Emma blinked at him. "That sentence has too many new concepts for me to absorb."
"Then don't—just smile and wear the necklace." He pulled her up into his arms, careful not to crush her dress, and brushed her lips with his. "Let's go see if your father has arrived."
Emma discovered that she did have room for feelings other than lust. She stood outside the study door and gripped Charles's arm. Excitement, worry, embarrassment, contrition, and love all churned in her stomach.
"Thank you for putting Papa in your study. I could not have borne telling him in front of anyone else."
"Mrs. Graham may be with him. Would you like me to ask her to step out?"
"Yes. No. Oh, I don't know." She chewed on her lip. "I don't know what I feel anymore."
"No? Well, I suggest we just go in, then. I believe your father will grant you the luxury of any feeling that presents itself. I know I will—unless you decide to feel a strong aversion to my presence."
"Impossible."
"Good. Then after you, Miss Peterson."
Emma put her hand out quickly, stopping Charles. "You don't think . . . ? I mean, they wouldn't . . . Should we knock first?"
Charles grinned. "I doubt your father will be doing anything in my study except examining my book collection, Emma."
"Are you certain? The door is closed."
"True. And I would guess Mrs. Graham doesn't have a chaperone in there with her."
"Exactly!"
"And they are awaiting our arrival—I do not think they will be in an especially amorous mood. But the thought does have possibilities. Are you hinting that I need to guard my virtue any time we find ourselves alone behind a closed door?"
"Of course not!"
"How disappointing."
Charles opened the door and Emma stepped into the study. Her father was alone, standing by the desk, hands in his pockets. He looked . . . lonely and a little sad. Older. His shoulders were a bit stooped. She noticed that his hair was gray—surely it hadn't just turned color in the few days she'd been at Knightsdale?
When was the last time she had really looked at him? Had she ever?
"Papa."
He turned and smiled. "Emma—and Lord Knightsdale."
"Please—Charles, sir. You are going to be my papa-in-law, you know. Can't have you 'my lording' me all the time."
Emma watched her father's face light up. He looked at her.
"Emma? Are you going to marry Charles?"
"Yes, Papa, I am." Why were her feet glued to the floor? She should be flying into her father's arms. He certainly expected it. "Where's Mrs. Graham?"
"She is waiting in another room. She thought . . . well, she's not part of our family, really."
"She should be."
Papa's face grew very still. "What?"
"I said she should be. Mrs. Graham should be part of our family, Papa, if you love her. Do you love her?"
"Um." Papa took a deep breath. "Yes, I love her, but neither of us wanted . . . You are my daughter, Emma. My first loyalty should be to you."
"No." Emma was shocked to realize she believed what she was saying. She wasn't just voicing words to set her father free. "No, I think your first loyalty should be to yourself, Papa. At least in this case. And to Mrs. Graham—Harriet." Emma took a deep, shuddering breath. "Meg thinks you should marry Harriet. She saw it first—that you smile more now. That you're happier."
"Emma—"
"That you're excited by something besides your old books and translations. I think she's right. I should have seen it, too, but I was too selfish and I'm sorry. I never meant to keep you from following your heart."
Tears streamed down Emma's face. The knot in her stomach loosened. When her father opened his arms, her feet moved at last. She flew to him, opening her own arms, hugging him hard.
She looked up and saw that he was crying, too.
"What. . . interesting news, Miss Peterson." Lady Oldston choked on her words, like Queen Bess coughing up a hairball.
"Indeed." Mrs. Pelham sniffed. "I never would have imagined . . . but, then, you are a childhood friend, are you not?"
'Yes. An old friend." Lady Oldston smiled when she emphasized old, "There is something comforting in familiarity, I suppose."
The Misses Oldston and Pelham simply glared. Emma tried to smile.
At least the Society ladies were happy about her betrothal. They clustered around her after the London ladies had left.
"Well done," Mrs. Begley said. "Glad to see you took my advice."
"We'll be looking for an heir in nine months' time," Miss Rachel Farthington said.
