by Julia Byrne
Feeling pleased with matters in general, Emily checked that the front door was locked and bolted, turned around, and canoned straight into a large, dark object that was looming behind her. Her shriek echoed down the hall and bounced off the walls.
“It’s only me,” Lucas growled. “No need to wake the entire street.”
Emily reeled back against the door, a hand to her heart. “What are you doing sneaking about in the dark?” she demanded, waving her candle in an agitated fashion.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“I own the place,” she retorted. “I always check that everything is secure for the night.”
“You have me to do that now,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. The hall behind him was shrouded in shadow, but the light from her candle illuminated the smile edging his lips.
“I suppose you meant well,” she muttered as her pulse slowed. “Even if you did frighten me out of my wits.”
“That’s the spirit. Speaking of which, you probably need a restorative.” Before she could object, Lucas seized her by the arm and steered her down the hall and into her study.
“Sit down,” he ordered, pushing her onto the visitors’ chair and crossing the room to the bureau. Emily blinked at him in bemusement as he picked up the decanter of brandy she kept for any male parent who required an interview, and poured a small measure into a glass. He poured another for himself.
“Do you mind if I join you?” he asked, coming back to her and handing her a glass of brandy. He propped himself against the edge of her desk, took the candle from her suddenly limp grasp, and placed it at a safe distance. “My nerves are somewhat shattered, too.”
“I wonder you can say that with a serious countenance,” she said tartly.
He laughed and raised his glass to her before drinking.
Emily wondered what on earth she was doing. In the space of a breath Lucas had taken charge as if he was in charge. And instead of sending him off to his quarters and telling him to stay there, she was sitting here sharing a brandy with him.
Late at night.
Alone.
With only one little candle to illuminate the shocking scene.
Emily looked at the drink in her hand. Maybe she did need a restorative. She raised the glass to her lips and took a cautious sip.
“I hope I didn’t make you late for the urgent business you had to attend to this morning,” he said.
“What?” Emily lowered her glass. A rather pleasant warmth began spreading through her veins. “Oh, that.” She gave an unladylike snort. “Mr. Poole can count himself lucky if I ever set foot in his useless agency again.”
Lucas raised a brow. “What has Mr. Poole, whoever he is, done to incur your wrath?”
“He owns an employment agency. And this morning he had the unmitigated gall to blame me for the fact that three men-of-all-work have come and gone in the past two weeks.”
“Three,” he repeated thoughtfully. “In two weeks.”
“If only Papa’s old batman had been able to stay,” she went on sadly. “But he was already quite doddery when I opened the school.”
“Unfortunate.”
Emily nodded. “The poor man tried to cope, but shifting desks and chairs was beyond him. To tell you the truth,” she confided after another sip of brandy. “I was relieved when he went to live with his granddaughter on a farm in Berkshire.”
“I take it that’s when you applied to Poole’s agency.”
“Yes.” She scowled. “One would think Mr. Poole could produce a man of decent morals and sober habits whenever one is required, but apparently not. The first fellow he sent decided to wash the dormitory windows while my pupils were dressing for the day. Thank heavens I saw him climbing the ladder in time to put a stop to his nasty little habit. The second did nothing but sit in Mrs. Starling’s kitchen drinking cups of tea and trying to put his arm around her at every opportunity.”
“Brave man,” Lucas muttered into his glass.
Emily peered at him through the gloom, not sure if she’d heard him correctly. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt since he appeared sympathetic to her plight.
“And what was I supposed to do when the third fellow smuggled gin into the house?” she demanded. “Turn a blind eye?”
“Unthinkable.”
“Of course it was, but Mr. Poole claimed my incessant demands must have driven the man to drink.” Her gaze fell on the empty glass in her hand. She couldn’t remember drinking the last mouthful. “A restorative is quite a different thing, of course.”
“Of course,” he agreed, smiling and taking her glass from her.
The small clink as he put both glasses down on her desk broke whatever spell had been cast over her. Emily glanced at the clock on the mantel. She was horrified to see that it was half past midnight.
“Good heavens, look at the time!” she exclaimed, springing to her feet. “What would the girls think if they saw me now?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Lucas advised her. “From what I observed today, they don’t think much at all. Never heard so much empty-headed chatter in all my life.”
Emily was feeling too mellow to take umbrage. “When they leave Miss Proudfoot’s Academy for Young Ladies,” she informed him loftily. “Their heads will not be empty. Nor, with any luck, will my bank account. However, we will never know if the building falls down before the girls finish their education. You had best retire, Lucas, because you’ll have a busy day tomorrow making sure it doesn’t.”
“I will?”
“Yes. You have chimneys to check. Smoking chimneys do not provide a healthy atmosphere for the students. Or anyone else, for that matter. And at some point I want you to start clearing out the junk left in the attic by the last owner. Also, Monsieur Maurice will be here at two o’clock for the girls’ dancing lesson. Which means you will need to push all the chairs and sofas and occasional tables to the edge of the drawing room to clear a space.”
Lucas handed Emily her candle. “He sounds French.”
“Yes. He’s an émigré. The poor man was forced to throw everything aside and flee for his life during the French Revolution.”
