by Anne Stuart
He wanted to prove that Emma Cadbury wasn’t the cool, controlled woman she tried to present to the world. He could ruffle her feathers. He could shock the hell out of her by showing her what her body could do. And it was pure hell to be riding on a dull horse in the pouring rain with an erection.
He yanked on his reigns and glanced over at Noonan.
“You ready to go back to Starlings, me boy?” Noonan asked calmly.
Brandon shook his head in disgust at his own obviousness. “How did you know?”
“I know you better than I know meself. I was hoping you’d come to your senses hours ago rather than keep going in this soaking rain. I could use a dram of good Irish whiskey.”
“Rohan’s more likely to have Scotch,” Brandon said imperturbably, turning his horse.
“That heathen stuff will have to do,” Noonan said in an aggrieved voice.
“It’s been good enough for the last three years,” he pointed out. “Let’s get going—it’s going to take forever on this slug you brought me.”
Noonan gave him a haughty look at odds with his craggy Irish face. “A good horseman knows how to get the best out of a horse no matter what the problem,” he said loftily.
Brandon rolled his eyes. “I think this is the best she has to offer,” he said glumly. “Let’s go.”
“In a bit of a hurry to get back to her?”
Brandon was done with denial. “Yes,” he said, and gave the horse a swift kick.
Chapter 8
“You look like something the cat dragged in,” Mollie Biscuits announced, setting down her rolling pin. “What made you walk all this way in the pouring rain? You be punishing yourself again? It sets an ‘orrid example, it does, to the others. If you can’t forgive yourself then why should they?”
Emma sank down in the chair beside the table Mollie used for kneading dough. The woman’s meaty fists had the lightest touch when it came to baking, from thick, hearty slices of bread to delicate pastries that practically dissolved in your mouth. “His lordship decided that no one was to take any of the carriages out, and I couldn’t stay in that house one moment longer.”
Mollie pulled off the apron that covered her massive bosom, shook it until clouds of flour settled over the both of them, then took the other seat at the table. “What’s up ‘is arse?” she demanded. “And why did Charity let ‘im get away wiv it?”
“Melisande,” Emma said, putting particular emphasis on “Charity’s” real name, “wants me to stay, and she doesn’t mind if her husband is the one who makes it impossible to leave.” She brushed the loose flour from her cheeks and nose, clapping her hands to rid herself of the rest.
“What’s all this about leaving? You said you were here for a good long rest, something you sorely need, if I say so meself. You’ve been burning the candle at both ends and you know it, what with all that doctoring business while you were trying to watch over her ladyship’s townhouse. I thought you were learning your lesson when you sent everyone down here. You know you can’t keep up like that.”
“Thank God I did send them,” Emma said, wanting to change the subject. There were too many people who thought they needed to protect her from herself. “If they were still in residence they might have died in the fire.”
Mollie made a clucking sound. “The more I thinks about it, the more suspicious I get. I lived there longer than anyone. That place was kept tidy. No loose rags or papers likely to make a fire spread. There were a lot of people who thought Charity had no business bringing a bunch for whores into her house, and we was always on the lookout for danger. You were the one what taught us that.”
“I’m not very trusting,” Emma admitted.
“No!” Mollie said in feigned shock, grinning. “Did they think it was an accident?”
“The police came and searched for bodies, but there weren’t any, thank God. Someone from the Fire Brigade picked over the place, but no one mentioned anything suspicious.”
Mollie shrugged her heavy shoulders. “Seems strange, is all.” She peered at her through beetled brows. “The rest of ‘em are itching to see you, but I thinks you need a strong cup of tea before you have to deal with them lot. Am I right?”
“You always are, Mollie.”
Mollie accepted the praise as her due and rose to move over to the stove with her slow, rolling pace. She had once been considered the most beautiful woman in all of London and she’d lived very well indeed. By the time Emma met her she had already retired from the business, making herself useful in Mother Howard’s kitchens and doing her best to keep everyone’s spirits up with cakes and pies and simple good sense. In fact, it had sometimes been rumored that Mother Howard’s brothel had retained its exceptional clientele with its pastries rather than its more traditional sensory delights.
