Again Lord Blackwell considered him in silence. “Perhaps ’tis due to the earliness of the hour that I’d even consider this, but you’re correct in assuming at the moment I have no experienced operatives available. Let me think on it and check with some acquaintances more knowledgeable than I about this sort of operation. I’ll get back to you.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Thank you, Cheverley. Whether the ministry decides to accept your offer or not, I want you to know I feel better about the future of this nation, knowing there are men prepared to risk so much for their country’s welfare.”
If he hadn’t dreaded what he must face in the safety of London almost as much as what he might risk abroad, he’d feel less guilty about Blackwell’s accolade, Evan thought as his superior walked out.
Driven to motion, Emily paced her chamber. She could not remain hiding here, but though she’d changed to a morning gown and brushed out her windblown locks, she could not so easily set to order her disheveled mind.
Natalie would be sorting through the post, cataloging invitations and planning the next sortie in her campaign for Emily’s acceptance. As Evan would be sorting through his to make plans to avoid her. ’Twas a blackly amusing parallel, if she’d had the strength for humor.
No, she didn’t think she could tolerate sitting through a strategy session just now.
Riding always soothed her—but her stomach clenched at the thought. Two mornings in the Park might just have killed her love of her favorite relaxation for good.
A knock sounded at the door. “Enter,” she called, trying to quell her irritation and master a sufficiently calm expression that Natalie wouldn’t immediately suspect something was drastically wrong.
’Twas only a footman, and she relaxed a trifle. “A caller for you, Lady Auriana. A Mr. Blakesly. Said he knew ’twas early, but insisted we ask if you’d receive him.”
When Brent called yesterday with the other post-ball well-wishers she’d been able to avoid speaking privately with him. A respite she’d welcomed, since she was much too agitated to hide her turmoil from his perceptive eyes. For him to be here begging an interview at a time when he knew she’d have no other callers, she must have been less successful at masking that distress than she’d thought.
Being even more distressed this morning, she should probably fob him off. But she didn’t think the suffocating ache that inhabited her chest, making it hard to breathe and driving her to restless motion—as if by moving fast enough, long enough she might outdistance the pain—was going to ease anytime soon.
Why should it be worse now? She’d absorbed the blow of losing Evan the first time they’d parted, weathered it hitting harder yet when she’d sent him away after that disastrous midnight visit. She only knew it was worse, as if each repeated chorus of his call for her to come back to him strengthened a deeply buried hope that somehow, somewhere she might discover the justification that would allow her to do so.
Or was it because this time she’d been unable to deny she was losing not just a lover, but her love?
She realized the footman was still standing at the doorway awaiting her response.
She was about to deny Brent when a possible solution occurred. Though a drive in any of the parks was anathema, if he’d brought his curricle, perhaps she could ask him to carry her outside the City, to…to Box Hill, perhaps! Yes, the transit there would consume time, provide soothing motion and limit the necessity for conversation.
By the time they reached the site she might have better settled her emotions. She’d seen the look on Brent’s face when he’d claimed her after her waltz with Evan, and knew the inevitable inquiries that glare promised. Nor, so faithful a friend had he been, did he deserve for her to avoid him much longer. Better to address the matter honestly, and soon.
After giving herself at least the healing respite of a drive, however.
“Please direct Mr. Blakesly to the small saloon and tell him I’ll be down shortly.”
When she entered a few minutes later, Brent was standing by the fireplace tapping his riding crop on his boot, his expression troubled.
“Good morning, Brent. You are well, I trust?”
He came to her swiftly and kissed her hands, his eyes inspecting her face. “What is it, Emily?” he demanded, dispensing with a conventional polite reply. “Has Evan—”
“Please, no questions just yet. Did you drive your curricle?”
“My—! Yes, I drove it. Why do you ask?”
“Would you do me a great favor? Would you drive me out to Box Hill?”
“You’ve a sudden desire to picnic now?”
“Yes. Immediately. I must…get away. I’ll answer all your questions when we arrive there, but oh, please, will you take me now?”