“He could’ve returned to France and picked it all up again when Boney was sent into exile last year.”
“Just as well he didn’t,” Emily remarked dryly. “Otherwise he would have to flee again now that Bonaparte has escaped and is back in Paris. Besides, Monsieur Maurice is doing very well for himself here in England. He’s quite the fashion. I was fortunate to be able to engage him while he’s spending a few weeks in Lymingford.”
“Apparently he’s not the only fashionable gentleman gracing your school with his presence. Who was the Tulip in the pink coat who tripped into the house while I was oiling the front door this afternoon?”
“Oh.” Emily’s lips twitched. “You must be referring to Mr. Rupert Quadling. He comes in twice a week to give drawing and painting lessons.”
Lucas scowled at her. “He handed me his hat. Must’ve thought you’d hired a butler.”
“Oh?” Emily eyed him with limpid innocence. “I do hope you behaved appropriately.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. He closed the distance between them until she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. He didn’t touch her in any way, but her heart was suddenly racing.
“You and Mr. Quadling apparently share a streak of recklessness,” he said very softly. “Quadling was fortunate that I didn’t stuff his hat down his throat. In your case, Miss Proudfoot, I’m advising you to go to bed. Immediately.”
“Just what I was thinking, myself,” Emily said with aplomb. “Good night, Lucas.”
She made it out of the room and was halfway up the stairs when his low voice came to her from the shadowed depths of the hall.
“Good night, Emily. Sleep well.”
Emily stopped dead, stunned that Lucas had used her given name. She turned, her lips parting to deliver a stern reprimand, only to discover that he was halfw
ay to the kitchen staircase in what she suspected was a well-timed retreat. Unless she wished to hang over the stair-rail and yell, a rebuke would have to wait.
She huffed out a breath and continued up the stairs. Sleep well, indeed. She would be lucky to sleep at all after that little episode. So much for keeping Lucas at a safe distance. The man was more dangerous than she’d suspected. He had taken control of the entire situation and she hadn’t voiced a single protest. She hadn’t wanted to protest. She’d been too enthralled by the intimacy of conversing with him late at night, too fascinated by the possibility of learning more about him.
As for her nerves, the minute she’d collided with Lucas they had given up quivering in expectation and launched into an exhilarating waltz.
Emily reached her bedchamber and decided she would have to redouble her efforts to keep Lucas in his place. Clearly, given an inch, he wouldn’t hesitate to take the proverbial mile. And now that she thought about it, instead of learning more about him, it was he who had asked all the questions.
A hazy suspicion that there might be more to Lucas than a former soldier down on his luck wafted through her mind. But that didn’t make sense. What else could he be? A thief who intended to rob the place? A criminal in hiding? Ridiculous. Lucas might be intimidating at times, but his steady gaze and cool demeanor were also somewhat reassuring.
Besides, she had encountered enough men when she’d lived with her father to be fairly confident of her judgment. Lucas was far from being a deferential type of employee—given his service in the 95th Foot, that didn’t surprise her—but he was not a criminal. He was working at her school because he needed employment. Therefore, he couldn’t be anything other than what he seemed.
CHAPTER SIX
Luke was up at dawn the following morning. He intended to search Emily’s study, something he had planned to do last night until her appearance in the hall put a stop to the scheme. As for the ensuing conversation, it had only raised more questions.
Was it mere coincidence that Emily employed a French émigré as a dancing master when the blackmail victims were also aristocratic refugees from the Napoleonic wars? Or was Monsieur Maurice her go-between, delivering notes and picking up payments?
Feeling grim, Luke closed the study door and opened the drapes. A foggy morning greeted him, but with light enough for his purpose. He decided to start with Emily’s desk, then move on to the bureau. Neither was locked, which made it probable that he wouldn’t find anything damning.
Ten minutes later, all he’d discovered was that Emily was extremely organized. The records on her students and the accounts relating to the running of her school were written in neat script and filed with military precision. He’d even found the Deed to the house and a receipt covering its purchase. Unfortunately, the documents were not accompanied by an explanation as to how Emily had purchased the house and set up her school without any obvious means of support.
He had just established that there wasn’t a hidden safe in the room, when he heard the front door open and close. Light footsteps sounded in the hall, heading toward the study. He moved fast.
*
When Emily opened the study door, she managed to stifle a shriek, but it was a near thing. Lucas was standing by her desk, the two glasses they’d used the night before in one hand. She summoned up a severe frown.
“Lucas? What are you doing in here?”
“Good morning, Miss Proudfoot,” he said politely. “I thought I’d better wash these glasses and replace them before the maids come in here. Can’t have anyone suspecting you of drinking brandy with an unknown companion late at night, can we.”
“Oh, yes. I mean, no.” Emily felt a blush warm her cheeks as she released her grip on the latch and walked into the room. “I mean, I was coming in here to do the same thing.”
“Is that why you’re up so early?”
She shook her head before glancing around. Nothing appeared to be disturbed, but she’d had the strangest feeling when she’d opened the door, that in the preceding second there had been swift movement before everything settled again.
“You’ve been out,” he said abruptly, his gaze on her hair.
