The Princess and the Pauper

by Alexandra Benedict

  Grey frowned at the bizarre admission. “He was angry with me, not with you, Emily.”

  She bowed her head. “At first, yes, but after a time he suspected you and I were . . .”

  “I see.”

  An unexpected pressure released in his heart. He hadn’t believed her father had mattered to him, but hearing the man had died knowing the truth, that Grey hadn’t attacked and violated his daughter, put a part of him at ease.

  Another part was unnerved to think their childhood affair had resulted in the man’s lunacy.

  “His symptoms were mild at first.” Her lips quivered and she swallowed to keep back the tears. “Memory loss and a short temper. But then he developed physical pain and finally delirium.”

  “Hence his poor business decisions?”

  She nodded. Her eyes watered and she shut them until the moisture receded. When she looked at him again, her expression was flat, but there was no mistaking the grief she’d struggled with a moment ago. She believed her father had descended into madness.

  Grey did not.

  He rubbed his chin. When he’d left the household, Wright had no such symptoms. Wasn’t madness gradual? Didn’t it take years for the mind to unravel? According to the information gathered by Smith, Wright had deteriorated in a matter of months. And surely the thought of his daughter being with Grey wouldn’t actually drive the man insane.

  “Emily, I know your father’s undisciplined spending started a few months after I left the house, and the timing might be suspect, but you—we—didn’t trigger his madness.”

  “Don’t. Don’t try and take the blame from me. I broke his heart. I broke both your hearts. I deserve what’s happened to me.”

  He might have agreed with her at one resentful time, but he sure as hell didn’t think so anymore. His blood burned, fever hot, knowing she had lived with such misery. And he’d every intention of taking away her misery.

  “Do you trust me, Rees?”

  His breath hitched. She looked at him with such a searching expression, he sensed his answer would determine the course of their future. “Yes.”

  “You hesitated. Why?”

  “What game is this?”

  “No game, Rees. I want the truth, is all.”

  He frowned again. “The truth?”

  “Why do you ask me to play for you? What freedom do you seek?” She whispered, “Is it freedom from me?”

  Perhaps a few days ago he’d wanted freedom from her. Perhaps a few days ago he’d believed it possible. But now he knew he would never be free of her. And he didn’t want the freedom, even if it was offered.

  He stepped nearer the bed, lifted her chin with his thumb and pressed his mouth over hers. She opened for him, took his breath away.

  “A better answer than the truth,” she said softly before she pushed him away and tossed aside the bedding. She left the bed and wrapped her naked body in his robe. “I’m famished. Shall we have breakfast?”

  “Emily—”

  “It’s all right, Rees. Sometimes it’s better to keep the truth a secret.”

  “We once shared every secret,” he said with regret.

  She removed her brush from her carpetbag and combed her hair. “But we’re not children anymore, and it’s time to give up childish ways.”

  She was right. She needn’t hear how embittered he’d once been. She needn’t hear the words, even if she suspected them. And she certainly needn’t hear he intended to break his promise and keep searching for the truth behind her father’s death.

  CHAPTER 7

  The pile of letters on the study desk reached Grey’s eyebrows. He needed to hire a secretary to sift through the monstrosity and attend to genuine business while burning the remaining correspondences. But he’d look into the matter of an assistant at another time. With a wave of his hand, he knocked the heap of papers onto the floor to be filtered at a later date.

  “What’s that?” Harry jerked and opened his eyes, disoriented. He was sprawled across the divan, an arm and leg dangling over the edge of the cushions, a blanket half twisted around his body. Although he’d ordered furniture for one of the guest bedrooms, the pieces had yet to arrive, making Grey’s study his temporary refuge still.

  Harry yawned, then smacked his lips. “What time is it?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “Why are you waking me at dawn?”

  “Go to the kitchen and find yourself some breakfast. I’ve business to attend.”

