As though West could forget. The man had dogged him for weeks, claiming the card game, played at one of Sullivan’s very own tables, had been rigged. He’d desisted only when West had threatened to remove his favorite appendage if he didn’t stop the harassment. The threat had not been an idle one, and he hadn’t heard from Collinsworth since. “Yes. I remember him.”
“I thought you might.” Sullivan drew a breath. Exhaled slowly. His gray eyes, usually filled with humor, had gone hard and flat as slate. “His wife showed up in the Thames yesterday. And he’s blaming you for her murder.”
CHAPTER TEN
Emily woke the next morning feeling refreshed and ready to face the day. Eager to explore her new surroundings she styled her long hair in another simple braid and dressed herself in a pale yellow dress trimmed with blue silk ribbon.
It seemed that while West had been quite thorough in rummaging through her armoire and drawer of unmentionables, he’d neglected to steal any shoes and so she slid her feet into the same walking boots she’d been wearing for the past two days even though the leather had stiffened and they clashed horribly with her dress.
Not that it mattered what she looked like Emily reminded herself as she purposefully ignored her reflection in the full length mirror propped up beside the writing desk. After all, she wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She certainly wasn’t trying to impress West. Why, even if she were dressing to impress – which she was not – he would be the last person on her list whose opinion mattered.
“It does not matter what he thinks of me,” she said aloud, her voice echoing her thoughts in the empty, sun drenched room. “I do not care if he finds me pretty or not.”
Her nose wrinkled. Even to her own ears the lie sounded horribly obvious. The truth of it was it did matter what he thought of her and she did care if he found her pretty. On some level Emily knew it was absolute lunacy to be thinking about her captor in such a way, but the heart wanted what the heart wanted, and right now her heart desired West Green, renowned criminal and kidnapper extraordinaire.
Mattie’s words from the night before echoed in her head as she crept out into the hallway and, after only one wrong turn, managed to find the stairs.
I suppose he’s just been waiting for the right reason…
Was it true? Was West looking to leave St. Giles and his violent lifestyle behind? Or was it only conjecture on Mattie’s part, and wishful thinking on hers? Emily’s fingers tightened around the mahogany railing as she slowly descended the staircase. There was no use dwelling on it. In fact, for the rest of the morning she would go out of her way not to think about West or St. Giles or anything to do at all with her kidnapping. Instead she would use her active imagination to pretend she was staying at a friend’s country estate, and everything was as it should be.
A quick investigation of the first floor revealed the parlor, dining room, and library to be empty. Emily lingered in the library for a bit, inhaling the scent of old parchment and leather bound books. Selecting a slim novel of poems she tucked it under her arm and wandered down the hall into the kitchen where the air smelled deliciously of baked bread and honey.
“Hello,” she said pleasantly to a woman who was bent over a wooden table elbow deep in a bowl of dough. “Are you the cook?”
The woman startled and cursed under her breath, flinging clumps of dough every which way as she jerked her hands out of the bowl. When she looked up Emily saw she had a kind, round face with cheeks flushed from the heat in the kitchen and a spot of flour clinging to the end of her button nose. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties, a bit thick through the middle, her brown hair streaked liberally with grey. “You gave me a fright,” she accused, wagging a finger. “Don’t you know better than to sneak up on a person?”
“I do apologize,” Emily said automatically. “I did not mean to startle you but I was looking to see if anyone else was up yet and—”
“You’re Lady Emily,” the woman interrupted.
“Why yes I am, but you can call me Emily if you’d like.”
The cook tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, smearing more flour across the side of her face. “She said you would tell me that.”
“She?” Emily queried, her brows darting together over the bridge of her nose.
“Mattie. Talks a mile a minute, that one, and couldn’t keep a secret if you paid for it in gold. She told me all about you. Emily this and Emily that.” She waved her hand in the air. “You would think you two have been friends for years the way she was carrying on.”
Emily’s cheeks flushed with pleasure. “Mattie has been very kind to me.”
“As well she should be. I am Roberta, by the way. Mr. Green’s head cook.” Her cheeks puffed out in a smile, and despite her brisk, no nonsense tone Emily found herself taking an instant liking to the gruff chef. “You just go right ahead and call me Berta. Everyone does. Can I fix you anything for breakfast? I have some scones cooling by the window. Anything more than that and you’ll have to wait a bit.”
“Oh no, that’s quite all right. I am not very hungry at the moment, but I was going to take a quick tour about the grounds. I am sure a brisk walk will work up my appetite.”
“Come right back here when you finish up and I shall make sure a plate is ready for you,” Berta promised as she sank her hands back into the bowl of dough and began kneading it with practiced strokes. “A skinny thing like you needs a bit of meat on her bones.”
Emily bit back a smile. She knew Berta hadn’t intended her comment to be a compliment, but she took it as one just the same. After all, it wasn’t often people referred to her as a ‘skinny thing’. ‘Pleasantly plump’ seemed to be tossed about quite a bit, not that Emily minded. She found herself quite content with her body and its curves, no matter what was whispered behind her back. Let other women torture themselves over corsets that were so binding it left marks on their skin for hours afterwards. Emily saw absolutely no reason to wear anything that would constrict her waist to the point of pain, no matter how slender it made her appear.
