by Donna Hatch
“Sir?”
He gestured to Clark who followed, smiling. “This is Clark. He works for me, too. Clark, Maggie—our new cook.” He looked Clark in the eye sternly. “Don’t even think about touching her.”
“I understand.” Clark gave Maggie toothy smile.
She nodded in return. Grant went home with his ragtag entourage. He couldn’t save them all, but he’d saved these two. For now.
They stopped by Maggie’s room, which she shared with two other girls, so she could get her personal items. Grant gave her an advance on her salary so she could pay her share of the rent for the rest of the month and give her former roommates more money to pay for medicine, not that it would matter. No doubt her friend ailed with the kind of fatal disease that often claimed women of their profession. Grant waited outside the room while she gathered her things and said goodbye to her friends.
When they arrived at Grant’s apartments, Maggie gazed around in open-mouthed appreciation. “Ye really are a fine gentleman, ain’t ye?”
Grant glanced around his rooms, sparse by Amesbury standards, certainly small and plain compared to the house in Cornwall he’d bought when he’d first returned to England, but luxurious to someone like Maggie. “Don’t tell anyone.”
She nodded. “Is your name really Mr. Grant?”
“Grant Amesbury.”
“I always knew there was more to ye than you let on, Mr. Grant Amesbury.”
With Clark’s help, he got Maggie settled in a nook behind the kitchen. What would Jocelyn think if she knew he’d just brought home a prostitute to be his cook? He almost smiled. Actually, she’d probably approve, considering the help he’d seen her give to the downtrodden.
As Grant stripped off his clothes to prepare for bed, Clark entered. “Message for you. Urgent. From Jackson.”
Jackson’s surprisingly elegant handwriting penned a brief note:
Suspect found. Will interrogate tonight at Fairley’s.
J
Jackson was not going to do it alone, not after what happened to Connolly. Without hesitating, Grant donned his usual garb for prowling the streets, including a few lengths of cord, a pair of handcuffs, two loaded handguns, and three knives. As he strode through the main room, Maggie peeked out. Her hair was down and recently brushed giving her an innocent, childlike appearance.
He paused at the door. “Don’t mind me, Maggie. I come and at go all hours.”
She nodded as she perused his change of attire. “Yes, sir.”
“If you need anything, call Clark. Keep the door locked and don’t leave these rooms.”
“Yes, sir.”
He left his apartments and headed to Mayfair. To Fairley’s house. Where Jocelyn would be. The thought of seeing her again sent fissions of excitement and dread straight to his heart where they swirled like hurricane. With any luck, she’d be asleep in her bed, unaware of Grant and the ever increasing difficulty of resisting her. And the embarrassment of having bared his soul.
Chapter 26
Jocelyn tossed and turned in her bed, alternating hot, then cold, then simply uncomfortable. Her bed seemed too lumpy, her pillow too full, the fire too bright. Wind in the eaves howled like ghosts. Images of Grant haunted her. She visualized him as a young officer, his silvery eyes bright with hope and love, in the arms of a beautiful siren who’d seduced him only to crush his heart before delivering him to torturers.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, wetting her pillow. How he must have suffered, knowing the woman he loved—probably the only women he’d ever loved—had used him, lied to him, betrayed him.
Finally, Jocelyn tossed back the counterpane and got out of bed. She fell to her knees at her bedside and prayed. She had begun praying more since her mother’s death, seeking and finding comfort. But tonight she poured out her desires as never before, asking that Grant’s wounded heart would be healed and that he would find peace. Most of all, she asked for guidance in knowing how to help him and reach him and love him in a way he could accept.
No inspiration came to her but at least her mind quieted. She sat staring at the red coals.
He’d been so quiet after he’d told her about Isabel. And he’d left immediately. Did he still wrestle with the painful memories of the past? Or did he regret sharing such a personal part of himself with her?
She dried her tears. It was late and she needed to sleep, but despite her weariness of soul, sleep remained far away. Perhaps tea would help. Normally, she’d ring for her maid, but it was the middle of the night. No one deserved to be dragged out of bed at that hour.
