she was not affected anymore by what the Hart brothers had done. But from the way her heart leapt into her throat at the sight of him, she knew herself to be a fool.
Edward Hart would always make her heart pound with fury. . . And with desire.
Just as she was about to whip her glance away, she spotted him run up the steps to the mothers’ home. The door opened and he slipped in as quickly as a thief.
Her hands curled into fists on her lap.
What the devil was he doing there? A horrifying but possible thought ricocheted through her mind. Was he the father of one of the babies?
The thought surged through her and she felt sick.
Surely not. Edward had been so adamantly good. . . Until he’d proved he was not. She’d been told by multiple sources that prostitution of any kind was not allowed at his club. . . But there were whispers of a secret room. A pleasure room. Could a child have been the result of an assignation there? Did Edward have a lover? Lovers? He certainly had the virility for it. But it was nigh impossible for her to imagine Edward being such a notorious rakehell. Some claimed he was celibate. . . But could it be true? From her experience, most men, especially powerful men, did not go long without the company of a woman. So many of his class did not think twice about laying with a woman.
Once, Edward had been so determined to maintain her innocence. But so much had changed since then. My God, she had changed more than she ever could have imagined. What was the nature of his soul now? She wanted to believe it was still, at the essence, good. But the sort of people he interacted with at present. . .
She nearly choked.
Had he cast aside his morals, too, when he’d descended into darkness?
She blinked and looked away. She would not consider it. Surely not. But then again, she thought of the beast she’d seen in the boxing ring.
There was really only one way to find out what he was doing at the home. And that was to ask him. Gossip was beneath her and she wasn’t going to torment herself with hours and hours of fruitless contemplation. Though she loathed herself for it, she found she very much needed to know what had driven him to enter the establishment.
For surely, she would not have to cast aside the last of her goodwill towards him.
Then to her utter horror, she realized that she still had hope in Edward. Hoped he was a good man despite what he had done to her. She hoped he cared about people as she did. Though no doubt it made her a fool, she whispered a prayer that he had not lost himself entirely the day he had cast her out.
She winced, digging her fingertips deeper into her gloved palms.
For if he had. . . She felt that the last of her innocence would finally slip away.
Chapter 11
Days of staring across at that damned theater was proving to be the undoing of Edward’s sanity. He’d always loved his office. Its windows looked out onto the thousands of people who made up London’s colorful city. If he opened the window, the din of the harsh East End accent and dozens of different languages would drift to him, mixed with the sounds of carts, horses, and street musicians.
Together, they formed a great orchestra that filled him with awe at his city. London was made great by the many voices that came from around the world.
Now, he could look no further or see no further than that damned building. A beautiful building true, but her building.
The run of Much Ado About Nothing had almost another week. Then the theater would launch a new play.
It seemed his Emmaline believed in quick turnarounds.
He could not deny her intelligence for she understood that the best way to keep people captivated was to always be changing the entertainment.
His Emmaline.
Even after all this time, his brain insisted on using such a phrase. It was absurd and painful. It was also false in every tangible way.
And he was going to have to see her again soon. . . Aside from the times he had witnessed her sweeping up to the stage door.
It was hell, catching glimpses of her.
In fact, he found himself wishing to go back to the days in which he could not see her at all. They had been damned painful, but he’d become accustomed to the gaping agony of her absence.
This? This was like being stabbed over and over again then doused with salt.
It was sheer torture seeing her, knowing that they would never stand on easy ground again.
Then again, he shouldn’t even wish a thing. He wasn’t worthy of it. He never would be. Every day was a struggle to look at himself in the mirror.
A thunderous knock on his office door penetrated his reverie.
“Come,” he called, still facing the window, still faced with the dancing images of the past and the way she’d once smiled upon him.
“Mrs. Trent,” his secretary announced as the sound of rather determined feet stepped into his office.
Slowly, he turned towards the sprightly noise, disbelieving his ears. Surely, she would not seek him out?
Mr. Johnston, his man of business, blinked nervously and his hands clutched a bound ledger tightly. “I am sorry, my lord, but the lady was most determined—”
Edward raised a hand. “It’s quite fine. This lady will always have claim to my time.”
Mr. Johnston nodded his russet hair-covered head with relief and made his hasty exit.
The door snicked shut, and Edward finally dared to let himself fully look upon Emmaline in the light of day.
Her sapphire gaze was vibrant, her cheeks pink, her lips parted ever so slightly, appearing slightly out of breath.
The forest green bonnet perched on her head only served to lighten her blond hair. A gown of a similar color skimmed her body, the thin muslin dancing over her curves.
God, she was beautiful. And fiery. What the devil had brought her to him in such dudgeon?
“Do sit,” he said calmly, gesturing to the chair before his large desk.
Her hands tightened on her reticule. “I cannot.”
Immediately, he tensed, for she seemed upset. “Is something amiss?”
“I’m not certain,” she confessed. “In truth, it is mad that I am here at all.”
He studied her carefully, surprised by her agitation. She had been so assured in their previous meetings as of late. “I’m glad you felt you could seek me out.”
“You won’t be,” she warned. “Not in a few moments.”
Edward stepped away from the window, ready to listen to her carefully. “Emmaline, you startle me.”
“I find I simply must ask.” The red of her cheeks deepened. “I hope you will forgive my rudeness.”
He gave her an assuring smile, hoping she would simply be out with it. “The only way to find out is to be out with it.”
Her eyes widened and her lips worked before she finally began, “Do you. . . Have you. . .”
He angled his head to the side, feeling some relief. At last, she had come to rail at him for his behavior.
