The Handbook to Handling His Lordship

by Suzanne Enoch

  Torn between genuine, surprised delight and horror, he held out one hand. “The egg, if you please.”

  She pulled it from her reticule, and the stench intensified. At least she’d wrapped it in a handkerchief, but she’d be lucky if she didn’t have to burn her entire wardrobe and cut her hair off to be rid of the smell. Arm outstretched, he carried the bundle to the open morning room doorway. “Garvey, bury this or something,” he ordered.

  The butler took it and practically ran out the front door, no easy task for a man of Garvey’s age. Nate shut the door, then strode past his visitor to open the two windows on the garden side of the room.

  “Did I overdo it?” Emily asked, still chuckling.

  “The smell was a bit much,” he returned, facing her again and looking at her more closely, “but otherwise you’re nearly perfect. Except for the shoes.”

  “I couldn’t find any wretched ones that fit.” She lifted her hem a little and stuck out the toe of one black walking shoe. “I didn’t think you’d see them.”

  “I noticed them at the last moment,” he conceded, “just before you assaulted me.”

  Abruptly she stopped laughing. “I might have stabbed you instead of just kissing you, Nate. What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking first that I could see both your hands and that you weren’t carrying a knife, and second that one of my men might finally have found something useful for me.” And that he would have risked an armed assault in order to find the information that would save Emily Portsman from having to leave London and find yet another life for herself—one that didn’t include him.

  “Oh.”

  He closed the distance between them. “Assault me again, why don’t you?” Taking her chin in his fingers, he lifted her face to his and kissed her softly.

  “Better?” she asked breathlessly, once he’d released her.

  “You still stink, but yes. Much better.”

  Now that he looked, she was quite impressive. Most people wearing a disguise overdid it, adding warts and moles and becoming far too hideous to pass as someone unmemorable and unremarkable. He could see that she’d had some practiced help, though, nothing to make her too ugly, but merely too dirty to warrant a second look. And in her favor, the smell had worked, too, if only to keep anyone from getting too close to detect her true identity.

  “Why are you wearing a disguise?” he asked finally, though he could guess the answer. And he didn’t like it at all.

  “Because I refuse to hide while you and Haybury and Jenny and everyone else are trying to help me.”

  “What if we’re all just waiting for Ebberling to leave London?” he shot back. “Did you consider that?”

  “Yes, and they might be doing just that. You wouldn’t be.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  She touched his cheek, and he just kept himself from leaning into her palm. “Because you’re Nate Stokes.”

  The morning room door opened again. “What the devil is that smell?” Laurie asked, walking into the room with his hand over his nose. His eyes widened. “And why is that … woman touching you?”

  Lowering her hand, she gathered her skirt and waddled over to his brother. “So this is the boy ye want me to break in? Seems a bit skinny.”

  His brother’s face went white, and he backed toward the door. “I don’t need to be broken in! What—”

  “It’s Emily, Laurie. Calm down and shut the door.”

  “Em … What? Why the bloody hell are you dressed like that?”

  Once Laurence had shut the door, Nate faced his stubborn, exasperating, impossible love again. “Yes, why are you dressed like that?”

  “I wanted to see if I could change my appearance enough to fool you. Which I did. Which means I can fool him, even more easily.”

  Nate shook his head. “No. Absolutely not.”

  Laurie circled them, then reached out to poke one finger into Emily’s plump side. “What are you wearing under there?”

  “Several pouches of beans and rice,” Emily returned. “Jenny said they hang more like real fat than cloth or feathers would.”

  “Yes, they do,” Laurence agreed, poking at her again. “But I don’t think you’ll be able to seduce Lord Ebberling looking like that. Or stinking like that.”

  “She’s not seducing anyone,” Nate snapped, too vehemently. She was his, damn it all. For as long as he could hold on to her. “And stop jabbing at her.”

  Laurence lifted both hands in surrender. “I think I’ll leave you two to figure this out,” he said, backing away and slipping out of the room.

  Nate strode over and locked the damned thing before someone else could barge in. “You want to go work in his household. No.”