For modesty’s sake, she donned a dressing gown over her shift. Taking up a candle, she stepped into slippers and stole downstairs. The pale candlelight illuminated a lone footman dozing in a chair. He started at her approach and scrambled to his feet but she waved him off.
Inside the kitchen, a stove sat cold, but a few embers still glowed in the hearth. Within minutes, she’d stirred the fire and nestled a cup of water amid the tiny flames. She settled at wooden table in a corner of the kitchen to wait for the water to heat.
A step outside caught her attention. The kitchen door swung open and a figure entered, closing the door softly behind.
“Who’s there?” Jocelyn called out softly.
A feminine yelp broke the stillness. “Oi! You scared me.”
Jocelyn stood and held her candle aloft to see better. One of the parlor maids, Emma, stood with her hands crossed over her chest and gasping.
The pretty girl stared back at her with wide eyes. “Miss Fairley?”
“Emma? What are you doing out at this hour?”
The girl cast a frantic glance behind her. “I…I was jes…ah…”
“The truth now, and be quick about it.”
For a second, so quickly that she might have imagined it, pure loathing crossed the girl’s features. Then her expression dissolved into true fear. “Oh, please, miss, don’t sack me. I was out…er…visiting a friend.”
“A friend. In the middle of the night.”
The girl wrung her hands together. “Yes, miss.”
Jocelyn wrapped her dressing gown more tightly around herself and folded her arms. “A man,” she guessed. “A lover, then.”
“Yes, miss.” She took a few steps toward Jocelyn, her gaze pleading and her hands clasped together. “Please, please. I need the work. He wants to marry me, but we don’t have the money. Soon, though. We’ve both been trying ever so hard to save what we can. Please don’t send me away in disgrace.”
The butler and the head housekeeper had no qualms about dismissing servants caught engaging in unseemly behavior. Yet Jocelyn couldn’t bring herself to do it. To create a moment to think, she gestured to the other chair. “Please sit.”
The maid obeyed and sat with her head lowered. With a cloth, Jocelyn fished her tin cup out of the burning embers and added loose tea leaves, sugar and milk.
As she set her cup on a table and took her seat, Jocelyn asked. “What is his name?”
The maid hesitated. “Peter.”
“How do you know Peter loves you, really loves you?”
The girl raised her head. “He tells me. And sometimes he brings me little gifts, not much, mind you, but now and again a flower, a bit of sweets, a ribbon for my hair—little tokens that tell me he thinks of me. He took me to the country to meet his ma. But most of all, I feel it in his touch, in his kiss.”
Jocelyn absently stirred her tea. Grant never brought her anything, never spoke words of love. However, he protected her from a cutthroat and saved her from a fall. He touched her tenderly. He’d even opened up to her about deeply personal hurts. His kiss…well, if that wasn’t an outpouring of something very close to love, she couldn’t imagine what it was. But it wasn’t enough. He didn’t want her in his life. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
“I envy you,” she whispered.
“Me? You have everything.”
Jocelyn’s vision blurred and cleared and blurred again. “I would g
ive it all—if only he loved me.” If only he cared enough to love her, enough to want her as his wife.
The truth of her words shot through her. She wanted to be his wife. She longed to share his life with him, to be at his side for all he would face, his joys and sorrows, and all that tormented him. If only he would allow her in. But tonight he’d shared a very personal part of himself with her. He’d taken a huge step. That was a good sign, right?
Emma murmured, “Love is all I’d ’oped it would be, but it don’t fill an empty belly.”
The girl’s frankness took Jocelyn by surprise. She countered, “Food doesn’t fill an empty heart.”
“No, I s’pose not.” Emma’s mouth worked. “Am I sacked?”
“No, you may keep your job. I won’t say anything as long as you continue to be discreet.”
“Yes, miss. Thank you, miss.” But for some reason, she didn’t appear as grateful as Jocelyn would have expected.
“Good night, Emma.”
“Good night, miss.”
Jocelyn sat in the darkened kitchen and drank her tea alone with her thoughts.
Once again, a step at the door roused her. The door swung open. This time, a large, distinctly male figure entered. He stopped short.
