by Ella Edon
Luke looked there, too, and stared.
A young woman stood in the doorway. She was well-dressed, in a white muslin gown, which was trimmed with blue, and a blue jacket. Her bonnet was white, the ribbon-ties were blue satin. It was none of that which held his gaze, however, nor – though his eyes wandered there – her trim figure and high bust. It was her eyes. They were brown and warm as summer sun. Those beautiful eyes looked straight into his.
“Hello,” he said, swallowing hard. “Yes, it is.”
“I see,” she said carefully. “Can I come in?”
“Can you?” Luke asked. “I mean, um…yes, milady. Why not?”
He swallowed hard, again. He was goggling at her like a fish, and he caught himself, snapping his eyes from her lovely soft features, her rose-lipped mouth, and over to Canmure, who was so focused on the apparition in the doorway that he was about to fall out of his seat.
“Milady,” he said quickly, standing up and grabbing Canmure’s shoulders to pull him backward into the seat and save them all from embarrassment. “Sit here, if you like.”
He winced as Canmure grunted, then slumped back, reaching for the seat as though his brief intervention had merely been a passing mistake. He drew back the chair where Carrington had been sitting earlier.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Can I get you a drink?” Exfield asked.
His eyes had gone big. Luke, returning to his seat, stepped on his friend’s foot, making him shoot upright in his chair. As he glared at him, Luke forced a smile at the lady.
“I can find you some cordial?” he asked her.
“Um, thank you,” she said shyly. “That would be nice.”
“…name?” Canmure mumbled as Luke walked briskly across the room, looking for Major Banksfield.
“Um…what’s my name, you mean?” the woman said, quite affably. “I’m Miss Emilia Hudson.”
Luke conveyed quickly to the major that he wanted raspberry cordial, and the major gave him an odd look, but went to do as he asked. When Luke strode back to the table, Exfield and Canmure, both the worse for drink, were leaning forward in their seats, enraptured.
“I was in my coach, you see,” Miss Hudson was saying, as the two men listened intently. “And the wheel…there’s something wrong with it. My coachman has gone for tools, but I came in here, to see if I could find help.”
As she heard him come back, the woman twisted round in her seat and looked fetchingly at him.
Luke felt his insides melt. His whole body suffused with warmth. With that look of mute appeal, her big eyes wide, her mouth dropping into a sweet little “o,” she was breathtaking. He felt his lips lift in a smile, then realized that he must look as inane as his friends and pulled himself together.
“Um, the wheel?” he asked instead, sitting down with a thud. “You know what’s the matter with it?”
“Um, well, not exactly…” she said, sounding distressed.
Of course, she doesn’t, Luke! he told himself impatiently. What do you think she is, a bleeding carpenter? You probably wouldn’t know anything much more than she does about wheels.
“I see,” he said instead. “Well, do not fret, milady,” he declared with his best gallant-knight expression. “I will organize a coach for you.”
“You would?” she asked, eyes shining like stars. “Well, that would be ideal…” she began.
Then, to his horror, her face crumpled. Luke felt his heart turn to ice.
“What?” he asked, quickly reaching for his handkerchief.
Beside him, Exfield put out a hand to pat her shoulder. Luke glared at him so ferociously that Exfield let his hand drop to his side.
“Um, you see…” Miss Hudson said carefully, “I was traveling with luggage, and I had something important in the coach, to take back to Father. And now I don’t know what to do…”
Luke saw her take out a handkerchief and dab her eyes. He frowned.
“We can have it all transferred,” he said quickly, wishing that he’d come here in his own coach. “I can hire out the whole stage-coach, if need be?”
“It’s not so simple,” Miss Hudson said.
“Yes, it is,” Luke began grandly. “I have plenty of money, and…”
“It’s not that,” she said, dabbing at her tears. “It’s…I can’t explain!” I…” she looked at Canmure, who had fallen asleep, and Exfield, then back at him, almost as if she wished they were not being overheard.
I could wish that, too, Luke thought, feeing his own heart race. Miss Hudson, while fetching and lovely, was not a woman he could consider as a partner. However, he would like nothing more than to kiss her, to know her better. Maybe his father wouldn’t mind, or even know, if he asked him for the small apartment in Highbury to let her occupy, and…
“What is it?” he asked.
Again, she looked round pointedly at the two and back at him. “Sir? If you would only step outside with me a moment, I could show you.”
Luke almost gasped. He nodded, knowing he probably looked like a puppet in some grotesque booth show. Breathing deeply, he got a grip on himself. He nodded.
“Um, yes,” he said quickly. “Of course, Miss.”
She rewarded him with a big smile.
“Thank you, sir,” she said.
