by Mary Campisi
“If you fail to carry off this little ruse, fail in any way to meet the terms, then all talk of America will cease.” He placed his hands over hers. “Then you will accept your fate and remain in England.”
Emily bit her lip. If she failed, he’d prohibit her from travelling to America. Ever. She’d be forced to stay in England and whether or not he spoke the words, she knew he would eventually attempt to coerce her into a marriage match.
“Emily?”
“I agree,” she blurted out. “If I fail, I won’t mention America again. You have my word.”
Ian smiled then and gathered her into his warm embrace. He thought he’d beat her at this game of wills. In truth, he probably didn’t think she’d make it past a day or two but she’d show him. She would succeed. She quickly amended that thought; she must succeed.
Chapter 2
Emily heard the companionable chatter of dinner conversation as she approached the dining room, laden with a tureen of creamed asparagus soup. Ian’s hearty laughter echoed to her.
She approved of their dinner guest, Noah Sandleton, though she had yet to meet him. Anyone who could lighten her brother’s somber countenance and make him laugh in earnest was someone she would hold in high esteem. Not to mention the fact that he was the man responsible for getting Christopher to America. Oh yes, one mustn’t forget that little bit of information.
She turned her thoughts to the scant tidbits she knew about their guest. He was an American, though a displaced one, having had a falling out with his father several years ago. Noah Sandleton had met Ian at sea but the conditions of their first encounter remained unknown. They’d been adversaries, two men of equal strength and power, who later became best friends, sailing the sea together, exploring distant, exotic lands. Emily was more than a little curious to meet this man and secretly hoped to hear more news of Christopher’s new home.
“Are you all set to bring in the soup, Emily?” Mrs. Florence grinned, barely able to control her mirth. Emily smiled back at the plump cook who had been preparing delectable dishes for the St. Simon household for almost twenty years.
“I believe so, Mrs. Florence. I only regret that I won’t be feasting on your roast pork and spiced apples.”
“The earl said this was to be a special dinner for his good friend, Mr. Sandleton, so I fixed one of the family’s favorites.” She bent her gray head toward Emily and whispered, “I’ll save you some in the kitchen, Lady Emily.”
“You’re a dear. It will be scrumptious, as usual,” Emily said carrying the tureen of asparagus soup. It was much heavier than she expected. “How on earth do you manage these things?”
Mrs. Florence let out a booming laugh. Behind her, Emily heard the soft tittering of two young maids as they watched her wrestle with the huge bowl. She grinned at them, knowing her transition from noblewoman to servant had created quite a stir at Greyling Manor. There were even whispered rumors that bets had been taken as to whether or not she’d succeed in her mission.
“Good luck to you,” Mrs. Florence whispered, her kind blue eyes twinkling as she opened the door for Emily. Concentrating on the creamy, green liquid in front of her, Emily took slow, careful steps toward the dining room where her family entertained their honored guest. As she entered the ornately decorated elegance, her gaze shot to an empty spot on the linen tablecloth. Just large enough, with a little room to spare, she thought, as she edged closer to the table.
“Christopher will have his work cut out for him, but he’ll do well in Virginia.” A very deep, very familiar voice spoke to the right of her.
The tureen clattered loudly onto the table, sloshing asparagus soup on the pristine tablecloth. Emily withdrew quickly, her startled gaze riveted on the man who’d just spoken. It was him! Dark eyes sliced over her, widening briefly in recognition. Just as quickly, his face became an unreadable mask, and he looked away leaving her gawking at him.
“Emily!” Ian fairly roared. “What is the meaning of this? You’re staring at our guest. And look what you’ve done to his shirt.” Ian motioned toward Noah Sandleton’s white shirt. Pale green spots splattered the front in a random pattern. “If you can’t conduct proper decorum in the dining room, I’ll have you permanently installed cleaning chamber pots!”
Emily’s cheeks burned as she wished herself anywhere but in this room.
