by Julia Byrne
“You are too kind, Monsieur,” she said repressively. “How did the lesson go today?”
“Ah! You ask about zee lesson?” Monsieur Maurice’s smile vanished. He waved his arms in the air. “What can I say? Zee drawing room, it is too small. You will ’ave to provide another room.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have another room, Monsieur Maurice.”
“But Miz ’aymes, she tells me you have zee rooms in the zee attic.” Maurice’s moustache quivered with determination. “I shall go up there to inspect, oui?”
“Good heavens, no. For one thing, the attic is full—”
She was talking to the air. Monsieur Maurice, taking not the slightest notice of her, was already moving toward the stairs. He skipped up them with an agility surprising in a man of about fifty years.
Emily stared after him in surprise, then turned, abruptly aware that the noises coming from the classroom had ceased.
Lucas was standing in the doorway looking decidedly the worse for wear. Both hands were filthy and streaks of soot adorned his face and shirt. Despite the covering of grime, Emily could see that he was watching Maurice’s ascent of the stairs with the intent focus of a predator sizing up a potential snack.
“That Frenchman seems very eager to inspect the attic,” he said. “Does he always make himself at home like that?”
“No.” Emily bent a severe frown upon him. “And I hardly think you are in any position to question whether or not my visiting teachers make themselves at home.”
Lucas shifted his gaze to her face. “Wouldn’t think of it,” he said blandly. “I was just wondering how Maurice thinks we’re going to haul the piano up two flights of stairs?”
“I don’t think he’s considered that aspect of the matter,” she said dryly. “But never mind that. You look as if the classroom chimney won your encounter with it.”
He grinned at her. “Au contraire, my dear Miss Proudfoot. The bird’s nest that was blocking it has been removed.”
“Good. Well, you’d better go and wash before Monsieur Maurice returns.”
“Too late,” Lucas said softly as footsteps sounded in the passage above them.
“Oh, heavens!” Emily gestured frantically to Lucas to retreat back into the classroom. He obeyed with obvious reluctance.
“Why do you ’ave so much furniture, Miz Proudfoote?” Monsieur Maurice demanded as he descended the stairs. “In zee drawing room, in zee attic. Where am I to teach zee danse?”
“You will have to make do with the drawing room for now, Monsieur Maurice,” Emily said firmly. “Now—”
“Mais non, non, non!” Maurice flung up his hands again. “Must I shake zee sense into you, Miz Proudfoote? How—”
Lucas materialized in the classroom doorway again.
“Is everything all right out here, Miss Proudfoot?” he growled.
Maurice gaped at him. “You ’ave zee chimney-sweep in zee ’ouse, Miz Proudfoote?” he asked in disbelief. “And he dares to intrude? Mon Dieu! Zis would not be permitted in France.”
Lucas’s eyes narrowed. “The chimney-sweeps in France have probably taken over the houses by now,” he said with grim meaning.
Maurice’s chest swelled. His moustache trembled with outrage.
“That is quite enough, Lucas,” Emily said sternly. She turned her back to him. “Monsieur Maurice, how kind of you to think about how we may improve the dancing lessons. Perhaps next time, if only half the class takes to the floor at any given time, there will be less crowding.”
“We shall try it, Miz Proudfoote,” Maurice said, not visibly mollified. He sniffed. “But not with chimney-sweeps in zee ’ouse. Au revoir.” He marched over to the front door and let himself out.
Emily turned around and glared at Lucas.
“Maurice threatened you,” he stated with deadly calm.
“He used a figure of speech,” she argued, maintaining her frown. It took an effort. The glacial ice in Lucas’s tone sent a shiver through her. Not a frightened shiver, she was forced to admit, but a deliciously primitive thrill at the knowledge that he was ready and willing to protect her.
“And your remark about chimney-sweeps was entirely uncalled for,” she added, pulling herself together. “Have you forgotten that poor Monsieur Maurice is an émigré?”
