by Ella Edon
“His uncle?” Emilia frowned. He had mentioned an uncle.
“Yes. Ranvier Ellington, Baron Carrisbrooke,” she said. Her eyes darted round the tables behind them again. “Some people think that his uncle holds the purse strings…that he’s blackmailing him into doing his illicit dealings – something about slaves. Why else would such an eligible man spend so long at the estate of his aging uncle, pray tell me...? Unless he’s overly friendly with one of his uncle’s own servants, that is.”
“What?” Emilia said furiously. She saw people turn and stare at them, and realized she’d shouted. She blushed. “That’s nonsense, Merrill! He cares about his uncle, who is ill! That’s all…No more, no less. Why not?”
She had disliked Luke earlier, but hearing Merrill judge him so unfairly awoke a sense of compassion in her. His situation was almost exactly like her own!
Merrill’s styled brows rose upwards. She looked frostily at Emilia. “No need to shout,” she said coolly. “Just because you’re losing the game…”
“I lost,” Emilia said. She dropped her hand of cards onto the table, and while Merrill stared at her in shock, she stood and walked out of the room.
Feeling frustrated and confused, she rushed down the corridor, barely noticing the marble cladding, the fine wrought metal candle-sconces on the walls, the flocked-silk wallpaper from China. She was too upset to think straight, let alone appreciate any beautiful thing.
“How dare she?” she demanded under her breath. “How can she say that about him?”
Luke wasn’t like that! She believed him, when he said he was desperate to help his uncle. She knew exactly how that felt! She was in the same position, after all.
“Now I know what I’m going to do,” she said firmly. Enough was enough. She found the front door and nodded to the butler, who opened it and let her out.
Outside, the street was covered with sapphire dusk, the lamps shining golden in the night. Her aunt’s home was in the most salubrious quarter, and the streets were empty, save one or two dandies with top hats, walking quickly past. She looked left and right, hearing the rattle of a coach nearby.
“Mowbray House, please,” Emilia demanded as she stopped the hansom, waving a slim hand.
“Aye, milady,” the driver said cheerily. “That’ll be tuppence haporth for ye.”
“Thank you,” Emilia said. She checked her purse for the cash, alighted and sat, stiff-backed, until they reached her home.
Paying the driver swiftly, she walked up the steps and into the hallway. In a few moments, she was in front of the door to Luke’s prison, setting the key into the lock.
“Hello?” she called at the door, turning the key and opening the door.
“Milady!” He looked up at her, wide-eyed. His hair was disarrayed, she noticed sadly, and he looked distressed. All of that just added to her already-strong resolve.
“I’m going to help you to help your uncle,” she said firmly. “But only if you promise me something.”
“You will?” he said. He stared into her eyes, his own elated. “I promise. Whatever it is!”
“Yes,” Emilia said, feeling guilty. “I can’t let you go, yet. But I can do this. But only if you promise never to tell anybody what happened.”
“Thank you,” he said softly. “I promise.”
Emilia let out her breath in a long sigh. She looked into his eyes, searching for the lie, but he looked sincere. She nodded. “Thanks,” she said.
“It means the world to me.”
She saw his eyes soften and she understood, in that moment, exactly how he felt. If she had been prevented from helping her father, she would have been as traumatized as he had been.
“I understand,” she said softly. “I would feel the same.”
“Thank you,” he said.
Their eyes met and held. In that moment, Emilia felt a strange sort of tug inside her. It felt, in some odd way, as if his gaze touched hers. As if she looked into eyes that knew her, and understood.
“Don’t mention it,” she said gruffly.
She turned and walked out of the room, locking the door behind her.
Chapter Five
A Plan is Made
Luke sat down by the fireplace. He was too drained and weary to bother with a chair, so he lowered himself to the hearth-rug and sat, staring into the fire as he had when he was a young boy. His long legs drawn up to his chest, he leaned against the wall and stared into the grate, hands warming by the iron fireguard.
The flames twisted and played with each other, weaving in intricate patterns, his eyes drawn to the dancing motion. It was almost like watching a ballroom – the couples in their fine dresses and suits interweaving and parting, the candlelight shining on the hair and pearls. The logs crackled. He closed his eyes, more tired than he could ever remember being.
“Whew. That, at least, is settled.”
He still had no idea what Emilia meant by “helping him,” but he hoped it meant he was going to escape from this place. The thought struck him as odd.
“Escape?”
He was glad that he would soon be at liberty again, but part of him knew that he would miss Emilia. He had started to like her.
