With her gray eyes and comely face and blonde hair he supposed Petunia was, indeed, quite pretty… not that anyone would ever notice given the drab clothing she seemed to favor and the hideously ugly lace cap she always wore, her hair pinned up so tightly beneath it was a wonder her scalp didn’t ache. He wouldn’t have noticed himself, if not for the fact that the damn woman was constantly underfoot. With her young charge gone it seemed Petunia had taken on him as her new assignment, and he could no sooner sneak a glass of port up to his lips then she came swooping in and plucked it away, scolding him for ‘sinful habits’ a man of his position and age should not indulge in.
She watched him like a hawk, making certain he ate three square meals a day and went to bed at a decent hour. If he didn’t know any better he would think she was the mistress of the household and he the servant. He would have put his foot down days ago if not for the beseeching way she looked at him, her gray eyes shimmering and her bottom lip quivering. One look like that and he was helpless to tell her no, even when it would have saved his best liquor from being poured out the window!
“I knew you were upset with me,” she cried suddenly, misinterpreting his dark scowl for anger at her instead of at himself. “I am so very sorry, Your Grace. If there is anything more I can do—”
“There is nothing more to be done until she is either returned to us or her kidnappers send a ransom note. That is how these things are usually conducted, are they not?” he asked bitterly as his thoughts abruptly returned to his missing daughter.
Dear, sweet Emily who would never hurt so much as a fly was out there somewhere at the mercy of some vicious brigand, being asked to do God only knew what. His hands tightened into fists atop his desk. He couldn’t imagine what horrors she was being forced to endure, nor did he want to. Of all the young women the kidnappers could have taken, why did it have to be Emily?
She didn’t know anything about the real world or the dark, heartless men who inhabited it. She was far too sheltered. Too naïve. Too innocent. For her everything was hope and light and laughter. He did not want her to know what evils lurked outside of the gilded cage he’d painstakingly built around her. It was why he’d lied to her. Why he had been lying to her. For her own good. For her own protection. But how could he protect her now that she’d been taken from him?
“If there is no word by sunset tomorrow I want a Bow Street Runner brought to the house,” he said quietly. “I want these bastards found, and I want them to pay.”
“Are you absolutely certain? I want the same as you,” Petunia said quickly when he looked up at her sharply, “but once you open an investigation word will get out. Rumors will start. People will know that Lady Emily is not visiting with her aunt in the country. Her reputation…”
“Better her reputation be ruined than her life lost!” he shouted. Petunia jumped back, her face paling. Gritting his teeth, Edgar struggled to regain control. It wasn’t often he lost his temper, but the emotional turmoil of the situation made it nearly impossible to remain calm. “I am sorry. I did not mean to frighten you.”
“It… it is quite all right.” Color slowly seeped back into Petunia’s cheeks. She took a hesitant step forward, her expression earnest. “I know this must be excruciatingly difficult for you, Your Grace, but we must continue to consider what would be the best for Lady Emily. To have one horrible incident follow her around for the rest of her life…” Her narrow shoulders trembled, as though she couldn’t bear the thought. “But I fear that is the fate that awaits her if word of her kidnapping escapes.”
Edgar drew a hand down over his face. Damn the haute ton and their bloody unspoken rules of etiquette. Rules that would commit a young lady for something beyond her control. Rules that would force her to endure years of painful gossip. Rules that would ruin her life as she knew it. And yet, if he continued to say nothing…
“How do I know they will return her? How do I know I will ever see her a-again?” His voice broke on the last word. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed his eyes shut, the idea of losing his daughter as he’d lost his wife too painful to put into words. He hated feeling so helpless. Hated that now, like then, there seemed to be nothing he could do.
His eyes opened when he felt a faint pressure on his hand, and he looked down with great surprise to see Petunia’s long, narrow fingers covering his own. For once she did not have any gloves on, and her skin was cold to the touch, but the feeling of reassurance such a simple gesture conveyed was warm. For all the years they’d lived in the same house she had always taken great pains to avoid physical contact with him. He’d never thought much of it… until now.