“Maurice might be an émigré,” Lucas retorted. “But if he’s anything more than a very tiny twig on a very distant branch of a titled family, I’ll take dancing lessons from him.”
The image that sprang into Emily’s mind had her clapping a hand to her mouth to stifle a peal of mirth. She managed the task, but she knew a set-down would now be useless. Lucas couldn’t possibly miss the laughter in her eyes. There was only one thing to be done if she was to retain any control over the situation.
Taking a deep breath, she lowered her hand. “Go!” she ordered, flinging out an arm and pointing toward the back stairs.
Completely unabashed, he gave her a wicked grin and obeyed. She could only be grateful for his compliance. Especially as a knock fell on the front door at that moment.
Since she was standing right there, she opened the door.
Mr. Harbury, the father of one of her day pupils, stood on the doorstep, a prim smile on his face. Emily immediately wished she’d retreated to her study and let one of the maids admit him.
Not that there was anything objectionable in Harbury’s appearance. He was a gentleman of average height, with brown hair and eyes, and personable features. But his lips seemed permanently pursed in a smile she suspected was meant to convey benign tolerance for independent females such as herself, while his true feelings were very different. She had the distinct impression that once any female was under Harbury’s roof, the patronizing smile would no longer be employed to hide the tight-lipped disapproval behind it.
His brows went up when he saw her. “Good afternoon, Miss Proudfoot. Dear me, I quite understood you to employ one or two maids.”
“Indeed, Mr. Harbury, but since I was standing not two feet from the door, it seemed foolish to wait for Annie or Jane to stop whatever they’re doing and open it.”
An arch smile replaced his look of surprise. “Well, that is my good fortune, is it not? Even so, it seems a trifle foolish for a young lady to open her own front door. One never knows who may be on the doorstep.”
“How true. But one can always scream for help, can’t one.”
Harbury looked as if he didn’t quite know what to do with that statement, but he quickly rallied.
“I was just passing by,” he said smoothly. “And decided to escort Priscilla home this afternoon. I expect lessons are over for the day.”
Since Harbury owned and operated a profitable shipping business, Emily doubted he was just passing by at half-past-three on a busy workday. Nor was this the first time he’d turned up at her school without an appointment.
Unfortunately, while wishing to discourage his apparent interest in her, she was still obliged to be polite.
“The girls are partaking of afternoon tea,” she said, stepping back to admit him into the hall. “If you would like to wait in the drawing room, Mr. Harbury, I’ll fetch Priscilla for you.”
“Oh, there’s no hurry.” Harbury waved her offer away with a dismissive hand. “Please join me in the drawing room, Miss Proudfoot, where we may engage in a little conversation. It is seldom that I encounter you without your pupils getting in—uh, gathered about you. No doubt a lady of your tender years finds the running of a school quite overwhelming. I venture to suggest that you will derive considerable benefit from the advice of a gentleman who, if I may say so, is successful in his field of endeavor.”
“And I’m sure one of the first rules of business is that one should pay one’s bills promptly and keep one’s account books up to date,” Emily countered.
Harbury blinked. The suddenly frozen expression on his face told her he was wondering if, by some evil chance, he’d forgotten to pay Priscilla’s school fees.
“Uh…y
es,” he said cautiously. “Account books. Yes, quite so.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Harbury. I am very glad to have that confirmed because I must return to my ledgers and journals without delay. While everything is fresh in my mind, you know. I do hope you will excuse me. Perhaps we will see you at one of our afternoon teas. In the meantime, please take a seat in the drawing room while you wait for Priscilla.”
If Harbury had been momentarily struck dumb by the hideous possibility of an unpaid bill, he now looked positively stunned by this barrage of words. Seizing her advantage, Emily pushed the drawing room door wider and waved him into the room.
His lips thinned, but unless he wished to appear ill-mannered, he was left with nothing else to do but bow in a very stiff way and comply.