“Emily, why don’t you see if you can find something to clean up this little accident? I’m sure Mr. Sandleton bears you no ill will.” Augusta’s soft voice cut the tension clinging to the room. “As we all know, accidents do happen.” She shot her husband a murderous look but he ignored the warning, piercing Emily with his blue stare.
“Augusta is quite right.” Noah Sandleton drawled. “It’s nothing Ian, really. Best to let it just be forgotten.”
****
Best to let it just be forgotten. Those had been Noah’s own words, but he’d spent the rest of the supper hour anticipating the return of the maid named Emily. But she didn’t return and he wasn’t at all surprised. Still, he waited, more than a little curious about this maid who dressed in boy’s clothes and frequented taverns.
What had she been after? More to the point, did it have anything to do with Ian? He had to find out, had to be certain Ian was safe from his past, for God knew, Noah wasn’t.
Noah recalled the conversation he and Ian had in the library after supper. They’d been enjoying a very fine brandy and reminiscing about the old days at sea.
“How much have you told Augusta?” Noah asked, eager to allay his own concerns.
Ian’s jaw tensed. “She only knows I was a merchant tradesman.”
Noah nodded, wondering how to broach the subject they’d both vowed never to speak of again. “Nothing else?”
“Of course not.”
“Good.” Noah crossed one booted leg over the other and stared into his snifter. “He saw me you know.” There. Finally, after seven years, he’d said it.
“Impossible.”
“No,” Noah corrected. “Most definitely possible.”
Silence followed, filling the room with memories, dark, ugly images of men, lying in pools of blood, gasping for one last breath as the life oozed out of them.
Noah was the first to speak. His voice sounded distant and emotionless. “I didn’t leave right away. I had to be certain the files were destroyed.” He paused. “I pulled off my mask, the damn thing was so hot, and watched the building go up in flames. And then, I saw someone at the window, staring straight at me. A few seconds later, the fire took over and he was gone.”
“Christ,” Ian said. “We checked the building. It was empty.”
“Who knows?” Noah shrugged. “He could’ve been hiding or even entered once the fire started.”
“Peter Crowlton stood to become a very wealthy man but only if he had the files,” Ian said, sipping his brandy.
“The bastard was willing to sacrifice all of us,” Noah bit out, thinking of the brutal murders of twelve fellow espionage agents. Crowlton had sold their files and exposed his own kind, for money and power.
“But we stopped him,” Ian said. “The files were destroyed. We completed our mission. The Crown was satisfied.”
“They never found a body,” Noah said, trying to keep his voice casual. “Not even in all the charred ashes of the building. Don’t you find that odd?”
“It’s been seven years. The man’s dead.”
“Logic says you’re right,” Noah agreed. “But every once in awhile, something out of the ordinary happens, say for instance, a stranger taking an unusual interest in me, asking a lot of personal questions about my past. Or, a person who seems out of place in a particular situation. It makes me think about Crowlton and the fact that his body was never found.”
Ian laughed. “Nonsense. That life is behind us now. I’m a respectable businessman, titled no less, with a wife and child. And you’re a philandering, wealthy merchant who roams the world in search of excitement.”
Noah smiled. “You forgot to inclu
de British-born American. Makes me sound more interesting. Like an unsolvable puzzle.” He swirled the brandy in his snifter and took another drink.
“That’s because you are an unsolvable puzzle, my man,” Ian said. “And you like it that way. It makes you irresistible to all those women who trail after you and your American accent with that Virginia drawl. If they only knew you were as British as I am, they’d be very disappointed.”
“But they’ll never know, will they?” Noah asked, his voice full of humor.
“Not from me they won’t.”
“I knew I could count on my best friend.” He paused a moment, his brow furrowed, his smile gone. “You’re probably right about Crowlton. Most likely he’s dead. But, if he were alive, we both know he’d be hunting me.” Noah looked up from his snifter to see Ian give a slight nod of agreement. “Part of me wants nothing more than to meet him, face to face, so I can repay him for killing his own.”
“Nothing’s worse than a traitor,” Ian agreed.