Their eyes met, and he saw the slight quiver of her throat when she nervously swallowed. “I fear you will not like what I have to say, Your Grace. I do not want to upset you further. I know what a tremendous strain you must be under.”
“Say whatever you would like Miss Weatherby, and know I will not judge you for it,” he said solemnly, not revealing the sudden smile that wanted to rise beneath the flat line of his mouth. Petunia upset him? Impossible. She was as kind-hearted and gentle a woman as he’d ever met. She never raised her voice, never threw tantrums, never made ultimatums… and yet somehow always managed to get precisely what she wanted, whether it was for Emily to attend a ball she was dragging her heels about it or for him to pour out a glass of his finest port.
“Servants hear things,” she began, glancing to the side. “We see things as well. Things while we are dusting, or looking for stray shoes—”
“You dust?” he interrupted with a frown.
Her head bobbed. “I do, on occasion.”
“I have maids for that,” he said, speaking more sharply than he’d intended. “You are a lady’s companion for my daughter. You should not be dusting.”
Petunia blinked. “I will make note not to do it again. As I was saying, servants hear and see things. We cannot help it. Your Grace…” She took a deep breath. “I know the money is gone.”
Every muscle in Edgar’s body tensed. He snatched his hand out from beneath hers as though she’d shocked him, and rubbing his palms together glared up at her accusingly even as a dagger of fear worked its way into his heart. Bloody hell, how could she know? How could anyone know? He’d been so careful… “Miss Weatherby, let me assure you the money—”
“—is gone,” she finished. There was no pity in her gray eyes, nor was there condemnation. She spoke as though she were simply stating a fact, which, of course, they both knew she was. “It is another reason I would caution against hiring a Runner. With what would you pay him?”
Edgar could feel his cheeks begin to grow flush with equal amounts of embarrassment and frustration. This was not a conversation he wanted to have, particularly not with Petunia. He’d known his financial irresponsibility would have to come to light sooner or later, but he’d been hoping for the later.
Despite his best efforts there would be no regaining what he’d given away and soon enough the servants would have to take note, especially when furniture was being carried out beneath their very noses.
He’d never intended it to go this far. It all began when Martha fell ill. Unable to find a doctor willing to offer a cure and desperate to try anything, he sought to purchase her salvation as a last desperate attempt to bargain with God.
Large contributions were made to a variety of charities. London’s largest orphanage. His wife’s favorite museum. A new hospital being built outside of Townsend Square. He sought them out one after the other, throwing as much money at them as he could get his hands on.
Looking back now he knew that some part of him had quite simply gone a bit mad, but by then it was too late. Martha died, as the doctor’s said she would, and in his mourning he did not cease his charitable contributions.
He quadrupled them.
Even then it took the better part of a decade to drain the considerable Brumleigh coffers, but drained they were. He should have stopped ye
ars ago and he would have, if not for the notion that by giving up on the charities he was somehow giving up on the memory of his wife.
“How very observant of you, Miss Weatherby.” He sat back heavily in his chair. “You are correct, though you knew that already. The money is gone. All of it. Every last penny. There is nothing left.”
“I feared as much,” Petunia said quietly. “I also fear I am not the only one who knows, Your Grace.”
He was not surprised. Although his creditors had vowed to be discreet, there was only so much they could hide. Reaching across his desk he picked up a delicate glass figurine blown into the shape of a unicorn. It had been one of Martha’s favorite possessions, and to this day he still turned to it in times of great crisis. “Who else?” he asked absently. “The rest of the staff?”
“If they do know, nothing has been said to me.” Petunia hesitated, drawing his gaze up to her face. There was a splash of color in her cheeks and her lips were red as though she’d been biting at them.