Smiling grimly, she turned toward the dining room and immediately saw Lucas standing in the shadows cast by the staircase, one shoulder propped against the wall, arms folded across his chest. It was obvious that, at the sound of the door knocker, he had not only halted on his way to the kitchen, he’d stayed to listen to her conversation with Harbury.
Emily marched forward, intending to ask him what he thought he was doing.
Before she could speak, he straightened and gave her an amused smile. “Nicely done,” he murmured, and, turning, he continued on his way to the back stairs.
She opened her mouth to demand that he return and give her an explanation for his presence, then closed it again. There was really no need for an explanation. Given Lucas’s protective bent, he’d probably lingered in case the caller was Monsieur Maurice returning, and had waited to make sure Mr. Harbury wasn’t going to be difficult. Why else would he be interested in her visitors?
Emily huffed out a breath and started toward the dining room, but just before she entered she glanced toward the back stairs and gave a little sigh. How was she supposed to keep Lucas at a distance when he insisted on being protective? How was she supposed to resist the temptation to laugh with him over something humorous?
And, most difficult of all, how was she to keep him in his place when she was beginning to suspect she didn’t want to?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Two days later Luke still hadn’t found any evidence of blackmail.
Under the guise of checking chimneys, repairing window latches, and moving furniture, he’d managed to search the servants’ rooms, the classroom, the drawing room, and the two dormitories. Last night he’d hunted through the kitchen, scullery, and outhouses. He’d even subjected the garden at the rear of the house to a close inspection, with no result.
Between fruitless searches, he’d found himself thinking up schemes whereby he could get Emily alone again. An image of how she had looked when she’d come in from her walk, with her hair tumbling down her back and her cheeks slightly flushed, was playing havoc with his mind. Even as he reviewed all the evidence against her, even as the colder, more rational part of his brain reminded him that a foggy beach at dawn was an excellent place for a clandestine meeting, all he could think about was thrusting his fingers into those soft tangled curls so he could tip her face up to his and look deep into her sapphire eyes to fathom the truth about her.
He simply couldn’t believe she was capable of sitting down and cold-bloodedly penning the vicious threats in the blackmail notes. After watching her for the past couple of days, he knew she was anything but vicious and cold-blooded.
True, she wasn’t hesitant about issuing him with orders and instructions in her crispest tones, but she treated her students with gentle authority, kindness, and endless patience. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that they all adored her, from the two youngest, who were ten, to sixteen-year-old Felicity Cartwright, the object of Lieutenant Netherby’s attentions.
He was starting to wish she’d direct some of that gentle warmth and kindness in his direction. Although he told himself that any adoration on his part wouldn’t be necessary.
As for the staff, they were nothing less than fiercely protective of her. Mrs. Starling had informed him that Emily was too soft-hearted for her own good and he’d better behave himself. Charlotte Haymes watched him as if expecting him to pounce on Emily the minute her back was turned. He had yet to meet Miss Tibberton, who, apparently mortified by her black eye, was keeping to her room, but he had no doubt that she would have the same attitude.
Either Emily was the most talented actress he had ever encountered or she was exactly what she seemed. But as soon as he came to that conclusion, he remembered that Emily’s mother had been an actress—much to the horror of the aristocratic Proudfoot family.
Luke closed the last drawer in the dining room bureau with unwonted force. He was searching here to be thorough, but what he really needed to do was get into Emily’s bedchamber and the bedchambers of the other two teachers. Unfortunately, that was risky while Miss Tibberton remained in her room.
Then there was the attic. So far, he hadn’t had a chance to disappear up there for the length of time it would take to search the place, but—
“Lucas? What was that crash?”
Luke turned his head as Emily walked into the room. As usual when she was in his vicinity, she had a frown on her face.
“The drawer of the bureau stuck,” he said. “It needs sanding.”
“What on earth were you doing in the bureau?”
He tried a virtuous smile. “I thought you might like me to polish the silver. It must be the only thing you haven’t ordered me to do. Yet.”
“Oh.” To his surprise she didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, her face clouded over. She looked down at the letter she was holding and bit her lower lip.