“If by some crazy stretch, the bastard were still alive, he’d only be after me.” Noah measured his next words. “Or those I care about. I don’t have to tell you what to look for.”
“Is there some particular reason you’re telling me this now? Has something happened?”
Well, there it was. Time to confess. “I don’t trust your new maid.”
“Which one?”
“The woman who spilled the asparagus soup on me. Emily, I believe.”
“Emily?” Ian’s lips curved up a bit. Was he hiding a smile?
“There’s something about her. She’s not what she appears.” Even when she wasn’t dressed in boy’s clothes, Noah thought, but saw no need to bring that point up at the moment.
“Really?”
“She dresses in maid’s clothing, but carries herself with the grace and elegance of a well-bred lady. Her speech tells of education, unless she’s an awfully good imitator.” Noah frowned. “And she was quite flippant, with little regard for social class, which is unseemly in a maid, but actually quite refreshing in a woman.”
“Emily is a maid, I assure you.”
“And her skin is too soft,” Noah said, recalling the velvety swell of her bosom, the soft satin skin of her hips….
“Her skin?” Ian boomed. “What in the hell do you know of her skin?”
Startled, Noah quickly recovered. “Why nothing other than what my observant eye relays to me.”
“You think Emily is hiding something?” Ian’s expression was blank, his voice cautious, as though he were trying very hard to show no emotion.
“Perhaps. How long has she been in your employ?” The question was innocent enough.
Ian’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but Noah didn’t miss the action. Nor did the slight twitch in Ian’s jaw escape him.
“She’s been here less than a week,” Ian said, shifting a few papers on his desk from one pile to another.
“Where was she previously employed?” References would be easy enough to check.
“She said she’d been taking care of an ailing grandmother in the country for the past two years.” Ian shoved the papers aside and leaned back in his chair, strumming his fingers on the massive oak desk.
“So there are no other employers to vouch for her work?”
“None.”
Not the kind that would admit it anyway. A blurred image of Peter Crowlton swam before his eyes. Was it his imagination, or was Ian avoiding the subject of his new maid?
“Judging from the skills she’s displayed, it’s hard to believe she’s really a maid. There was more asparagus soup splattered all over the place after she cleaned up than when she actually spilled the stuff.” Noah twirled the brandy snifter between his fingers and waited for Ian’s reply.
“Out with it man. What are you saying?”
“Maybe, she’s here on a mission.”
“To do what? Steal Mrs. Florence’s lemon tart recipe?” Ian’s laughter sliced the tension in the room.
“Maybe she’s spying on you. Maybe Crowlton is still alive. Admit it. It is a possibility.”
Ian laughed again and reached for the brandy decanter. “It is most definitely not a possibility. Emily. A spy.” He chuckled, shaking his head.
The whole idea was beginning to sound ridiculous, even to Noah. But what if Ian knew about her escapades as a boy? Would he feel differently? Something told him not to divulge Emily’s secret just yet. If there were proof to be found, he’d find it. Then he’d go to Ian and expose her. Noah took a drink, savoring the burning sensation travelling down his throat. It tasted good. Damn good. Maybe tonight he’d just get drunk and forget all the nagging, unanswered questions banging about in his head.
Ian interrupted his thoughts. “If Crowlton weren’t dead, which I’m certain he is, planting a spy in my house would be his style. He’d use a go-between to gather information for him, someone non-threatening”—he filled his glass and then added—“like a beautiful woman.”
Ian’s words stayed with Noah, nagging him with uncertainty. Was Emily a spy, sent by a half-crazed maniac bent on revenge? Did she have a rendezvous with him at The Fox’s Tail the other night?
The evening ended a short while later with Emily’s image shrouded in mystery, a tantalizing enigma wrapped in a dangerous cloak of lies and deceit. Noah paced his room for the better part of an hour, his thoughts on the beautiful servant who spoke with more refinement than many of his titled acquaintances.