Pretty, he thought again as he studied her, although certainly not in the traditional sense. Her beauty was delicate and understated. It made a man work to see what was beneath, but Edgar found he didn’t mind the extra effort it required.
With Martha his head had been turned immediately, as well it should have. She’d been a stunning, sensuous woman. She could have had any man she wanted, and yet she’d chosen him. Until the day she died Martha had been the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and since her death he had never taken the time to look at another. Except there was no denying he was looking now, and liking what he saw.
Afraid Petunia might guess the inappropriate direction of his thoughts he cleared his throat and refocused on the matter at hand. “Then who else knows?” he asked, setting the unicorn aside.
“Your daughter. Lady Emily.”
As though things could not get any worse. For a moment he allowed his gaze to drift heavenward, and even though he knew it was blasphemous he could not help but curse a god who would allow such harm to befall one family.
He was not a perfect man, but he was not a bad one, either. He’d honored his parents. Been faithful to his wife. Loved his daughter. And yet this was the payment he received: a wife dead, a daughter kidnapped, a fortune swindled. “Why not strike me with lightening and be done with it?” he muttered under his breath.
“Your Grace?”
“Nothing.” Unable to remain sitting any longer he stood up and began to pace behind his desk, every so often casting a glance to the tall windows that were obscured by curtains. The last time the house had been kept in the dark was after Martha’s death. Brow creasing, he yanked the curtains aside, sending a flood of light pouring into the study. “We are not in mourning. No one has died, nor will they. When Emily returns I want the house to be bright and cheerful. From now on the windows should be kept uncovered, even in the morning.”
The faintest hint of a smile curved Petunia’s mouth, reminding Edgar of a daffodil shyly unfurling its petals. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“And you are right about the Runner. Not that I could afford to hire one even if I wanted to.” What he couldn’t make himself say aloud lingered in the air between them. That if he could not afford a Runner, he could not afford a ransom. Mouth twisting, he turned to the window and looked out, gazing across the tangled rose bushes – always Martha’s favorite – to the street beyond. Behind him he heard a swish of skirts, and Petunia’s shoulder gently bumped his arm as she came to stand beside him, her attention equally taken by the ebb and flow of London traffic.
“Lady Emily is stronger than you think, and you know how she loves her stories. No doubt she believes herself to be on the adventure of a lifetime. I know you are worried for her, as you’ve every right to be, but I feel in my heart she will be returned to us safely.”
“How do you do it?” Edgar wondered.
Petunia glanced sideways at him. “Do what, Your Grace?”
“Face the world and its problems with such optimism.”
“Is that what I do?” Her eyes widened. “I rather thought it was the opposite. I do not know if you have noticed, but I am rather predisposed to a fretful nature.”
“I’ve noticed,” he said dryly.
Petunia blushed. “If there is nothing else I can do for you at the moment, Your Grace, I rather thought I would go on a walk down the lane to help clear my head.”
Edgar hesitated for only the briefest of moments before he said, “There is one thing you could do.”
“Yes?”
“Invite me to come with you.”
Her eyebrows darted together. “I – I do not understand.”
“You said you were going for a walk down the lane. I would like to accompany you. With your permission, of course. I need something to help clear my head as well, Miss Weatherby,” he said when she remained silent, her gray eyes wide and her lips slightly parted as though in shock. “I cannot remember the last time I stepped foot out of doors, and I find your company pleasing to me. But if you would rather go alone…”
“No, no,” she said hastily. “Given the recent events it would probably be best if I had someone accompany me. I – that is to say – well, thank you, Your Grace, for being so considerate.”
Consideration had nothing to do with it, not that he was about to tell her that. He followed her out to the parlor where she donned a cloak and he a light jacket. Together they stepped outside and he waited until they were through the front gate and walking leisurely beneath the shade of the tree lined lane to say, “Now about all this ‘Your Grace’ business…”
If there were ever a time in her life where she had been more confused, Emily could not remember when it was. Last night West had all but kissed her senseless and this yet this afternoon he’d walked past her without a word as though they were nothing more than strangers instead of a man and a woman on the brink of becoming lovers!