  “Then you have a better idea?” she retorted. “I am not going to sit by waiting for him to find me any longer! So I can either leave London, or help you stop him before he can murder anyone else, including me!”

  He looked at her for a long moment, then frowned. “Take that off, will you? I can’t think with you looking like a Gorgon.”

  Emily blew out her breath, then reached up to pull off her black wig. “Very well. But I’m not going away until you have a better plan than mine, or you agree that this is the best way to proceed.”

  If he’d ever needed something to prove that Emily was unlike anyone he’d ever met, she’d just provided it. He knew that Ebberling frightened her, yet there she was, prepared to beard the lion in his very den. “And what is your plan, then?” he asked, just barely resisting the urge to pull the pins from her hair and set it loose down her shoulders.

  “I…” She frowned. “I’m not certain yet. I wouldn’t dress like this, of course; that was only to see if I could fool you. But I do know how to be a servant. I watched my mother for twelve years, after all. Once I was in his household, I could watch him.”

  “You’re the only witness, my dear. If you caught him at doing something else wrong, or admitting to killing his wife, you’d still be the only witness.”

  She plunked her plump, smelly form down on his couch. “I know that. But I can’t simply sit in the Tantalus and hide. I’ve hidden enough. I have…” She trailed off. “Good things are happening to me now. Finally. I don’t want to give them up.”

  By “them,” did she mean him? He’d never been anyone’s “good thing” before. And as desperate as he was to keep her in his life, a small part of him hoped that she wanted him in her life just as badly. A friend, a confidante, a lover—while previously and occasionally he’d been able to find, separately, two of the three, he’d never encountered them all in one person. Nate wanted to tell her just that, tell her that he’d fallen in love with her. But to do so now, when she might need to make a quick decision that could cost her or ensure her freedom, if not her life—he didn’t want his own sentiments to muddy the equation. He could wait until she was safe, though that would only mean an entire new set of obstacles.

  Nate sat down beside her, running his thumb across her cheek and then examining it. “What is that she’s put on you, talc?”

  “Yes, mixed with charcoal, to make me look unwashed.”

  “It makes me want to give you a bath, so call it successful.” He took her hand, pulling off the worn black gloves she’d donned. “I want to help you, Em. You’re not forcing me to act.”

  Abruptly she stood again, pulling her fingers free of his grip. “But I’m—I’m not—You’re a hero, Nate. More than most people will ever know. This is … it’s beneath you.”

  He tilted his head at her. “Have you looked at my life, love? I became a spy because it paid enough for me to support my mother and my brother. I became an earl because my cousin, who was a nice enough fellow, but not so nice that he ever offered to provide for a widowed in-law and her two sons, fell into a lake while fishing and drowned.” Nate gestured at the well-appointed morning room around them. “I don’t belong here, any more than you think you do.”

  “Yes, but you’re still an earl,
and a cousin to a former earl, the son of an earl’s younger brother. I’m a Tantalus girl at best, and a common thing who’s put on airs above her station at worst.”

  Standing, Nathaniel slid his arms around her enlarged waist and tugged her up against him. “Wouldn’t they all wag their tongues at us, if they only knew?” he murmured, and leaned down to kiss her.

  “Nate,” she breathed, wrapping her own arms around his shoulders. “You’re going to break my heart.”

  “Never. There’s always a way, and I don’t mean to let you go.” As he spoke, he realized that he meant every word of it. She was not getting away, even if it meant giving up what he’d received by accident. Even if it meant killing one very powerful marquis.

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Emily whispered, almost hoping she’d spoken too quietly for him to hear. His words sounded so very lovely, and it would be so pleasant to be able to sink into that dream, if only for a moment.

  “I never do,” he whispered back, which was even nicer.

  It would all cut even more deeply when this was finished with, but she’d made something of an art at pretending. For now, she could imagine that Nate Stokes, Earl of Westfall, could be hers, could marry her, could be the one thing in her life that was permanent. She certainly wanted him to be.