  Grey’s “business” was mediation. And he’d much to consider after exploring long denied passions. He still ached for Emily’s touch. He had always imagined being with her. At one time, he’d even fooled himself into believing his dreams about her were romanticized. But after last night, he’d proof they were not. And there was no going back to a time when he’d only pined for her. His blood called for Emily, like his lungs called for air, like his belly called for food.

  She was a primal desire.

  And that made his approaching betrayal all the more difficult, even self-destructive, for in hurting her, he’d hurt himself. But he couldn’t let the matter of her father’s death rest. It would always hang over them. A silent accuser. It would always condemn them, denounce their affections as wrong or immoral. He couldn’t have that wretchedness near her or between them. He couldn’t let her go on misbelieving she had killed her father just by loving his servant. He only hoped she’d forgive him one day for breaking his word and “disturbing the past.”

  A knock at the door.

  “Come,” said Grey.

  Mr. Smith opened the door and stooped as he entered the room, cap in hand.

  Grey glanced at Harry. “Get out.”

  For a second, Harry ogled the bruiser, then tossed the blanket aside. “Righto, chum.” He dashed from the study.

  As soon as the door closed, Grey demanded, “What more have you found, Mr. Smith?”

  The man removed a small card from his inner coat pocket and dropped it on the desk.

  Fingering the stock paper, Grey scanned the name and address. “And what does Dr. Snow on Harley Street have to say about Mr. Wright?”

  “Plenty.”

  He lifted a brow. “Well?”

  “He would not tell me.”

  “Then how do you know he has plenty to say?”

  “I know.”

  Grey peered at the man. “And he would not tell you?”

  “No, but he might tell you. You have an appointment with him this morning at ten o’clock for your chronic headaches.”

  “I see.”

  Perhaps Mr. Smith was right. It might be better if Grey had a private audience with the good doctor. Besides, he didn’t want the physician’s head split open. Grey suspected Mr. Smith rarely heard the word “no.”

  “A wise decision, Mr. Smith. I’d rather speak with the man myself.” He opened a side desk drawer. “Here is the other fiver, as promised. I thank you for your help.”

  A bob of the head and Mr. Smith was gone.

  Grey picked up the card again, rubbing the corner with his thumb. What secrets did Dr. Snow keep? The sooner Grey unearthed them, the sooner the past would be buried.

  He headed for his bedroom and stopped at the door, uncertain if Emily was still inside. She had passed a quiet breakfast with him before he’d left for the study. He still wasn’t sure how their relationship had changed since this morning’s revelations, but it had changed, and soon it would change again.

  He opened the door and found the room empty. Perhaps she’d gone to her own chamber down the hall. Once the freshly papered walls had cured, fittings, fixtures and furnishings would be delivered. Perhaps some pieces had arrived today.

  His heart missed a beat. He didn’t want her to move, not even a few rooms away. He wanted her to stay with him. He wanted her to be . . . his wife.

  A longing gripped him as he remembered his boyhood dream, so hopeless then. He’d wanted to do everything, be everything for Emily. But he’d learned it was impos
sible to be anything for her, pauper that he was. He wasn’t a pauper anymore, though. He was worthy of her now. And the thought of being with her forever pressed him to meet with Dr. Snow and make the past right.

  In brisk strides, he crossed the rug and entered his dressing room. His clothes were rumpled from his heady night with Emily, and he almost loathed to remove them, to remove her scent from his body. But he couldn’t go to Harley Street looking like a vagabond and smelling of lavender oil. He gathered a clean, pressed pair of fawn trousers and a white shirt.

  As he stripped off his clothes, he sensed another presence. Emily. Even with his back to the door, he knew the moment she’d entered the dressing room, the moment she’d found him naked. Her light steps faltered, her breath hastened. He smiled knowing she admired him, hungered for him. At least that had not changed between them. And his own body reacted to her desire. Even the marks on his arms, where she’d buried her fingernails, pulsed with awareness.