“If that is your wish, of course I will.”
She sighed with relief. “Thank you. I’ll put on a carriage dress and pelisse. ’Twill take but a moment.”
He nodded. “While you change, I’ll speak with the kitchen and see if they will make up a basket for lunch.”
She laughed, the sound a bit hysterical. “Lunch? If you wish—I care not!”
Smiling slightly, he took her chin, rubbed her trembling lip with his thumb. His eyes held a tender sympathy and—something more. “Even in heartbreak, sweet lady, one must eat,” he said softly. “But go now. I’ll await you here.”
Half an hour later, they set out. The day being overcast and the wind chill, they’d likely have the grounds all to themselves.
Once beyond the City’s congestion, Brent settled the horses into a steady pace and, evidently ascertaining at a glance she had no desire to converse, kept silent.
As the scenery flashed by, she did find a small measure of calm. The heavy weight at her chest lightened a bit and she could breathe more easily.
And Brent, dear Brent, was all the friend she could wish, handling the horses, handing her down at their destination and then guiding her around puddles and along garden paths that in her abstraction she barely noticed. He insisted they stop to picnic, and coaxed her to eat a bit of the ham and cheese Cook had prepared, and sip some strong tea.
After, when they both were refreshed, he took her hand and kissed it. “You saw Evan, didn’t you? Only that could have upset you so.”
She didn’t wish to talk of it, but she owed him some explanation. Providing one would likely prove no easier anytime this next decade or so. “Yes.”
“Damn him!” he cried, as if unable to help himself. “Did he press you to see him again?”
“No. No, ’twas not that at all.”
“Surely he didn’t claim he would break with Andrea. He will never do so, I promise you!”
“I know that, nor should he. ’Twas just that I had never confided to him who I am, and he wished to know why. We d-discussed the change in my status that made it possible we might encounter each other at social functions. And agreed ’twas best to avoid meeting if at all possible.”
“That at least makes sense. Emily, I hate it that he’s come back to torture you yet again.”
She essayed a ghost of a smile. “If it’s any consolation, I imagine I am torturing him as well.”
“Excellent,” Brent returned flatly. “He should have broken with you for good after he decided to wed Andrea, having given up then any chance to make you an honorable offer. He’s since seduced you into forgetting that on at least one occasion. I fear he may try to do so again.”
“He will not.”
“I’m not so convinced.” He smiled wryly. “This only I will grant him—did I stand in his shoes, I’d find giving you up nearly impossible as well. But I’ve a simple solution to propose. Marry me, Emily. Marry me now.”
Though he’d hinted of his intentions on several occasions, she’d not expected a formal declaration so soon. In her current state she was ill-equipped to deal with it.
“Brent, please—” she murmured.
“Only consider it, Emily. I hadn’t meant to push you
, but despite your best efforts and Evan’s, ’tis likely you will chance to meet. My wife he will not dare offer more than the briefest of pleasantries. And should the brilliance of your presence temporarily blind him to that fact, I’ll be there to deal with him.”
A safe haven beyond temptation’s reach. Where the seductive notion of somehow managing to find a way to be with Evan, a hope that even now she still seemed unable to completely kill, would die of slow asphyxiation. Where Brent could protect her from Evan—and herself.
Anger at her selfishness dissipated that chimera.
“Thank you, dearest friend. But if I am to salvage any shred of self-respect, the strength to do what is right must come from me. Besides, you deserve a wife who can match your passion and loyalty with her own. Oh Brent, I don’t wish to wound you, but dear as you are to me I cannot promise you that. Nor could I live with myself were I to cheat you of it. In time, you would hate me for it.”
“Is it not possible that, in time, you might come to care for me as I do for you?” he countered. “Emily, I know you are distraught now. I don’t want you to offer sham vows of love. You did say you care for me, didn’t you?”
“Of course, but—”
“Then ’tis enough. I’ve been delaying going to my farm in Ireland to work this year’s crop of yearlings. Marry me now and we can go together, be out of London the whole Season if you wish. By next fall or the following spring, ’twill be easier. You know ’tis so.”