She could also make the best tea—wickedly strong and powerfully sweet, a feat Emma could never duplicate no matter how hard she tried. She took the proffered cup with a sigh of gratitude, took a sip that burned her tongue and then slid back in her chair, at peace. “I just want to stay here,” she murmured. “Can’t you find me a pallet somewhere?”
Mollie snorted. “With all them new girls from London filling every nook and cranny? I think not. We’ve got two and three to a bed right now, and until the latest bunch get a placement it’ll stay that way.”
Emma sighed. It had been a desperate, unlikely attempt, and in truth she no longer needed to worry. Brandon and his ancient retainer would be gone by now, heading back to Scotland. Starlings Manor was once more a safe haven.
She took a deep swallow of the strong tea, and she could practically feel her backbone stiffen. He’d been a momentary distraction, a bit of longing for a time long past, and it was over. She would never …
“Oh, Jesus Christ on a fucking fig tree,” Mollie said bitterly, shoving herself to her feet. “They’re here.”
“Who’s here?” Emma demanded, startled, and then realized the female voices she heard were not those of any former streetwalker, soiled dove, kept woman, or lady of the night; these were the purebred sounds of Mayfair. “Oh, Lord,” she said weakly, having never developed the ability to curse in style of most of her friends. “Melisande’s brought the ladies here for tea, hasn’t she?”
“That’s what it sounds like. I shouldn’t be surprised—she drags people down here on any excuse.”
“I should have remembered,” Emma said wearily. “She wants to drum up support among her society friends, the ones who shunned her when she was simply an eccentric widow. Now that she’s a countess they’re more interested in listening, and she’s always looking to take on new sponsors for the Gaggle Project.”
“Gaggle Project?” Mollie echoed grimly, a dangerous look in her eye. “Is that referring to us?”
“I know—it’s a wretched name, isn’t it? I’ll talk to her about it. In the meantime, I don’t suppose I could sneak out the back door and. . .”
“Emma!” Melisande greeted her in a carrying voice from the door she’d just thrust open. “I thought you might be here. Come and join us—you know even more about the program than I do. After all, you’ve been on the front lines while I’ve been here having babies.” She smiled at Mollie. “You don’t mind us dropping in, do you, Mrs. Biscuits?”
Melisande had been determined to address the sundry souls of the Dovecote formally, declaring that it gave them back some dignity, and all the arguments in the world couldn’t convince her that “Mrs. Biscuits” was absurd.
Mollie had given up fighting it. “Not at all, your ladyship. I’ll have tea ready in a few minutes.”
“Come along, dearest,” Melisande said to Emma. “You know you do a better job explaining the business aspect.”
“I should help Mollie. . .” She tried to back up, but Melisande was as stubborn as she was.
“Don’t need help,” Mollie pronounced, the interfering wretch. “And if I did, don’t I have three girls learning to cook as we speak? You go along now, Miss Emma. No need
to worry about us.”
She was trapped, and she threw Mollie a speaking glance as Melisande drew her into the front parlor. The room was crowded—usually Melisande’s tea parties were small and female. The entire house party seemed to have descended on the Dovecote, including their male counterparts, as well as several people she’d never seen before.
She must have balked, because Melisande gave her a gentle push. “What’s wrong with you?” she whispered in her ear.
“Nothing at all. I’m just tired. I should be fine once the sun shines and I get enough sleep.”
“Those two things are never a certainty, given that we live in England,” Melisande muttered. “And if you’re to sleep peacefully then you need to drive out whatever devils are plaguing you.”
He’s already gone, she thought wistfully. “You’re right,” she said out loud, moving into the stately room that had once been the reception hall for whatever dowager was in residence. Now it served as a school room, meeting place, and even, occasionally, a boxing salon. Emma knew better than anyone the dangers a woman could face, and she did her best to see that each girl was equipped with the needed skills to protect herself no matter what circumstances she was thrust into.