She started to back out of the kitchen, but found herself hesitating in the doorway. “Miss Berta…”
“There’s no ‘Miss’ about it,” the cook said without looking up from her dough. “Berta will do just fine and if you have something to say best say it now. I have a lot of things to do.”
Emily bit her lip. “Have you… have you seen Mr. Green this morning?”
“Now how would I have seen him when he hasn’t yet returned through that door?” Berta said, pointing over Emily’s shoulder to the front parlor. She huffed out a breath. Scooped another handful of hair behind her ear. Emily considered offering a ribbon, then thought better of it.
“I see,” she said as her shoulders slumped ever so slightly. She may not have had much experience with men, but she did know there were very few reasons why a man would stay out all night, a woman being principal among them. Well, what did she expect? Of course a man like West would have a mistress somewhere nearby. And there was no reason to feel jealous. Absolutely no reason at all.
Berta pursed her fleshy lips. “Is there anything else or are you planning on standing there moping about all day?”
“I wasn’t… I am not moping,” Emily said defensively.
The cook shrugged. “None of my concern.”
Emily took another step. Hesitated. “Last evening I told Mattie I was here by invitation, but that is not precisely true.” She didn’t know why she felt compelled to tell West’s cook, of all people, why she was at his estate. She didn’t think Berta would help her. In fact, she didn’t think any of the staff would. They seemed loyal to a fault, something that Emily thought spoke more of the employer than it did the employees. Still, the need to tell someone weighed down on her chest like an anchor and before she could stop herself she blurted out everything, from being tossed inside a carriage in the middle of Hyde Park to nearly being kidnapped all over again to arriving last night and running down the drive like a ma
d woman.
Berta listened to it all without expression. Or at least, Emily hoped she was listening. Her hands remained busy, pushing and pulling at the dough until it began to form itself into little balls. “You know,” she said after a long, pregnant pause, “what Mr. Green does is his own concern. His business may not always be on the up and up, but as long as no one is harmed I cannot begrudge him his income, as without it I would find myself without employment. Have you, then?”
Emily blinked. “Have I…?”
“Been harmed. I imagine it wasn’t very pleasant being taken so suddenly from your home and your family, but there are far worse fates awaiting women your age than spending a bit of time in the country.” A cold note of bitterness crept into Berta’s tone, hinting at a story gone untold. Emily wanted to ask what it was, but experience had taught her people shared what they wanted when they wanted and pressing them to do otherwise only resulted in hard feelings on both sides.
“No,” she said honestly. “Mr. Green has not harmed me.”
Berta’s head disappeared as she knelt behind the table. Popping back up with a metal platter in hand she began to arrange the dough balls with military precision. “I rather thought not. If that changes you come straight to me, do you understand? I have given that boy a talking to before and I am not afraid to do it again.”
Emily bit back a smile at the idea of anyone thinking of West as a boy, although she supposed Berta was old enough to consider him a son. “I shall be certain to do that. Have a lovely morning, Berta.”
“Aye,” the cook grunted. “Off with you then. Make sure you come straight back here when you’ve finished your walk. I’ll have a plate waiting.”
“Of course,” Emily promised.
“And if you have a fondness for horses make sure you stop by the stables. One of the mares gave birth three days ago and her little one is up and frolicking about.”
Emily did, in fact, have a great fondness for horses and she couldn’t keep the excited squeal out of her voice when she said, “I will go there first! Thank you, Berta.” Spinning around in a flurry of yellow skirts she all but skipped from the kitchen, her limbs feeling light as air.
Watching Emily flit away, Berta pressed her palms flat against the table and leaned into them. “He’s certainly got his hands full with that one,” she murmured. “I hope the dear boy knows exactly what it is he’s kidnapped. A heart so pure as hers is easily stolen…and just as easily broken.”
Shaking her head at the follies of children, she resumed her work, trying – and failing – not to think of her own daughter, lost so many years ago.
“I have a guest staying with me.”
“A guest?” Sullivan repeated absently. “How nice for you.”
West’s brow creased. After a night filled with more glasses of port than he cared to remember, he and Sullivan had stumbled out of the pub at the break of dawn.
They’d considered returning to Rosemore on horseback but, seeing as both of them were in possession of a raging headache, opted to rent a carriage instead. West would have just as soon seen Sullivan return to London, but sometime during the night’s festivities – the exact details were still a little blurry – he’d agreed to let his friend stay the remainder of the week. A foolish invitation brought on by foolish actions, both of which he was regretting immensely in the light of day. The painfully bright light of day. With a grunt he leaned forward and flicked the curtain window closed before slumping back in his seat.
“You are not to touch her,” he continued, glowering at the man sprawled in the seat across from him.
Sullivan lifted his head from the side of the carriage, a hint of interest glimmering in his bloodshot eyes. “Her? You didn’t say she was a female guest. And one I’m not to touch? You sly fox.” He tilted forward and punched West lightly on the shoulder. They both groaned. “You didn’t tell me you had a new mistress.”