“I suppose, but—”
“And if we’re to speak of being selfish…” He gave her a twisted smile. “When you were just ‘Madame Emilie’ of Bond Street I rated my odds of winning your hand pretty high, but Lady Auriana Spenser Waring-Black can look wherever she wishes for a mate. To talk you into marrying me now before you’ve a chance to entertain the better offers you’re bound to attract is, I must admit, the height of selfishness. Given the odds, I’d count it a blessing to settle for affection and the hope of more.”
“And if I never feel more?”
“I expect I love you enough for us both, darling Emily. I could accept that, as long as…” He hesitated, a slight flush coming to his face. “That is, you don’t find my person—distasteful?”
He looked so like a bashful schoolboy that, despite the discomfort of this whole interview, she felt a flash of humor—and compassion. “Not at all. I think you quite handsome, actually.”
He grinned. “That’s a blessing. The only inexcusable compromise would be to wed you promising to leave you untouched. I won’t pretend I could do that.”
She remembered the touch of his thumb against her lips and similar small gestures. Never blatant enough to make her uneasy, they silently testified to a desire that now seemed more comforting than threatening.
To be starkly honest, she missed the intimacy of the marriage bed. Evan was lost, an inescapable fact. Would not an amicable union with a friend for whom she cared, who cared for her, indeed be a comfort, especially if blessed with the joy of children? Was it not foolish to categorically reject a solution that might, some days or months later when the searing edge of her present pain had dulled, turn out to have been the wisest course?
Offering him friendship, however, was incomparably less than offering love. ’Twould be doing him a grave injustice, despite his brave words now.
Wouldn’t it?
Her head was beginning to throb again and her chest tightened.
“Easy, sweeting, you needn’t decide now,” he soothed, sensing her increasing distress. “The last thing I want is to upset you further. Just promise me, when your mind is easier, you’ll consider it. And that if you can’t accept me now, you will remember my heart and hand are ever there, yours if you but speak the word.”
With that, tentatively he drew closer. Too drained and confused to resist, she let him embrace her. And in truth, ’twas a great relief to lay her aching head against his shoulder and lean into his steadying arms.
After a few moments he released her. “You will consider it?” he asked softly.
“I’ll consider it.”
“Good.” He smiled and squeezed her hand. She thought he meant to draw her up from the bench, but instead he leaned over and kissed her.
’Twas but a soft, lingering brush of his lips against hers, gentle rather than demanding. And tantalizing enough to leave her more confused than ever.
Chapter Eighteen
He sat in a dark room lit by a single candle, writing notes on a bit of paper he’d taken from its hiding place inside his cuff. “Portugal heat, dust washed away by fine wine. J: tall, jolly, balding, overhearty laugh—concealing something? R: slim, immaculate, quiet. Competent or devious? Lt: weary, flushed from drink. Am billeted with them now.” The candle flickered, went out.
Scraps of whispered words in the corridor. Meeting. Midnight. Evan slid noiselessly from his chair, pressed his ear to the rough wooden wall. Muffled footfalls retreating. Ease open the door, peer through shuttered darkness. Was the shadow he saw slim? Portly? Topped with a flash of epaulette? Hands shaking, he slipped the blade into his boot.
Sliver of moon lighting the swirling mist. Footsteps—his own?—echoing on the hard-packed earth of an alleyway. Another set, a ghostly echo following—or lying in wait? A prickling at the back of his neck, every tiny hair a watchman shouting the alarm. Rhythmic pounding—his heart, over the gasp of breath.
Out of the blackness came a point of light, a glitter of pewter that grew longer, leaner, descended in a shining arc like a silver arrow. As it plunged, the light exploded in a hail of red darts that gashed his face, pierced his shoulder, ran down his arm in brilliant crimson rivulets. Then, like the arrow, he was falling, falling through salt-laced air.