  He slipped into his trousers before another moment passed and he found himself buried inside her.

  “Where are you going?” she wondered in a low voice.

  “I’ve an appointment.”

  He turned around and took a breath. She stood inside the room, her arms crossed under her breasts, her fair features covered in a blush. She wore a day dress with horizontal stripes of repeating red, brown and yellow shades, and her lush auburn hair was tamed in a tight braid.

  She appeared younger than her twenty-two years, vulnerable, and again he confronted the disturbing truth—if it hadn’t been for the twist of fate that had brought him to Woodward’s, she would be at the mercy of a stranger right now.

  He hardened at the insufferable thought. She had almost fallen. And his quest for the truth was even more meaningful now. He was determined to make sure she never slipped again.

  “With whom?” she wondered, her blush rising.

  He pulled on his shirt, unsure how to answer her. After a thoughtful pause, he resolved to voice the truth. There was no reason to withhold it from her, for she would learn it when he confessed his findings. “A physician.”

  “Are you ill?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I saw a man leaving the house.”

  “Can’t I have a visitor in my own house?”

  “No. Harry is your only visitor, according to the staff.”

  He fastened his waistcoat. “The staff should mind their own affair.”

  “He was your hound, wasn’t he? You promised, Rees. You promised not to snoop anymore.”

  “Emily, I—”

  “No! I told you everything. Papa went mad. There’s nothing else to know.”

  “I’ll believe it when I hear it from his doctor.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath, then said with restraint, “I didn’t lie to you.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why can’t you leave the past alone?”

  “I don’t believe your father died from madness, even if you believe it.” He looped his necktie. “Don’t you want the truth?”

  “I know the truth. Dr. Snow won’t tell you a different tale.”

  “Then I should be home before lunch.” He tugged on his boots and coat, enrobed in full morning dress. “I am doing this for your sake, Emily.”

  “If you leave, I won’t be here when you return.”

  He stilled. “And where will you go? Back to Woodward’s?”

  “If I must.”

  “He would only return you to me. We have a business arrangement, remember?”

  The spirited fire in her eyes cooled.

  Grey pulled a flustered hand through his mussed hair, the one part of his attire he would not domesticate. “Damn it, I didn’t mean that, Emily. Come with me. If Dr. Snow confirms your suspicion, I’ll let the matter rest.”

  “And if he doesn’t say what you want to hear?”

  “I will continue searching.”

  “Why? Let Papa rest in peace. You asked me to trust you. Prove to me I can trust you. Honor your word, Rees.”

  “I can’t.”

  When he saw the glistening moisture in her eyes, his heart fell.

  “Why are you doing this?” she whispered. “To exonerate yourself?”

  “No, to find out who hurt you.”

  “You hurt me, Rees. Right now.”

  Her voice twisted with grief. He didn’t want to cause her any more suffering or build a wall between them, but he had to know the truth, to protect her. It was too late to turn back now and ignore the past. One day, she would come to understand.

  “I’m sorry, Emily.” He crossed the dressing room and hooked her arm in his, steering her out the door. “Fetch a shawl and bonnet. We have an appointment with Dr. Snow.”

  ~ * ~

  The carriage ride to Harley Street was dramatically quiet. Every subdued breath sounded like a train engine gathering steam, and soon the sharp whistle would blow.

  Grey focused on Emily throughout the journey, but she maintained a rigid profile, her eyes fixed on the shambles of street life. Despite the uneasy sensation in his gut, he knew he was doing the right thing. Once Emily heard from Dr. Snow she was innocent of her father’s death, she’d be free of her false guilt. She’d forgive him, then.

  He hoped.

  The vehicle rolled to a stop before a handsome, brown brick townhouse with white framed windows and a polished, dark wood door.

  Grey stepped out of the carriage first, then offered Emily his hand. She descended without his assistance, remained impassive as she climbed the stone steps and rang the brass bell marked “patients and visitors.”