Those soft eyes and kissable lips! The way she looked up at him, a mixture of sternness and tenderness in her gaze. He imagined plundering her lips with kisses, drawing that trim, sweetly-curved body close to his. He imagined her in a ball-dress, with lace in her hair. She had been dressed up when she came to see him. He imagined she must have been to a recital or a party. The elusive scent of her perfume still clung to the air – something sweetly fragrant he couldn’t identify, but he liked.
“Stop it, Luke. She’s not right for you.”
He was fairly sure she was crazy. Why else would she capture a man and take him to her home, threaten him with having to pay cash, then let him go?
He frowned. He wished he knew more about her. The distress he had seen on her face when they talked after tea disturbed him. She was not happy, and he couldn’t help that he wished he could help her. His heart had reached out for hers in that moment, and found some sort of kinship. How could he find out more about her?
“I did try to ask her maid.”
He recalled the conversation. It seemed an age ago now, though he reckoned it must have been a mere eight hours. The maid’s elusive answers struck him as odd. Why was she so reluctant to share any details about Emilia?
“The poor girl’s a harmless lunatic,” he concluded. He shivered. He didn’t want to think that – there was something imminently compelling about her – but what else was he being led to believe?
He stared out of the window. From his post by the fire, he could see only a wide square of blue darkness. There were stars there, but he saw only a faint peppering of spangles – white diamonds spilled on velvet. He wondered how it would feel, to be free of this place.
I could go anywhere.
It was ridiculous how happy he felt. How strange it now seemed – even after a few hours – to think of roaming the streets, doing precisely what he wished to! Yesterday, that had been his way of life.
“I’ll never think about it the same way again.”
Freedom. It was a strange thing. The serfs in France were rebelling – or so he’d heard, as one did, in the gazettes – and the notion had once struck him as foreign. Why would anybody wish to have the possibility of dying, instead of a predictable – if horrible – existence?
Now, their plight felt more understandable. Even this plush, warm room with tea and conveniences, was somewhere he was aching to escape.
“Speaking of conveniences,” he murmured, stretching his legs. “I do hope they thought about the, um, necessities.”
A brief inspection of the room revealed a chamber pot, arranged artfully behind some intricately-carved wooden screening. He was glad. At least those needs had been taken care of.
He’d already looked around the room several times – having nothing else to do – but now he sat do
wn at the desk, deciding to examine things in earnest. He pulled open the drawer, surprised by how stiff and tight it was. He found inside it a bottle of pills, which he frowned at, a curious object made of clay, and a leather-bound journal.
He opened the journal. It was an account book – or it seemed to be – the pages were divided into columns, with figures written in a flowing, elegant script. He held it up, squinting at them carefully.
The magnitude of the amounts struck him at once. Whoever kept this journal, they were trading in large sums indeed! He found himself shaking his head, adding them up. The things the amounts were for were surprising, too. Whiskey. Silk. Tobacco.
All things with customs duties!
All imported goods, all costly and rare and valuable. The amounts listed in the book had a street value that was staggering! His mind reeled. Almost at once, his thoughts drifted to the Millway Club. He knew people there – people like Carrington – were dealing in exactly these things.
“Elsmoor!” That was Carrington’s title! Duke of Elsmoor!
Her father really was in debt – she wasn’t lying. And it was precisely to Elsmoor, and his band of illegal operatives.
“Dash it, Luke.”
He still thought she was crazy – who but a crazy person would actually kidnap a man? But now he knew that part of her story was definitely true. She really was trying to help her father.
The question did spring to his mind – why? Her father was surely in a far better position to help himself than she was to help him! He’d created this mess, and he was far more likely to be able to bluster his way out of it. If Luke had been facing the Earl of Mowbray over the table, he was sure his responses would have been different.
He sighed. What could he do? All he could do was, as soon as he escaped – and he was sure he’d be let out soon – spend some time in inquiries. Finding out that Elsmoor was in some shadowy dealings was actually quite pleasing. He’d never been fond of the fellow. He was looking forward to seeing things improve for Lady Emilia, if only to see them worse for Elsmoor.
“Not that I’m a vindictive fellow,” he admitted, yawning.
He was feeling desperately weary, he realized. He stretched and stood, stumbling to the window-seat. It had been a long day, and a confusing one. His brain had quite enough shocks for one day.
As he lay down with his head on an embroidery-festooned bolster, he found his mind drifting, over and over again, to thoughts of Lady Emilia.
“Hello?”
Emilia knocked on the door. It was eight of the clock! She’d deliberately risen early, planning to sneak him out without arousing the suspicion of the household, and avoiding her father – or his guests – seeing them leave. Where was he?
“Hello there?” she called fervently through the wood-panels.
Nothing.