“Yes.” Emily put up a hand to brush away the tiny droplets of mist clinging to her hair. All at once she wished she was wearing something other than her oldest cambric dress, and that her curls, confined by a simple ribbon, weren’t damp and tangled. “I like to walk on the beach in the early morning.”
He glanced toward the window. “In the fog?”
His incredulous tone had her brows drawing together. So much for wondering if Lucas might say something about last night. Such as: he’d enjoyed every moment of it.
“Not that it’s any concern of yours, Lucas,” she informed him tartly. “But I happen to like fog. Now, I need to go upstairs and put myself to rights before breakfast. And you have several tasks awaiting your attention.”
Without waiting for an answer, she turned and stalked toward the door.
“Emily.”
The low growl stopped her in mid-stalk.
“Going upstairs would be the wise thing to do,” he said very softly.
Emily looked over her shoulder, her gaze searching his face. Did Lucas mean he would rather she stayed so they could talk as they had last night? A rash impulse to ask welled up inside her.
Fortunately, caution prevailed.
“Very wise,” she agreed repressively. “Particularly as this is the second time you have forgotten to address me as Miss Proudfoot.”
“Ah.” Amusement gleamed in his eyes. “My apologies, Miss Proudfoot. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Emily suspected she knew exactly what Lucas was thinking, given he was holding the evidence of their tête-a-tête over a brandy in one large hand.
Further words about the mode of address expected of a respectful employee hovered on her tongue. She decided against voicing them. After all, he had thought to remove the brandy glasses before anyone else found them. Under those circumstances, it seemed a mite ungrateful to add a lecture on the proprieties to her rebuke. Especially when, last night, she had forgotten about said proprieties, herself.
“Yes, well, I’m sure you’ll remember in future.” Emily turned and hurried over to the door. But as she stepped into the hall, she couldn’t resist the urge to glance back.
Lucas was still looking amused. No doubt because of her insistence on the proprieties. But he didn’t seem to be mocking her. The smile in his eyes held something else, something almost devilish, and inviting. Despite her intention to keep him in his place, Emily felt her lips curve.
“Thank you,” she whispered, indicating the glasses in his hand, and whisked herself out of the room.
As she mounted the stairs the knowledge that Lucas had thought to protect her reputation caused a sweet, fragile warmth to blossom inside her. No one else had ever done such a thing for her. Not even her father. Especially not her father. It made her feel almost…cherished.
She walked into her bedchamber, a tiny smile still on her lips. Of course, Lucas shouldn’t have called her Emily again, but she had now set him straight and—
A door closed very softly further down the passage.
Emily froze for an instant, then poked her head out into the hallway.
No one was in sight.
Strange. It was far too early for anyone except Mrs. Starling and the maids to be stirring, and they were on the floor above. Perhaps she’d mistaken the sound. There were always odd noises in an older house.
With a mental shrug, Emily retreated into her bedchamber, her mind already on the day ahead. She crossed the room and opened the door of her wardrobe.
For some reason, her prettiest sprigged muslin dress, adorned with long pink and white ribbons that tied beneath the bodice, caught her eye. It seemed the ideal choice of attire for the day.
*
“Mais non, et non, et non, et non!”
Monsieur Maurice’s voice, growing louder with e
ach anguished repetition, reverberated down the hallway to the study where Emily sat at her desk, correcting arithmetic exercises.
She sighed, put down her pen, and rose to her feet to investigate the cause of her dancing master’s outrage.
As she walked into the hallway, several loud thuds, followed by a lot of muttering, came from the classroom where Lucas was working on the blocked chimney.
The muttering sounded ominous. She decided to tackle Monsieur Maurice first.
The Frenchman’s voice smote her ears again as she started forward.
“Zee waltz is a danse of elegance and grace, young ladies,” he ranted. “You are to be floating on zee air. Like zee feather. Not galloping around zee room like zee ’erd of cattle. Again with zee music, Miz ’aymes, and zis time a lighter touch, s’il vous plait!”
Emily winced as Charlotte hit the piano keys with an nerve-shattering clash of chords. Obviously, the dancing lessons were fraught with difficulties she had not foreseen, if even Charlotte was affected by an outburst of gallic fervor.
“Zat is better,” Maurice enthused. “Remember zee graceful arch of zee arm, Miz Cartwright. You are not to be zee limp cabbage leaf. Bon. Zat will do for today. Merci, Miz ’aymes.”
The music stopped. Youthful voices rose on the air in a dutiful chorus of “Merci, Monsieur.”
Emily was about to beat a hasty retreat, when the girls, led by Charlotte, streamed into the hall and headed for the dining room where a substantial afternoon tea awaited them.
Charlotte gave her a speaking glance as she passed, but there was no time for an exchange of words. Monsieur Maurice was also emerging from the drawing room, mopping his brow with a large handkerchief. He was not a tall man, but his upright posture, round eye-glasses, and elaborately curled moustache gave him a certain air of distinction. He put away his handkerchief when he saw Emily and beamed.
“Ah, Miz Proudfoote! You are zee flower glowing in zee sun.”
Emily refrained from pointing out that, as the day was overcast, there was no sunshine available in which to glow.