  He reached up under her frumpy, ill-fitting gown and found the tie that held most of the pouches of rice and beans in place. When he untied it, ten pounds of weight fell about her feet. Ten more followed a moment later, and then he tugged her oversized dress down her shoulders. It puddled to the floor, the shift she’d donned to keep the pouches from itching at her skin joining it a second later.

  “You still smell,” he muttered, lifting her up and dumping her onto his couch.

  Emily chuckled. “My perfume doesn’t seem to have dampened your enthusiasm.” She reached up to brush her fingers across the front of his trousers, and he jumped. “Not a bit.”

  “Your face paint doesn’t seem to matter, either,” he returned, shrugging out of his coat, then swiftly unbuttoning his tan waistcoat and dropping it somewhere behind him. “It’s you I want. The you behind all that nonsense.”

  Heat deepened between her legs. “That is a very nice thing to say.”

  Nate shook his head as he opened his trousers and shoved them down past his thighs. “If I was nice I would be conjuring a way to get you out of this mess instead of doing … this.” He lowered himself onto the couch over her, kissing her openmouthed while his hands roved over her breasts, pinching and nipping until she couldn’t breathe.

  Then he shifted, sliding down the length of her, his mouth and lips and teeth following his hands until she moaned, bucking beneath him “Nate, stop teasing me,” she managed, gasping when he slid two fingers inside her.

  “You want me,” he rumbled. “You’re wet for me.”

  “I want you,” she agreed. “Now.”

  Rising up over her again, he slid deeply inside her. “You’re mine,” he groaned as he pumped his hips forward. “No one else’s. You’re mine.”

  Emily dug her fingers into his shoulders, panting in time with his thrusts. At this moment, she believed him. And he belonged to her, as much as she to him. “Yes,” she agreed. “Yes.”

  He gazed into her eyes, his light green with the black rim around them. “I’m not leaving,” he went on, deepening his thrusts.

  She’d already thought of that, and while a few weeks ago she would have argued, today she only nodded. Everything was about to change, whatever became of her and Nate and Ebberling. For the first time, she thought she was ready for it.

  Then she drew tight and shattered, clutching at Nate as he continued his rhythmic assault. Groaning, he held himself hard against her as he spent his release deep inside her. “You’re mine,” he repeated, lowering his head to her shoulder.

  “And you’re mine,” she agreed, tangling her fingers through his hair and wishing with all her heart that it could just this once be true.

  * * *

  The Marquis of Ebberling looked up from his morning newspaper as his butler showed the caller into the breakfast room. “Colonel Rycott. How pleasant to see you.”

  Jack Rycott looked nothing like a spy, which was likely why he was so good at his profession. In fact, in his dark green, well-tailored jacket, gray waistcoat, and brown buckskins tucked into his polished black Hessian boots, he looked like any well-heeled aristocrat come to Mayfair to enjoy the Season.

  Even his dark blue eyes and raven-black hair a bit disheveled from horseback riding, the lean jaw and straight nose, all made him look a landed gentleman. Much better than the moth-eaten, spectacle-wearing professor.

  “You paid a great deal to convince me to come down here, my lord,” Rycott drawled in his cultured tones. “So I’m listening. Let’s get to it, shall we?”

  “I sent for you nearly a week ago.”

  “I’m not your dog. I serve a very different master, in fact.”

  The marquis attempted to ignore the insult. “Would you care for some tea? And you’ll find Velton House always puts out a splendid breakfast. Help yourself.”

  Instead the colonel pulled out the chair at the foot of the table and sat, one leg out to the side. “If you want me to be your friend, it’ll cost you another thousand quid. Otherwise, get to the point.”

  Ebberling clenched his jaw, then forced himself to relax again. The idea that he would have to pay someone to befriend him was beyond insulting, but he let it pass. After all, he did have another duty in mind for his guest. “You recommended Westfall to me.”

  “I did.”

  “The man’s a fool.”

  Rycott cocked his head to one side. “How so?”