  He settled at her backside, one step below her. She shivered. He would not let her forget their bond. He would not let her push him away. And he would not let her carry her misplaced guilt a minute more.

  A few moments later, they awaited the doctor’s arrival inside his neat, fashionable office. There was an adjoining exam room, fresh cut flowers in a vase on the windowsill, and a comfortable set of leather chairs in front of a heavy oak desk. A divan near the window completed the furnishings, and Emily stood beside the glass, bonnet in hand, intent on traffic rather than him.

  Grey, seated in one of the matching leather chairs, dropped his chin between his thumb and forefinger, his own eyes secured on Emily.

  Prove to me I can trust you.

  He would regain her trust, he vowed. And even as a feeling of dread circled his windpipe, he remained firm in his conviction. He would regain her trust.

  The office door opened and a short, lean gentleman with bushy white side-whiskers entered the room.

  He extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rees.”

  Grey stood and returned the handshake. “Good morning, Dr. Snow.”

  “My wife and I attended your performance at the Royal Albert Hall. A splendid event.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Please have a seat.” He rounded the desk. “How can I help you?” It was then the physician noticed another figure in the room. His eyes widened. “Miss Wright?”

  Emily looked away from the window and offered a courteous bob of the head. “Dr. Snow.”

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  “I’d like your assistance in a delicate matter,” said Grey.

  The doctor reclined in his chair and pulled his features together, his expression inscrutable. “How can I be of assistance?”

  “Miss Wright and I would like some information about her father.”

  “And who are you in this matter?”

  “A friend,” returned Grey, his voice low. “Mr. Wright’s condition—”

  “Condition, sir?”

  “He suffered from madness, did he not?”

  “He did, indeed.”

  Grey glanced at Emily, but she remained still and silent. She was not unmoved, however. He sensed the energy change in the room. It pulsed with tension . . . and he realized much of that tension was coming from Snow.

 
“Have you more to say, doctor?”

  The physician’s light blue eyes narrowed. “Have you come to threaten me, Mr. Rees?”

  Emily dropped her chin and turned her ear to better hear the exchange.

  “And why would I threaten you?” wondered Grey.

  “You are the second man to inquire about Mr. Wright in the last two days. I suspect you’ve come to ensure Miss Wright’s secret is not revealed.”

  “And what secret would that be?”

  The older man cast his disapproving gaze on Emily.

  “It’s all right, Dr. Snow. I have no secrets from Mr. Rees. Tell him the truth. I know Papa confided in you. Tell him Papa went mad because of me.”

  “You admit it, then?”

  “I do,” she said primly. “Are you satisfied, Rees?”

  The doctor rose from his chair and headed for the door. “I shall send for the police.”

  Grey bounded to his feet and blocked the door. “I beg your pardon?”

  “She confessed,” said Snow. “I heard her, as did you.”

  “And her father’s illness is a crime?”

  His white brows elevated. He blustered, “Murder is a crime, Mr. Rees!”

  The word “murder” rooted in Grey’s throat, and he found it impossible to breathe. “She is not guilty of murder.”

  “Let him pass, Rees.” Her voice trembled. “If Dr. Snow believes it murder, he must be allowed to follow his conscience and summon the authorities.”

  In that moment, Grey’s entire world fell apart. Again. Were they both mad? Even if Wright had lost his wits because he’d found his daughter in a servant’s arms, it was hardly a chargeable offense.

  “No,” Grey snapped, scrambling to piece together his crumbling life. What in bloody hell had possessed him to chase after the truth? He should have left the past alone, as Emily had pleaded with him. “There is no murderer here. I refuse to believe our affair drove Wright mad.”

  “Aha, so you’re the chimney sweep,” the man charged. “A friend, indeed. You’ve both come to silence me about the truth. But I’ve been silent for far too long.” As Grey still blockaded the door, the doctor turned toward Emily. “How could you do it? He adored you. He did everything for you.”