"Or sooner!" Miss Esther elbowed Miss Rachel, and they giggled.
"I see you spent your time in the study well," Miss Russell whispered. She looked up, then ducked her head again. "He's coming."
"A little decorum, ladies, if you please," Mrs. Begley said. They looked at Charles and smiled. His eyebrows rose, but he smiled back.
"Good evening, ladies. If you'll excuse Emma, she and I are supposed to open the ball."
"Certainly."
"Go right ahead."
"Oh my, yes."
"He does wear his breeches well." Miss Esther's comment carried across the ballroom in the hush before the orchestra struck its opening note.
"I believe I am blushing," Charles said, leading Emma into the dance.
"Well, it's true." Emma flushed. The image of what exactly his breeches covered flashed into her mind.
"Hmm." Charles's voice dropped lower. "You have turned a lovely shade of pink, sweetheart. I do wonder what thought caused you to color up so nicely. Will you tell me?"
"No. I couldn't possibly." She was certain lightning would strike her if she did. Or worse, one of those harpies, Lady Oldston or Mrs. Pelham, would hear her.
"I know what I'm thinking." Charles swung her through a turn. "I'm thinking how beautiful you look in that dress—but how you will look even more beautiful without it."
"Charles!"
"I'm imagining you spread naked on my bed tonight."
"Charles!" She must have squeaked louder. The Duke of Alvord glanced at her, and his duchess smiled.
"Your creamy skin against my sheets, your beautiful hair spread over my pillow . . ."
"Charles!" Emma glanced around. No one appeared to be overhearing Charles's scandalous words.
". . . your glorious, soft breasts, their nipples hard, begging for my mouth . . ."
Emma felt her knees wobble and the hot, wet throbbing start in her center.
". . . your waist, your hips, the lovely nest of curls between your thighs—and those thighs! Those smooth, white thighs spread wide, welcoming, beckoning . . ."
"Charles." Emma whispered. She could barely get his name past her lips. To hear him say such things on the ballroom floor, where anyone might overhear. . .
"I want to bury my face between your thighs, to smell you, taste you—"
"Charles, if you don't stop right this minute, I will. . . I will. . . Well, I don't know what I will do, but it will be highly improper and extremely embarrassing."
"Really? That sounds promising."
"Charles . . ."
"Oh, all right. I will behave—until later, when I have you in my bed." He put his lips by her ear as the music drew to a close. 'Then I promise to misbehave more than you can possibly imagine."
"Oh." Emma hoped her face was not as red as it felt
She danced with the Earl of Westbrooke and the Duke of Alvord. Squire Begley had a dance, as did her father. Then Mr. Stockley found her.
"Congratulations, Miss Peterson. You won the grand prize, didn't you?"
"Excuse me?"
"Now I know why you never found my room—you were too busy in Lord Knightsdale's chamber."
"Mr. Stockley, you are insulting."
Mr. Stockley shrugged. "Your pardon. No insult intended. We all must have an eye to the main chance, mustn't we?" His eyes dropped to her throat. "Interesting necklace." He star
ed so intently, it would have been embarrassing except it was clear it was the jewels and not her person that attracted his attention.
'Thank you."
"Betrothal gift?"
"It is part of the Knightsdale set, yes."
"Hmm."
The music began. Every time the steps brought her back to Mr. Stockley, his eyes were on the Knightsdale sapphires. It was most peculiar. She was delighted when the music finally drew to a close. She was beginning to feel like a museum display, though she doubted even the most interesting artifact got the undivided attention Mr. Stockley was lavishing on the Knightsdale necklace.
She was fanning herself by one of the windows to the garden later when a servant brought her a note.
"Thank you." She took the folded paper from the tray he offered. She didn't recognize the man— he was one of the temporary help brought on expressly for the ball.
She didn't recognize the handwriting, either, but she wasn't focusing on that as she read the short message.
Claire needs you in the nursery. Come quickly.
Why the nursery? Claire shouldn't be in the nursery this late. What could be the matter? Where was Nanny?