He felt the trembling shudder, then the smash of a huge body being struck, heard low groaning. He was in the belly of the beast, on some sort of narrow cot with high sides that kept him from rolling out as the monster writhed from side to side in agony. An agony he shared, erupting in his head and shoulder at every blow dealt the beast, flowing down to the throbbing points of pain that used to be a hand. Until a great heaving higher than all the others slammed him into a wall of oblivion.
He was being lifted out of swirling mist into stark cold light. He fought it, wanting only to fall back into the soothing shroud of gray. Brightness stabbed one eye as he opened it and saw Mama. Her face surprised—no, horrified, crumpling into tears. Andrea behind her, weeping. The engagement, honor—all upheld. Why was she weeping?
But he couldn’t think, for the light had awakened the pulsing demon. It stretched, torturing his face into grotesque shapes, and growled, sending pulsating rumbles of torment down his arm into the hand that wasn’t a hand. He snarled back, struggled to escape, to break free and recapture ephemeral mist. Caught it.
Ebony blankness swirled, parted to form a lock of dark hair falling over a smooth, sun-browned brow. Bright green eyes mocked him, a thin-lipped mouth twisted in scorn. “Fool,” said the red-coated soldier leaning over him, “fool. She’s mine, she’ll always be mine.” Tongues of flame licked from the scarlet coat down to him, singeing his hair, dripping sparks on his face and chest. His body smoldered, ignited, the soldier’s derisive laughter a wind whipping the fire to inferno. And then he was burning, burning, his skin crackling with heat, his breath scalding in his lungs.
Emily checked the clock on the mantel once again before pacing to stare out the window. Brent was half an hour late, a most unusual occurrence. The Park would be clogged with vehicles by the time they arrived for the ton’s afternoon game of see-and-be-seen.
Which she’d not mind missing, though Brent, with that lazy grin that had charmed her into attending far more social functions than her own inclination would have dictated, would probably insist on their making an appearance. Her “airing” he called the promenade, as if she were linen in need of refreshing.
But with Natalie reinforcing his prodding that she follow up the modest success of her presentation by daily remind
ing the ton she belonged in their midst, she endured both the Promenade and the fistful of evening invitations to which the more daring or independent hostesses bade her. Though she found the social round even more stultifying than expected, after the risk Nat and Rob had taken to present her she felt she could not refuse what was, after all, the relatively small effort needed to solidify her still-precarious acceptance.
And Natalie did rejoice so in her success. Natalie who, dreamer that she was, still cherished hopes of Almack’s, next Season if not this one. Despite Emily’s gently worded reminder that her refusal to abandon the unredeemably vulgar taint of trade would forever damn her as “bad ton” in the minds of the haughtiest in society.
At least, she thought sardonically, the park promenade, either on Brent’s arm or seated in his curricle, allowed her to show off her designs, which had resulted in a gratifying rush of additional orders.
Without doubt, her design work and the easy camaraderie of her outings with Brent were the most pleasant parts of her new life—“pleasant” being the highest superlative she could yet manage, with the sting of loss still so sharp in her mind and deep in her bones. Sometimes, making her way through a ball or dinner murmuring the inconsequential chat that passed for social conversation, she felt like a French fashion doll: beautifully gowned in the latest mode, eternally smiling, dead.
Evan had done his work well. In nearly a month she’d not had so much as a glimpse of him. Indeed, so strong was the sense of his absence ’twas almost as if he had vanished from London completely. Though with it now the height of the Season, she knew that to be impossible.
She was nearly tempted to ask Brent if something had happened to him, but Evan was the one subject they both avoided. The only time she’d mentioned him, the name flying from her lips before she could recall it, a hard, shuttered look had replaced the easy friendliness that usually warmed Brent’s face, and he’d uttered a terse reply.
On every other subject he was a perceptive and amusing companion. By day he dragged her out of the design office and showed her the London she’d never seen as a girl and that the shopkeeper had had neither time nor money to sample: the equestrian displays at Astley’s, the bookshelf-lined pleasures of Hatchard’s, the Tower menagerie, ices at Gunter’s.
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