“And tea helps everything,” Melisande added.
Emma’s smile was real this time. “I think a dram of brandy would be better,” she said below her breath.
Melisande shrugged. “I can send back to the house if you truly want some. . .” She drew her over to the sofa under the window.
“You know I don’t drink,” Emma said quickly, sinking down beside her friend. “If I change my mind I can always make a midnight run if I need it, though I prefer tea and a boring book.”
“Is that what you found last night?”
She didn’t blush, but she could come close to it. “How did you know?”
“Benedick came down early, and Brandon was still awake. He mentioned that you’d been there.”
She remained utterly still, not revealing any of the distress the sound of his name brought her. He was gone, she reminded herself firmly. Get over it.
Then she shrugged, seemingly at ease. “He was very pleasant.”
“Brandon? Are we talking about the same man? Ever since he’s come back he’s been closed up tighter than a bag wig.”
At least she was able to see some humor in the image, and she smiled. “He’s hardly an ogre, Melisande. . .”
“Darling, look who I found wandering around.” Emma jerked her head upward, panic slicing through her, at the sound of Viscount Rohan’s voice.
A second later relief swamped her, and she felt almost dizzy with it. Standing beside Viscount Rohan was a man she’d never seen before, though she knew immediately who he must be. Only a Rohan would be that tall, that gorgeous, with the same bright blue eyes she’d last seen in Brandon’s face. Unlike the others, though, he looked a little too smug, a little too sure of himself, as he walked over and took Melisande’s hand in his, bringing it to his lips.
“My darling sister-in-law,” he said smoothly. “I hope you don’t mind that I and my guests are tagging along on your little charitable outing. Belated felicitations on the birth of your new offspring, my dear. I deeply regret I wasn’t able to be here in time for the christening, but I’m hoping late is more acceptable than never.”
“Hullo, Charles,” Melisande said, and Emma knew her friend well enough to recognize the lack of enthusiasm in her voice. “I hope your wife and daughters are well?”
“As always. Elinor and the girls are in London, alas. Too many social commitments to allow them to escape.”
“And you were afraid our sister and her wretched husband might be in attendance,” Rohan interjected dryly. “You needn’t have worried. Miranda is once again expecting—I think she and the Scorpion are planning to repopulate the entire Lake District—so your wife’s delicate sensibilities wouldn’t have been offended.”
So the Viscount didn’t care much for his sister-in-law, Emma thought, trying to sink back into the sofa, away from the new brother’s flat, unfriendly blue eyes. It was slightly difficult, because Melisande’s hand had grasped onto hers to keep her in place.
Lord Charles didn’t blink. “Had I but known. . .” he murmured. He glanced at Emma and then looked away again, immediately, as if he’d come across a dead animal on the road. “And just where is our brother? I hear he is much improved.”
Emma held her breath, but it seemed as if Brandon’s absence had yet to be noted. “I imagine he’s out somewhere,” Benedick said lazily. “In the meantime, you will want to be introduced to Melisande’s. . .”
But Charles had already turned away, very effectively halting Rohan’s attempt to introduce them, and the slight was obvious to all of them. “Perhaps I should go find him. We have business to discuss.”
“I know you do,” Rohan said patiently, with only the trace of an edge in his voice. “But introductions. . .”
“Of course!” Lord Charles presented his profile rather than his back to Emma and spoke to Melisande “Allow me to present Miss Frances Bonham and her companion, Miss Marion Trimby. They are most grateful for your kind hospitality.”
Emma could just see the two young ladies beyond Lord Charles’s imposing figure. Miss Frances seemed sweet, shy, and pretty, her companion, whose arm was threaded through Miss Frances’s, had a stiffer backbone and a protective aura. It was clear, however, that an introduction would not be forthcoming, so Emma sat back, content to be grateful that Brandon wasn’t around to see his brother’s attempts to humiliate her. It took a lot of achieve that, and Emma had no intention of succumbing to the attempts of a starched-up bully.