Emma tapped the paper against her hand. It didn't matter—if Claire wanted her, she would go. Perhaps the little girl just needed some attention, a good-night kiss. Emma would slip out and see what was amiss. She'd be gone only a moment. No one would miss her.
She hurried up the stairs.
"Claire? Claire, it's Mama Peterson. Where are you?"
The nursery was dark and quiet. Too quiet. Something was wrong. She caught her breath. She was quite alone. She should have told Charles where she was going. She should have had him come with her. At least she should have stopped by Nanny's room on her way up the stairs. She turned to leave.
"I don't think so." Mr. Stockley's hand slapped over her mouth and his arm pulled her back tight against his body. For a small man, he was very strong.
"I have a knife, Miss Peterson."
Emma felt something sharp prick her side, right under her left breast.
"I will stick you if you make the slightest noise. Nod if you understand me."
Emma nodded.
"Good." He released her but kept his knife against her side. "Now, very carefully, remove that lovely necklace."
Emma fumbled with the clasp. "Are you the one who has been using the secret passages, Mr. Stockley?"
"Yes, not that they have proven at all helpful. Hurry up."
"I am trying. It is not easy." Emma's fingers were shaking too much to work the clasp free. "Is Claire here?"
"Claire?"
"I got a message—"
"That was just to get you up here. As far as I know, your little Claire is sleeping soundly in her bed. Hurry up with that necklace."
Emma felt Mr. Stockley's knife pressing harder into her side. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and concentrated. Finally she felt the clasp come free. Mr. Stockley grabbed the necklace.
"Tell me where Knightsdale got this." He punctuated his question with another stab of his knife. "Where's his safe?"
"I don't know. He had the necklace in his pocket. I never saw a safe."
"Hmm. I guess I'll just have to ask him myself." He grabbed her right hand and twisted it behind her back, keeping his knife under her breast. "I believe that's a conversation I shall enjoy."
Emma tried to keep from panicking. "I don't understand. If you are just a thief—" Emma sucked in her breath as Mr. Stockley jerked her arm higher.
"I am not just a thief. I am not a thief at all. This belongs to me."
"The necklace?"
"No." He pushed her farther into the nursery. "Not this necklace. Others. Necklaces and earbobs and stickpins. Rings. Tiaras. I can't find them. I've looked. Bloody hell, I've looked. I know they're here somewhere. I'll get Knightsdale to tell me. I'll show him your necklace and tell him he won't see you again if he doesn't give me the jewels. I think he'll talk quickly. I've seen the way he looks at you."
Emma tried to slow their progress. Where was Mr. Stockley taking her? "I still don't understand. There are jewels hidden at Knightsdale?"
"Yes. Randall stole them from my father."
"Are you certain—" Emma eyed the candlestick by the schoolroom shelves. Could she . . . ?
He jerked her arm again. "Don't even think about it. I'd rather not kill you, but I will if I have to. I've killed before, so don't think I haven't the stomach for it."
Mr. Stockley shoved the heavy chair away from the door to the hidden passage.
"You couldn't have killed Lord Randall—you were too young."
He pushed Emma against the wall, holding her there with the weight of his body while he reached up with his left hand and felt along one of the high shelves.
"Of course I didn't kill him—that was my father."
"William?" Emma felt sick. Had Mr. Stockley killed the man Charles had assigned to watch him?
"The footman? No, I just knocked him out. Men, especially big brawny idiots like your William, underestimate my quickness and strength. He's trussed up safely in my wardrobe. Ah."
The door swung open. Emma stared at the dirty, dark, spider-filled passage. Mr. Stockley was not going to make her go in there, was he?
"I killed the present marquis's brother, of course— and his wife and servants. I paid Atworthy well to spy on them—he told me they had taken the jewels to Italy. I tore that carriage apart, went through all their bloody belongings. Atworthy lied. He meant to steal the jewels himself. He admitted it before I skewered him."
Mr. Stockley's knife pricked Emma again. This time she was certain it had drawn blood.
"I see."