At least, that’s the direction they were heading in Emily’s mind.
She’d reached the conclusion after tossing and turning well into dawn, unable to sleep for the memories that kept flitting through her mind.
West’s hands cradling her neck… His mouth on her mouth… The hard press of his body against her body… And then that awful, soul crushing word that left her yearning for more:
No.
Yanking at the hem of her skirts to keep them from getting tangled on a protruding nail, Emily tumbled into the horse pasture and marched determinedly up the hill to where Galahad and his dam quietly grazed.
She should have been the one to tell him no. Except last night somehow their positions had reversed and she’d become the seductress, albeit a clumsy one. Her cheeks burned as she recalled how forward she’d been. Had she really asked him to kiss her? Yes, yes she had.
How utterly embarrassing.
And yet, why couldn’t a woman ask for what she wanted? Instead of playing coy and keeping the objects of your affections guessing, wasn’t it much better to plainly state your intentions? After all, the decision had not been solely hers to make. It was not as if she’d tied West’s arms behind his back and forced herself upon him.
Greeting Galahad’s dam with a brisk rub on the side of the neck that had the mare groaning with pleasure, Emily laughed when the rambunctious colt sprang up behind her and butted her hip with his soft nose. “Jealous, are we?” she asked before she procured a comb from the pocket of her dress and began running it through Galahad’s tangled tuft of mane. Oversized ears flitting to and fro he leaned into the pressure much as his dam had done and Emily absently scratched at a patch of mud on his shoulder. “You are getting bigger by the day. Soon you’ll be taller than your mother, and then she will have her hands full.”
“I thought I might find you out here.” West’s deep, resonating voice startled both Emily and Galahad. She jumped back and pressed a hand to her chest. The colt’s reaction was a bit more flamboyant.
Nostrils flaring he squealed and jumped straight up in
the air with the agility of a rabbit. Landing in a splay of limbs, he bounced again and kicked out, catching Emily square in the stomach with one small oval hoof.
She doubled forward, clutching her middle as the air escaped her lungs in a loud whoosh. “Heavens,” she managed to gasp, “he certainly is a strong little bugger.”
West’s curses registered dimly in her ear. She felt pressure on her shoulders, and then the ground tilted out beneath her as he plucked her up in his arms and cradled her against his chest.
“What are you doing?” she asked in bewilderment. Tilting her head back, she caught a glimpse of the underside of his jaw. The muscles clenched and contracted, hinting at the anger she felt vibrating through his entire body as he marched her purposefully across the field.
“Rescuing you from that bloody animal. The minute he’s old enough I am having him gelded. He’s a menace and a danger.”
“It wasn’t his fault!” Emily protested. She attempted to wiggle free, but West’s arms tightened around her body like steel bands, making it impossible to move. Frustrated, she gave a feeble kick with her left foot, then her right, but he still refused to loosen his grip. “Where are you taking me?”
“Right here.” Handling her as though she were made of fine spun glass, West carefully set her down in the shade of the same oak tree they’d argued beneath three days ago. His hands lingered on her arms, his countenance stern as he looked down at her. “Can you stand? Is your stomach tender? Are you dizzy? Do you need a doctor?”
“Yes, no, no, and most definitely no. I am fine.” Emily brushed his concerns away along with his hands. “There was no need for you to come rushing in like a knight in shining armor. I am not a damsel in distress, you know.”
One side of his mouth kicked up as he crossed his arms. “I know.”
“What are you doing here?” Her gaze flicked down his torso, noting he was dressed casually in a pair of well fitting breeches and a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the front unbuttoned. His leather riding boots were splattered with mud. Sweat glistened at his temples and on his chest, drawing her eye to the deep V of tanned flesh revealed by his open shirt. “Were you riding?” she guessed.
The Duke of St. Giles Page 15