  For a moment Ebberling had the distinct sensation that he was being eyed by a leopard, sizing him up for a meal. He picked up his cup of tea and drank to cover his discomfiture. He made men nervous; not the other way around. “He bumbled about for a several weeks, spending more time asking my son questions about Rachel Newbury than going about looking for her, and then he returned my money and said she couldn’t be found.”

  “Interesting.” The colonel sat back an inch or so. “If you wanted to complain about Stokes, you might have written me a letter and saved us both some time.”

  “I didn’t ask you here to complain; I’m telling you what happened.” Ebberling put both hands on the tabletop and leaned forward; Rycott wasn’t the only one who could cut an imposing figure. “And now I’ll tell you what I want. I want you to find Rachel Newbury, and I want you to bring her to me. No authorities, no legalities. She stole from me, and I want my pound of flesh. In exchange for your services, I will pay you twenty thousand pounds.”

  “That’s a great deal of blunt over a hundred-quid necklace and a runaway governess.”

  Ah, the necklace. It didn’t exist; at the time he’d needed to provide a motive for Miss Newbury’s misdeeds and flight, and jewelry had seemed both logical and believable. “The necklace is secondary,” he said aloud. “She killed—murdered—my wife. I have no proof, but I don’t require any. The courts would. Hence my wanting to deal with her myself.”

  Extending one finger, Rycott drew a lazy figure eight on the polished tabletop. “Twenty thousand pounds. How much did you offer Nate?”

  “Half that. I’m willing to wager that you’re twice the man he is, so I’m doubling my offer.” There. Flattery always worked, even on hard-bitten sorts like Jack Rycott. “And time is shorter, as well. I’m marrying in three weeks. You’re to find her before then.”

  “And if she’s not in the country?”

  “I looked for her three years ago. Spent a great deal of money over it. She hadn’t headed for any of the ports then. I doubt she’ll have done it now, when she thinks she’s safe. A stiff-spined chit like her wouldn’t favor living like a red Indian in the Americas, anyway, and the Continent was at war. In addition, Westfall found nothing to indicate that she’d left England, either.”

  His g
uest nodded. “That makes sense.” He kept his finger moving for another long moment. “We’ll shake hands on it. I want nothing in writing.”

  “I prefer that, as well. You’ll do it, then.”

  “Aye. I’ll do it.” With that discomfiting abruptness of his, Rycott sat forward. “And I’ll give you my opinion in advance of any coin. Nate Stokes would never admit to failure, especially by quitting a task unfinished. I’d wager every quid of my fee that he found her, and decided he didn’t want to turn her over to you.”

  A shiver of anticipation ran down Ebberling’s spine. He’d been suspicious, but this confirmed it. If the chit had talked to Westfall, convinced him of her story, then he would have to be dealt with, as well. Once she was finished, though, any direct witnesses would be gone. He could deal with the earl at his leisure. The fool couldn’t walk without a cane. Hunting him would be simple. And … amusing.

  “I want no mistakes,” he said aloud. “Show me proof before you grab the wrong woman.”

  “I can do that.”

  He stood. “Then shake my hand, and get on with it,” he said.

  Rycott rose smoothly as a panther. Shaking Ebberling’s outstretched hand, he grinned. “Get that blunt ready for me, my lord. This shouldn’t take long.”

  * * *

  Nathaniel backed Blue a few steps farther beneath the trees when the front door of Velton House opened. Ebberling himself walked Rycott down the granite steps to his horse. For a few moments after he’d returned the marquis’s money he’d nearly convinced himself that Ebberling would give up the hunt, but he wasn’t surprised at all that Jack had been summoned.

  At best he could only be thankful that Ebberling hadn’t been able to persuade Jack to leave Brighton at the beginning of all this. Because if he’d been able to find Rachel Newbury, Rycott would also have been able to do so. And Jack was less sentimental than he was.

  He’d learned over the years that fate was a bloody fickle mistress, but the lady had been kind to him up to this point. And to Emily, as well. Clearly now Ebberling meant to end all that, and he’d certainly found the right man for the job.