There were too many unanswered questions. He planned to seek Emily out himself and question her. And she would talk. He’d give her no choice. He had to know if Peter Crowlton had sent her. Was The Serpent still alive, slithering back into his life for one final attack? He clenched his fists, his thoughts on the golden-haired beauty who might well prove to be the link between past and present, good and evil, life and death.
****
Emily rushed about the guestroom, plumping pillows and folding fresh linens. She’d secured the heavy emerald draperies with thick, golden tassels and thrown open the window to admit light and fresh air.
A faint breeze swirled throughout the room. The late afternoon sunshine peeked through, casting its sunny warmth on the objects within, illuminating them with its gentle radiance. The fragrant beauty of fresh cut honeysuckle overflowing from a large glass vase wafted through the air.
She stood in the center of the room, drinking it all in, eyes closed, senses alive as the touch, feel and smell of summer blanketed her.
Times like these brought her such peace she could almost pretend Noah Sandleton didn’t exist. Unfortunately, they were short lived because the man seemed to be everywhere she turned, watching her with his slow, steady gaze, and now thanks to her hard-headed brother, she’d have to face him daily because Ian had invited Noah Sandleton to spend the remainder of his visit at Greyling Manor. Another three weeks.
How would she possibly tolerate the man for that length of time? She’d considered seeking out Augusta and beseeching her to change Ian’s mind and make that dreadful man go away. But what reason could she possibly give? None, without revealing the incident at The Fox’s Tail and she’d die before admitting to that. It also seemed Noah Sandleton possessed a few scruples, and had decided to remain quiet on the matter as well.
Emily sighed. It was bad enough he haunted her dreams at night, but now she’d have to tolerate him during her waking hours as well. And a living, breathing Noah Sandleton was just plain dangerous.
In the far recesses of her mind, she heard a door open. Pulling herself from her disturbing thoughts, she whirled around to stand face-to-face with her tormentor.
Noah Sandleton’s dark eyes pinned her, stripping away her defenses with their intensity. His lips thinned into a tight line, the brackets at the side deep. Emily watched the small muscle twitching in his jaw and knew he was angry.
He reached her in four long strides. “Looking for something?”
She stepped back, trying to distance hers
elf from him. “I—I came to prepare your room.” The admission sounded weak, even to her and she knew it to be true.
He scanned the room quickly before settling back on her face. “I keep my purse with me,” he said, patting his vest pocket.
Miserable man. “I had no intention of taking your belongings.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, really. I had duties to attend in this room now that you’re staying at Greyling Manor.” She didn’t try to hide the bitterness that crept into her words. Why couldn’t he just go away? She feared he might tell Ian about the incident at The Fox’s Tail. It had been bad enough seeing him in the dining room last evening, but the thought of him underfoot as a resident turned her stomach. It also did strange things to her insides, leaving her a little breathless, a sensation she didn’t relish.
Her gaze darted around the room, searching for an escape. Without hesitation, Emily leapt for the bed, planning to roll over it and head for the door behind. A large forearm snatched her in mid-air and slammed her onto the emerald counterpane. Noah Sandleton threw one of his long legs over both of hers, blocking any thoughts of escape.
Emily struggled to free herself, pushing and squirming against his harsh grip. She struck out at him, clawing his jaw and neck, drawing blood.
“Stop it, damn you,” he ground out, catching her wrists with one hand and forcing them above her head. He pushed her further into the bed, shifting his weight to rest more fully on her. He was going to crush her into the counterpane.
“Let me up, you beast,” she gasped, as she lay breathless and panting beneath him.
His eyes burned with quiet intensity as they moved from her face to her neck and settled on her breasts. His gaze made her tingle and her heart beat a rapid staccato against her ribcage. Surely, he heard it. How could he not, when it pounded in such loud cadence?
Her gaze settled on his face, strong and formidable one moment, yet warm and gentle the next. His rich brown eyes remained fixed on her chest as though lulled into a seductive trance by the rise and fall of her breasts. Emily’s nipples hardened into small peaks and she prayed he wouldn’t notice but when he lifted his head, the small smile playing about his full lips told her the thin muslin had shielded nothing from his view.