Swiftly, hands shaking as she heard footsteps coming up the hallway, she turned the key and slipped into the study. Leaning against the door, she locked it behind her. She looked around, heart thudding. The room was neat and tidy, everything in place on the desk, the grate a mass of embers and soft ash. The window was a glowing square of glass, the velvet drapes pulled back. There was nobody to be seen.
“Hello? Is anybody there!”
Alarm was gripping her heart feverishly. He’d vanished!
“He can’t have escaped,” said softly. She looked around, just in case she’d missed something. The hearthrug was skew, but aside from that, there was nothing strange. She went to straighten it, heart aching.
“Hello? Where are you?”
From her vantage point by the fireside, she saw something. Her heart almost stopped. There he was!
He was lying on the window-seat. His pale brown hair was ruffled back from his high forehead. His eyes were closed. Long legs, clad in velvet breeches and silk stockings, were curled up underneath him, a foot dangling to the floor. His cheek was pillowed on a long-boned hand. She stood watching his slow, even breath. Her heart was a mass of feelings, none of which she understood. Tenderness mixed with fondness, mixed with a strange something – a breathless excitement – she couldn’t understand.
As she watched, he stretched and stirred. Her shadow had fallen on him, she noticed, the light coming in through the round window above the door. His eyes opened. He shot upright, drawing his knees up to his chest, back pressed against the windowsill.
“Get back!”
She couldn’t help it. She started giggling. She laughed so much that she had to put her hands on her knees, bracing herself so that she didn’t fall.
“Oh,” she gasped. “I’m so sorry…you look so funny.”
He stared at her. Then, to her delight, he smiled too.
“Sorry,” he said. “I suppose I did.”
Emilia chuckled. “When you shot upright like that, your eyes all round and staring…oh!” She stifled her laugh with her hand, knowing it was rude of her, but completely unable to contain it. That was the funniest sight she’d seen in a long time. He leaned back on the windowsill, looking disgruntled.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to laugh. It was funny, though.”
His smile transformed his face. He had very blue eyes, she noticed. They touched something inside her, left her blushing with a strange warm feeling, deep inside.
“I suppose it was funny,” he nodded as they looked at each other. He was no more than three paces away, and she could smell the scent of pomade – a rich, spicy scent. Again, her heart fluttered.
“Did you want to tell me something?” he asked when the silence had stretched a bit longer.
“Um, yes.” She ran her tongue across her dry lips, nervously. “I wanted to tell you that, should we wish to visit your solicitor, it would be best to leave now, while there are no guests about.”
“I see.” He nodded. He was looking at her nervously, and she felt a little offended.
“Do you want to go and visit your solicitor or not?” she snapped. Whatever she felt about him – and she couldn’t help feeling something quite strong and indefinable, every time she saw him – she didn’t like the wary way he looked at her.
“Um, yes,” he said. He moved awkwardly in the seat. “Um…I had thought, mayhap…no. No matter.”
“Lord Preston…” She raised a brow. “Tell me.”
“Lord Westmore, actually,” he said mildly. “I am the Earl of Westmore, so I should be called Lord Westmore, but anyhow…”
“Lord Westmore,” she said crossly. “Really, is this the moment to be arguing semantics with me? I’m about to help you.”
“It’s not semantics,” he said fussily. “It’s etiquette.”
They glared at each other. Emilia thought she saw a twinkle in his eye, but decided to ignore it. Really, did the fellow have to be so frustrating? All the same, when he shifted, his elbows on his knees, one hand cupping his chin, she felt a little shiver.
“Fine,” she said. “Whatever you want to be called, then. Are you coming?”
“I am ready to go wherever you wish to lead me,” he replied.
Emilia shot him a look. She was sure he was laughing at her this time, though she had no idea why. She sighed.
“I can help you only if you promise to be silent. I’m going to take you outside, following the servant’s stairs. If you put up a fuss, then so help me, I shall get Harris to tie you up again. Now. Are you ready to leave?”
“Yes, milady.”
She shot him a look, checking he wasn’t still laughing at her. He was looking at the floor, though, and seemed contrite.
She peered out through the doorway, looked left and then right, before leading him to the door into the servants’ stairwell.
The place was dark and smelled of moldering plaster. She felt her way down, surprised as always by the rough plastered walls and the uneven, bare stone steps. She didn’t like to think of June and the others in such poor surroundings.
We can’t have them using the main stairs, though – what would people think?
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They would think what Luke Preston thought already – that they were quite mad.
Shaking her head at the folly of society, she led Luke down the steps towards the doorway.
They went out into the soft morning sunshine.
“Morning, milady,” Harris greeted her. She smiled at him.
“Thanks, Harris,” she said. “I have the prisoner, as arranged.”
She saw Harris give Luke a long stare. “You behave yourself,” he warned. “If I hear a moment’s trouble, I’ll break your head.”