“She is not my mistress,” West gritted out. “She’s… well… she’s none of your concern.” It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it the moment the words were out, but by then it was too late to take them back. Telling Sullivan he couldn’t have something was the equivalent of stealing a toy out of the hands of a toddler: it only made him want it more.
“Now I have to meet this mysterious woman,” Sullivan said, echoing West’s thoughts exactly. The carriage turned up the drive and the energetic team of bay geldings pulling it mercifully slowed to a walk. “What is her name? What’s she like? Where did you meet her?”
West’s jaw tightened with every question. He didn’t like that he felt so protective, but there was nothing he could do about it except keep Emily and Sullivan completely separated; an impossible task now that Sullivan would be staying the weekend. He knew full well the effect his friend had on women. He also knew Sullivan’s preference for curvy brunettes. The last thing he needed – the last thing he wanted – was for Emily to fall under the charismatic gambler’s spell. “Why do you have to know everything?” he growled. “I have a female guest staying with me. You are not to touch her. The subject is closed.”
Sullivan notched one eyebrow. “If you think to intimidate me with your gruff looks think again, my friend. I fear no man, least of all the Duke of St. Giles.” His grin was arrogant but his eyes were, as always, cold and calculating.
West often thought his life would be much easier without a ‘friend’ such as Sullivan, but they’d seen each other through hard times, and even though they were not bonded by blood they were brothers all the same. On a sigh he pinched the bridge of his nose and said, “Her name is Lady Emily Wilmington.”
“Lady Emily Wilmington,” Sullivan mused, rubbing his chin. “Never heard of her.”
West was not surprised. While Sullivan made it his business to know everything about everyone who passed through his doors, West doubted the Duke of Brumleigh would have ever had cause to attend one of London’s most nefarious gambling hells. “Which is why she is none of your concern.”
His flat tone indicated the matter was a closed one, but Sullivan had never been very good at picking up on subtleties. Or, if he were, he completely ignored them. “A lady of the peerage, who is not your mistress or a blood relative, is staying with you at your country estate. Curious, my friend. Very curious.”
“You know what they say about curiosity.”
“What is that?”
“It killed the gambler.”
“A lady of the peerage, who is not your mistress or a blood relative, is staying with you at your country estate and you’re guarding her like a dog with a bone. A very tasty, very secretive bone. You bloody bastard!” Sullivan’s shout of laughter echoed through the carriage and West winced as his head throbbed in response. “You’ve kidnapped her, haven’t you?”
The carriage rattled to a halt in front of the estate. West shoved open the door and, shading his eyes against the sun, stepped down. Sullivan disembarked right behind him and slapped a hand over his shoulders as they stumbled up the front steps and spilled into the entryway.
“I have to say well done, old boy. I didn’t think you had it in you. Where is she? I have to meet her, you know. Do you have her locked away upstairs?” Sullivan’s eyes lit up. “Is she tied to the bed? Tell me she’s tied to the bed.”
West collapsed into the nearest chair, his arms and legs spilling out to the sides. “Get your mind out of the gutter. Does your debauchery know no bounds?”
Sullivan thought about it for a moment. “No, I do not believe so.”
“Emily is not tied to the bed” – although he had to admit the idea had some merit – “nor is she locked away in a broom closet. She is allowed to travel Rosemore at her leisure.”
“On a first name basis, are we?” Settling into a chaise lounge, Sullivan propped his boots up on a footstool. “How charming. Does she call you Westie?” Ignoring West’s dark scowl he grinned and said, “I bet she does.”
“I have changed my mind,” West decided. “You cannot stay here th
rough the week.”
Sullivan opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off when a maid entered the room. His eyes widened and he sat up, making no attempt to disguise his interest as his gaze flicked down the maid’s body and back up again. “Hello,” he breathed, jumping to his feet and extending his right arm. “Eric Sullivan, at your service. And who might you be?”
“Just ignore him, Mattie,” West said wearily. “I do.”
The redhead pursed her lips and remained by the door, well out of Sullivan’s reach. “I saw the carriage come up,” she said, speaking directly to West. “Ye looked like hell warmed over. Rough night at the pub?”
Under normal circumstances such frankness from a servant would have been severely frowned upon and immediately discouraged. West didn’t even bat an eye. After all, he’d known Mattie since she was a child. They’d grown up together, more or less, and even though he was technically her employer she was more sister than servant. “You could say that. Would you mind bringing out a tea service? And some scones if Cook has any prepared.”
Mattie nodded. “That she does. Anything else?”
“Lady Emily. Is she awake?”
“Oh, aye. She was up at the crack of dawn, that one. Cook said she spoke to her for a bit before she went on a walk about the grounds. She hasn’t returned yet far as I know. I have to go down to the chicken coop in a bit to collect the eggs. If I see her would ye like me to say ye were asking about her?”
West frowned. “I was not asking about her.”
“You technically were,” Sullivan pointed out. “Does Lady Emily call him Westie, perchance?”
Mattie didn’t even glance in his direction. “I will have the scones and tea brought out straight away.”
“Thank you, Mattie. Actually, on second thought hold mine. I will have them after I return from the stables. I meant to check on the new colt when we returned, but I forgot.”
The Duke of St. Giles Page 10