"Not for long."
Mr. Stockley shoved her in the small of her back. She stumbled into the passage.
"I hope you don't mind the dark, Miss Peterson. I neglected to leave you a candle."
"But, you can't—"
"Ah, but I can."
He slammed the door in her face. She heard the scrape of the heavy chair being pushed back into place.
She bit her lip. She would not give Mr. Stockley the satisfaction of hearing her scream.
Chapter 17
Where the hell was Emma? Charles looked over the ballroom again. Could he have missed her? She was short.
"Aunt, have you seen Emma?"
"Hmm. Now that you mention it, no, I haven't. Perhaps she's in the ladies' retiring room. I'm sure she'll be back shortly."
Charles nodded and went off to play host, asking Miss Russell to dance. He'd already partnered each of the Farthington twins. At least he hoped he had danced with each one and not just one twice. They had dressed exactly alike tonight, even down to the same color ribbon in their hair.
Miss Russell was too intimidated by his presence or too polite to object when he spent most of their dance scanning the ballroom for Emma. He did not see her. Surely no woman could spend thirty minutes or more in the retiring room?
He hadn't seen Stockley, either. Damn. He was glad he'd put William to watching the man. The footman was an amateur pugilist. He should be able to handle Stockley. Still, he'd be happier if he saw Stockley's ugly face in the ballroom.
He deposited Miss Russell with the Farthington twins at the end of their set and went in search of the Duchess of Alvord. He'd ask Sarah to look for Emma.
He found her with her husband and Robbie.
"Ah, the newly betrothed." James grinned. "Congratulations, Charles. I highly recommend the married state."
Robbie rolled his eyes. "I'm going to have to find new friends. You are both becoming as dull as ditch-water."
"Perhaps you should consider joining us." James grinned.
Robbie shook his head. "Not I. I'm too young for parson's mousetrap." He laughed. "Where is Emma, Charles? Fm surprised she's not at your side."
"I was wondering the same thing. Have any of you seen her?"
"No, I don't think so." Sarah frowned. "Would you like me to
check the retiring room?"
"Please."
"Are you worried something has happened to Emma, Charles? "James asked as Sarah hurried out of the room.
"No. Well, yes. I don't see Stockley either." Charles reminded himself William was shadowing Stockley, but the thought did little to settle his churning stomach.
"Surely you can't think Emma would prefer Stock-ley to you?" Robbie took another glass of champagne from a passing servant. "She's not so jingle-brained."
"No, I don't think that."
"You think Stockley poses some danger?" James's tone was sharp.
"Perhaps." Charles could tell James was thinking of his cousin, Richard, who had kidnapped and almost raped Sarah in the spring. "I'm certain it's nothing like you faced. I just don't like the man." Where was Emma? He looked around the ballroom again. Surely she should be back now.
"And?" Robbie asked.
"And?"
'There is obviously something else you are not telling us."
Charles shrugged. "Well, there have been some odd occurrences."
"Odd occurrences?" James's eyebrows shot up.
"Yes. Someone has been using Knightsdale's hidden passages."
Robbie choked on his champagne. "I didn't know Knightsdale had hidden passages."
"Neither did I, so whoever is prowling the estate knows more about it than I do."
"Well, that's not a surprise." Robbie took another sip. "Both your father and your brother kept you in the dark there."
"To be fair, I wasn't much interested in Knightsdale affairs." He felt a tap on his arm and turned to see Sarah. She did not have Emma with her.
"I'm sorry, Charles. I couldn't find her. I did ask a servant. He said she'd received a note and left a half hour or more ago."
"Damn. Uh, your pardon, Sarah." Charles did not like having Emma and Stockley both missing. Who would have sent Emma a note?
He felt James's hand on his shoulder. "Can we help, Charles? Robbie and I will be happy to look for Emma."
"Or Stockley," Robbie said.
"No. It is probably only a coincidence that they are both absent. Most likely one of my nieces wanted Emma. I'll just go upstairs to check. I'm sure there's nothing to worry about."
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