The polite protestations and welcomes went right over her head, and Melisande’s tight grip on her hand loosened once she realized Emma wasn’t going to bolt. Emma suspected what was coming, and she wished there was a chance in hell of diverting it, but there was no stopping Melisande when she was in defense of a loved one.
“Charles!” she said in a carrying voice, and in sheer surprise her brother-in-law whirled around, unfortunately bringing him face to face with the two of them. “You have yet to meet my dearest friend, Mrs. Cadbury. I know you will want to thank her for all she has done for Benedick and me, and I’m certain you’ll look forward to a long and happy acquaintance. Mrs. Cadbury is family to me, just as you are, and we can expect to have many happy times together.” Her tight voice suggested no such thing, but the room went silent, awaiting the outcome of this tense situation. Would Charles insult his sister-in-law and hostess by walking away? And how would Benedick react to such a breach of etiquette?
The moment that he hesitated seemed endless, and Emma was uncomfortably aware of all the eyes on her, including the innocent, curious eyes of Miss Frances and her companion, and then Lord Charles performed the most perfunctory nod in the entire history of perfunctory nods. “Mrs. Cadbury,” he said in a voice so tight it could have cracked glass.
She knew the art of perfunctory nods herself, and she made hers both condescending and gracious, with the reward of watching Charles’s lips compress. At least there was absolutely nothing to remind her of Brandon, apart from a superficial family resemblance. There’d be no reason. . .
And then the world was knocked from under her, as the man himself strolled into the room, as if he’d never left, and she froze.
She knew he had—his absence had been a palpable thing, and his hair was still wet from the soaking rain. His beautiful, damaged face was damp as well, but he must have changed his clothes before coming down.
She suddenly coughed, and her breath came rushing back—she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding it.
“I hope you don’t mind me barging in,” he said lightly. “When I got back from my ride the house was deserted of everyone but the servants, and I was directed down here.”
And then his eyes went straight to hers, past all the people in between them, and there was an odd expression in them, one she couldn’t dec
ipher. Was he angry with her? Why in God’s name had he come back?
Charles moved between them, blocking him. Melisande had a frown on her face, though Emma had no idea what it signified, and she felt the tension in her body loosen just a trifle.
“Brandon, old man!” Charles was saying with what seemed like forced heartiness. “You’re back and you look like a new man.” He flung his arms around his younger brother, embracing him. He was a little shorter than Brandon, and Emma could still feel Brandon’s eyes on her, opaque and watchful.
He detached himself with perfect politeness. “It’s good to see you, Charles,” he said in a neutral voice.
“And you too, m’boy,” he said. “But enough about this—I know why you’re here. Don’t you want to say hullo to your affianced bride?”
The sudden silence in the room was crushing, and Brandon didn’t move, but when she caught his eyes once more his expression was utterly blank.
And Miss Frances burst into frightened tears.
Chapter 9
There was momentary chaos in the Dovecote’s salon. The Gaggle had been outside the room, waiting to be invited, but at the irresistible sound of tears they rushed in, a group of noisy, fluttering birds, and some of the guests drew back, as if a plague of unsavory vermin had descended upon the company. For a moment Emma concentrated on that—outraged that some of these weak, self-important people dared to think they might be contaminated by real life, but then Charles Rohan’s words struck her. She’d risen when Miss Bonham had burst into tears, her instinct to help another female so ingrained that it was instinctive, but Charles and Melisande were already surrounding her, while her companion, Miss Trimby, was glaring at Brandon. It was time to bolt.
She wasn’t quite sure how she managed to escape the room, crashing into Long Polly as she was carrying a tray full of the Dower House’s best china tea service, and while Polly, ever resourceful, managed to keep the tray upright, Emma was past her in a flash, almost at the open door when Mollie Biscuits spoke out.