Shooting upright, Luke waited until she had left the room’s door, and then followed quickly outside. In the yard, she led him to a coach.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, expecting her to show him the damage. He looked down at it, casting his eyes on the wheels. Wooden and painted with dark varnish, it seemed undamaged, at least to his untutored eye.
“Not down there,” Miss Hudson said gently. “If you could look inside, please, sir?”
“Inside?” Luke swallowed hard. She wanted him to get in? Really?
Stepping eagerly up into the back of the coach, he sat down on the leather seat. Miss Hudson, much to his disappointment, didn’t follow him in. She stayed outside, round the back, out of sight.
“What is it?” he called again. “What was it you wish me to see?”
“Over there,” she said, again from round the back. Her voice sounded muffled. “On the seat, across the coach.”
“Where?” Luke asked, reaching across to the other seat. “Behind the padding, or…?”
As he rummaged around, trying to draw the leather-covered cushion forward, searching for whatever of import was hiding here, he heard a sound— the coach door, swinging shut.
“Miss Hudson?” he called. He pushed on the door. As he did so, he heard it lock, from the outside, a sharp click.
“Yah!” he heard the coachman yell, and to his utter astonishment, the coach whisked hastily away. With Luke trapped inside.
Chapter Two
An unexpected surprise
On the roof of the coach, Emilia hung on grimly as they sped away. Clinging to the driver’s seat that was largely occupied by the stocky body of Harris, their driver, she shivered as the cold wind cut through her outdoor cloak. It wasn’t only the cold that was making her shiver.
I do hope we can do this properly.
The abduction was easy – distressingly easy. Carrington had fallen for it with even more ease than Emilia had expected.
I wasn’t expecting a hardened smuggling-lord to fall for my ruse so readily.
She wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or discomforted. Had it really been so easy to tempt somebody into a coach? It wasn’t a skill she wanted to uncover in herself. And it wasn’t a side of gentlemen she wanted to know: it distressed her to think they were so ready to take advantage of an unchaperoned woman.
Now I know why June, my maid, always warns me not to go to the park alone.
“Where to now, milady?” Harris asked, interrupting her thoughts.
“Back home, Harris.”
Emilia wrapped her cloak more tightly about her and gritted her teeth, trying not to let her worries overwhelm her.
The coach rattled down the streets, f
lashing past coffee-houses and bakehouses, people promenading along the sidewalk. Emilia was glad she’d thought to sew the curtains together – there was no way that the Duke of Elsmoor could see out or alert anybody to his prisoner-status in the back.
At last, with her nerves shattered by worry, they drew up at her house.
“Into the coach-house, fast!” she ordered.
Harris chuckled. “Yes, milady. I know the idea.”
“I know, Harris,” she murmured. “Thank you.”
Of all the people on their staff, Harris was the only one who knew of her father’s illicit dealings with the Leedgate Club, and the Milway. He had run such errands for the earl before, and they could trust him with all kinds of information they couldn’t give anyone else.
Now, steadily, Harris guided the coach into the vast, darkened coach-house, slamming the doors. Emilia let out a sigh of relief.
“Blindfold him,” she ordered authoritatively.
Harris nodded and, without missing a beat, reached into the coach and gripped their prisoner by the back of the neck. A prize-fighter, who her father had rescued from the pit, Harris was as strong and unshakeable as he was trustworthy. He seemed to have subdued the fellow with no trouble, because aside from a brief and wordless scuffle, there was no difficulty. The next thing Emilia knew, he was drawing their prisoner out of the coach, his head covered by a black linen bag.
“Harris?” she asked, falling in alongside the man as he strode, still half-dragging their captive up the hallway.
“Yes?”
“You’re certain he can breathe…?”
“Mortal certain, milady,” he grinned. “There’s little holes, see?”
“Well, if you say so…” she trailed off.
He chuckled and started to march the fellow up the stairs.
Emilia followed behind. Her head reeled. Had they really succeeded in capturing the duke? She went through the events in her mind. One, find the club. He would be in the card-room, drinking with his friends, if she got there after lunch. He always was, or so her father said. Two, identify Lord Carrington. He was tall, her father had said, with a hawk-like face, and he was handsome, in his own way. He should be around eight-and-twenty years old. Emilia nodded to herself.
Well, this one’s tall, for certain. And hawk-like, and handsome, in his own way…
She shook her head at herself, impatiently. She wasn’t about to soften to him. This was the man who put her father through misery. He made her father cry!
She bit her lip, making herself cold with rage. She was showing him no quarter.
“In here, milady?” Harris asked. They had reached the top of the stairs. A small house, in comparison to their vast residence in the countryside, Mowbray House had a small attic with one cramped room. The door to this room was open now.