“How terrible can it be?” he teased lightly. “Come, now. You can say nothing worse of me than I have thought of myself.”
“Do you have a bastard child at The Healing Home in the East End?” she blurted.
The question lacked judgment or condemnation. It was a simple inquiry, though it seemed to upset her, the need to ask.
The air slipped out of his lungs and he stared at her, barely comprehending the question.
“You must think very little of me,” he whispered, shocked that he could still ache so deeply at how he had failed to keep her good opinion in any way.
Her lips whitened. “That is not an answer,” she returned.
“I cannot blame you for your ill opinion of me. Only I am to blame for that. But I wish to be absolutely clear. As I understand it, you believe I have hidden a lover away in a charity home? And my child?”
The words ripped out of his throat, though his voice was astonishingly quiet.
“I-I don’t know what to think,” she rushed as she twirled her fingers about the string of her reticule repetitively. “Only, I saw you go in and I—”
He swallowed as he stared at her. God, had he ever hoped that she might think well of him again? If he had, that hope died in that moment. She thought him capable of the worst behavior. Still, once again, there was no one to blame but himself.
How she must hate him.
He strode to the carved mahogany table at the end of the room. It was covered in crystal decanters and snifters. Quickly, quietly, he poured out two glasses, filling them with far more than he usually would.
Bracing himself, he turned and strode back to her. “Sit,” he said roughly.
She began to take a step back. “I—”
“If you wish my answer, you’ll sit and you’ll drink a brandy with me,” he said, feeling as if the room were almost spinning. For this was a conversation that had never entered his wildest imaginings. “After that, you never have to see me again.”
She hesitated then nodded.
He gestured to one of the leather chairs before his desk.
Slowly, she sank into the green leather surface.
He sat across from her, their knees but a few inches apart.
He passed her the brandy and, for the briefest moment, their fingertips touched.
Despite her gloves, his stomach tightened at the caress which once would have been intimate but now just emphasized how very far apart they had become.
Lifting his own crystal snifter, he said, “To the truth, no matter how much it pains one.”
Her eyes glimmered with an unknowable emotion but she matched his salute. “To the truth,” she said.
“I was not visiting a lover,” he said flatly. “Or a child.”
“No?” she asked, her throat visibly tightening. The tension running through her was visible in the way she sat on the edge of her chair.
“No,” he said. He stared at her for a long moment. He rarely told anyone what he was about to tell her. No one really. Except for the necessary people. But. . . “As a matter of fact, this afternoon, I was to write a card for you.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
Edward’s breathing slowed and he said simply, “Mrs. Darby said you wished to meet me.”
“I already know you,” she protested. “Why would I ask such a thing and of her. It’s. . .”
Dawning comprehension filled her gaze. “My God,” she whispered. “I’ve done you a great wrong, haven’t I?”
“To think an aristocratic owner of a gambling club got a bastard and pawned it off on a charity?” He gave her a bitter smile. “It’s not such a very shocking conclusion.”
“Oh, Edward,” she gasped, pressing a gloved hand to her cheek. “How did we come to this?”
“Quite simply really.” He lifted his snifter and took a deep drink before he explained. “I believed the worst of you when it was not true. Why would you not believe the worst of me? I’m glad it doesn’t happen to be true in my case. . . As it was not in yours.”
Edward shrugged, trying to hide the way all this was affecting him. “Even so, even if it had been true, such a thing would not have ruined me. Not as I ruined you. Not as my family ruined you.”
She nibbled her perfect, rose-colored lips. To her credit, she did not look away. “Do you think. . . Do you think after all this time, we might manage to be pleasant to each other?”
Emmaline absently smoothed a hand down the front of her perfectly-pressed gown. “I do not like the idea of living out the rest of my days avoiding you and thinking ill all the time of you. It is. . . Very tiring.”
The air around him seemed to thicken. He could hardly fathom her question. Surely, he could not have heard correctly. “You hate m
e,” he said softly.
Her brow furrowed, a sheen brightening her eyes before she said tightly, “I have never hated you.”
“You acted as though you did,” he pointed out and then he added, “with reason, of course.”
“I was very hurt and I was disappointed. I thought you loved me.” She smiled sadly. “I thought I loved you. But I find I am truly tired of all this animosity between us.”
Relief rushed through him. “I’m glad. Do you think we could begin again?”
She sat a little straighter. “Do you wish to?”
“Yes,” he said so quickly, he shocked even himself.
She swallowed the rest of her brandy, placed her glass down then extended her hand. “How do you do? I’m Emmaline Trent.”
He blinked.
“You said you never really knew me,” she explained, her hand still outstretched. “I’m offering you the chance to know me.”
Slowly, oh so slowly, he reached out and took her hand in his. “A pleasure, Emmaline Trent. Edward Hart at your service.”
“There,” she said. “We’ve begun again.”
“So we have.” He knew he should let go of her hand immediately. Instead, he lingered, her touch binding.
She locked gazes with him and, instead of a mere friendly gaze between them, a spark ignited. A blaze lit. Years of separation and distance evaporated and suddenly they were two souls, together, their fingers touching.
God, he wanted to kiss her. To take her mouth in a savage kiss as he’d never dared to do before. The old Edward thought Emmaline should be protected from such a thing. Now? He knew life was far too unpredictable to deny one’s self such a thing.
“Edward,” she whispered. “You’re still holding my hand.”
“So it seems,” he agreed. He should pull his hand back. They’d just taken the path of possible friendship. Throwing such a thing away seemed the height of foolishness but he wasn’t the staid, well-mannered boy of the past. Not now.