Luke shoved his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t be tempted to free her lip with his thumb and then replace his thumb with his mouth. For once, Emily wasn’t issuing orders and walking off; he didn’t want to alter that happy state of affairs.
“What’s happened now?” he asked.
“This letter is addressed to Miss Cartwright,” she began, then looked up uncertainly.
“From young Netherby,” he guessed.
“Yes.” She seemed to relax at his ready understanding. “Netherby handed it to Annie when she answered the door, and begged her to deliver it for him. It’s bad enough that he tried to use one of my housemaids as a go-between, but that he should be writing to Felicity at all without anyone’s knowledge is beyond what is permissable.”
“Silly young cub. Do you want me to box his ears?”
“Of course not.” Emily frowned at him again, but clearly her heart wasn’t in it. Anxiety replaced the frown as soon as she returned to contemplation of Netherby’s letter. “Apparently, there’s going to be a military parade tomorrow, then the regiment is leaving for Portsmouth. Wellington is calling for more men to be sent to Brussels.”
Luke nodded. “Bonaparte must be moving his army. There’ll be a battle. Probably more than one.”
“So stupid!” she said fiercely. “The war will start again, and so many lives will be lost. Oh, Lucas, what if Netherby doesn’t come back? How can I destroy what might be his last letter.”
“Let’s not get carried away here,” he said dryly. “By the time Netherby reaches Brussels he’ll probably have forgotten Miss Cartwright’s very existence. As for Miss Cartwright, she doesn’t appear to be pining for Netherby’s presence.”
“No, I don’t think she feels more than mild friendship for him.”
“There you are, then. Toss the damn thing in the waste basket.”
But Emily wasn’t listening. “I don’t like to read this myself. Perhaps I should send it to Felicity’s parents, because heaven knows what Netherby might have written. But on the other hand, it might be quite unexceptionable. No, I’ll send it back to him with a note to the effect that Miss Cartwright must obtain her papa’s permission before receiving letters from anyone other than family.”
“Glad I could help,” Luke muttered.
That elicited a smile. “Don’t be such a grouch. We can’t sho
w scowling faces to those boys when we take the girls to watch them march out tomorrow. At least it will give Netherby and Felicity a chance to wave farewell.”
“Never mind the heart-rending theatrics,” he said with menacing precision. “What do you mean by ‘we’?”
“It will be a crush, Lucas,” she explained patiently. “The whole town will turn out. We’re going to need a male escort.”
“So? Send a note around to Quadling, or that prancing Frenchman.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. They would be no use whatsoever.” Emily beamed at him, whisked around, and headed for the door. “Remember to wear your best clothes.”
“Now look here, Emily—”
But she was already out of the room. “Miss Proudfoot, if you please,” she called back as she disappeared down the hall.
Luke glared at the empty doorway and bit back a curse totally unsuited to his surroundings. Damn it, with everyone at the parade tomorrow, he would have the perfect opportunity to search the rest of the house.
Maybe he could fall ill. Sprain an ankle. Break out in a rash.
And maybe that young idiot, Netherby, would try to approach Felicity Cartwright, he thought. In the crowd that was sure to be milling about, anything could happen.
Luke cursed again and wondered which method of relieving his feelings would give him the most satisfaction. Putting Emily over his knee, or kissing her until she was too breathless to order him to stop. Both fantasies occupied his mind for some considerable time.
*
He still hadn’t made a decision on the subject when a faint scratching noise coming from the kitchen brought him out of a light sleep that night. He recognized the sound immediately. Someone was trying to get into the house through the back door, which he’d locked a couple of hours ago.
He rolled out of bed and stepped into a pair of breeches. He didn’t bother with a shirt. No need to risk tearing one of the few in his possession by apprehending a would-be thief. Or possibly young Netherby, he thought. That enterprising youth had already climbed in through the drawing room window. Given that tomorrow he was going to be parted from Miss Cartwright, the young fool might consider a spot of breaking and entering to be justified.