Emilia nodded. “Yes, Harris. In here.”
Harris shoved the duke through the doorway. He landed hard and Emilia winced as his knees hit the wood, resoundingly.
Harris shut the door and locked it, then turned to her.
“Anything else, milady?”
“No. Thank you, Harris. You can go.”
“Thanks, milady,” Harris said gently. “You take care, now.”
“Yes, Harris,” she called as he walked down the stairs. He had a slow, heavy tread, with a limp on his bad leg. “I’ll try.”
She waited until Harris had gone. Then, walking as quietly as she could, she headed back down the wooden servant’s staircase, through the door into the main hallway, and then up the carpeted hall to her father’s small study.
“Papa?” she called nervously from the doorway. She could hear him talking in a low voice, and knew he wasn’t happy if she overheard business.
“Thank you, Doctor Melling. You can go,” her father was saying. Then a pause. “Emilia?”
“Yes, Papa?”
They sat quietly for a moment. Emilia reached for a glass of water, and as she poured from the crystal jug, she studied her father’s face. He was flushed, too, and his eyes were too shiny.
“Papa?” she frowned. “What is it?”
“I’m ill, sweetheart,” he said. “Feverish. Doctor Melling was just here.”
“Papa!” Emilia shot upright. “Let me fetch something. A tisane, or a lotion, or…”
“No, daughter.” Her father waved a hand, smiling gently. “I’ll be fine. I have a concoction from Melling to take.” He pulled a face. “That will set me to rights. Now, try not to worry, eh?”
Emilia nodded, heart sinking.
“Father, I’ll try,” she said in a small voice.
How was she supposed to tell him what she’d done? He was in no fit state for a shock. He was flushed, his breathing labored. He looked worse than she recalled.
“Good, good,” he whispered. He was leaning on the desk, now. Sweat was beaded on his brow, his cheeks were red, and his eyes were strangely vulnerable. “I wish I didn’t have to…be so ill.”
Emilia reached out to take his hand. “Father. It’s not your fault.”
He nodded and squeezed her hand, then leaned back in the chair. “I suppose not.” Emilia, sensing that he wanted to sleep, tiptoed from the room. Rest was the only thing that would do him good at times like these.
Tiptoeing, she headed along the rich carpet and down the short stairwell that led to her bedchamber.
“Emilia Herston, you are going to have to do this yourself,” she whispered.
She felt terrified. But what else could she do? She couldn’t risk her father having a fit of apoplexy. That had happened once already, and she didn’t want it to happen again.
Slipping on comfortable slippers, she headed back along the plush hallway and to the servant’s corridor. She looked left and right, hoping June or one of the servants hadn’t seen her.
She knocked at the attic-room door.
“Hello?” she called.
When nobody answered, she remembered the obvious. He was still gagged by the sacking! She soundlessly unlocked the door and stepped in.
The bag was off his head. They hadn’t bound him, so he’d got it off himself. He was sitting with his back to her on the floor – the small room held no furniture – and he appeared to be staring into the cold hearth. His back was straight, legs crossed, hair a blond that caught the light of the lamp in the hallway, making it glow softly.
As the door opened, he turned. She saw his fine profile outlined in the lamplight. A long straight nose, full lips and flared nostrils— he was strikingly handsome, and eerily calm. She felt her heart soften, then tensed.
This man made your father ill! If it wasn’t for his worries, she was certain, Papa would be well.
She stiffened her back and pushed her way into the room.
“Stand up,” she ordered.
With steady grace, the man got to his feet. He wasn’t fast, but moved with a fluid economy of gesture that made her think of the dancers at the opera, or the lithe grace of a cavalryman. He turned to face her.
“You wish to talk?” His voice was grave.
Emilia swallowed hard. He was taller than her by the length of her hand, and his lithe posture made him seem taller still. He looked down his nose at her and she felt reduced.
She tensed her spine, feeling angry, and stared frostily into his eyes.
“I do,” she said.
“I see,” he replied.
His calm disarmed her. Expecting rage and defiance, she had come prepared for a fight. This peaceful equanimity was discomforting.
“You must be aware why you’re here,” she said slowly.
“On the contrary, I am mystified.”
“Very well,” she said, unconvinced. She paced to the wall, then turned, meeting his gaze. He stared back, unruffled.
“You will guess, perhaps, why you’re here, when I tell you my name is Lady Emilia, daughter of Barton Herston, Earl of Mowbray?”
He raised a brow. “I’m pleased to meet you, milady. You did not inform me of that, earl
ier.”
Emilia swallowed hard. “No matter,” she said sternly. What would her father say? She made her back straighter, trying to pretend she was the Earl of Mowbray, herself. “The matter at hand is, why do you think you are here?”