“Miss Fairley?” Connor Jackson came closer. “What are you doing up so late?”
“Drinking tea and having chats with maids.”
“Emma White. What did she tell you?”
“She was meeting her lover.”
“Yes, but not how you think—at least, not tonight. They, and several other people went into the basement of a pub for some kind of meeting.”
“What kind of meeting?”
“I don’t know yet. But I mean to find out—they were very secretive about it. I’ll question her.” He drew nearer, as grim and determined an expression as she’d ever seen on Grant.
“Now? It’s the middle of the night.”
“Now. We must act quickly if we are to save lives.”
“You think this meeting means she is involved?”
“Maybe. All I know is that someone in your household is helping to plant evidence to implicate your father. And her activities tonight are suspicious.”
“Very well. I’ll go with you.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ve already sent for aid in case she puts up a fight.”
At that moment, a soft tap sounded before the door swung open. A familiar figure crept in, silent as a shadow.
Jocelyn leaped to her feet. “Grant.”
He stopped short. “What are you doing up?”
“Having a cup of tea.” She folded her arms, trying to appear as if having tea in the kitchen wearing her shift and dressing gown, and engaging in conversation with a Bow Street Runner in the wee hours of the night were everyday occurrences.
Grant and Jackson exchanged glances. “The maid is spirited,” Jackson said. “She’ll probably put up a fight.”
“Lead the way.”
“No.” Jocelyn put herself in their path. “I will not allow two men to barge into her room and terrorize her.”
Grant’s eyes narrowed and his tone was defensive. “We aren’t going to terrorize her—just ask her some questions. She’s less likely to run or fight if she sees she’s outnumbered.”
“Fine. But I will talk to her first. You two wait in the corridor and block her path if she tries to run.” She stood with her hands fisted at her sides, ready to do battle if she must.
Grant’s mouth softened in…admiration? He glanced at Jackson who shrugged.
“Agreed,” Grant said. He picked up the candle burning on the table and gestured for her to proceed him.
Leading the way up the servants’ stairs to the maids’ rooms, Jocelyn glanced ruefully down at her dressing gown and pushed self-consciously at her hair. If only she’d had some inkling of the company she’d keep tonight, she certainly would have gotten dressed and tied back her hair. Of course, Grant had already seen her in her clad thusly once before so her state of dishabille wouldn’t be new to him.
Close on her heels, Grant held the candle up so its light would illuminate the stairs well enough to navigate them. His breathing sent tingles down her spine. Her nerve endings reached toward him, urging her to turn and throw her arms around him and kiss him until he responded with that same urgent hunger she’d discovered in him. Her lips burned at the memory.
At the top of the stairs, she strode down the corridor and took the attic stairs to the maids’ rooms. Though most young ladies never ventured to the servants’ quarters, Jocelyn had explored every inch of both of her houses when she was a youth, and she knew the way well. The air got progressively colder as she climbed, but by the time she reached the top, her leg muscles had warmed in exertion.
In the rough, wooden corridor, she hesitated. Which room was Emma’s? There. A faint glimmer of light between the cracks of the door and frame. Before she took a step, Grant gestured to the same door. Nodding, she took the candle from Grant. He met her gaze. The steadiness in his eyes reassured her. She could talk to the maid, coax her into telling the truth about where she’d been and what she knew. With a quick gesture for the men to stay back, she proceeded forward.
She knocked softly. “Emma? I must speak with you.”
The parlor maid opened the door and peered out. “Miss?” Her face creased in alarm. She probably assumed Jocelyn had changed her mind about dismissing her and had come to tell her she was throwing her out on the streets.
“Emma, I need your help,” Jocelyn said barely above a whisper so as not to wake the other maids sharing her room, nor those sleeping nearby.
Emma glanced behind her before she stepped out into the corridor and closed the door. “Yes, miss?”
Aware of the thin walls, Jocelyn whispered, “Someone has accused my father of being involved in some kind of terrible conspiracy.”
The maid’s expression turned instantly guarded. “Oh.”
Her mien confirmed Grant and Jackson’s suspicions about her. But if Jocelyn could appeal to her humanity, get her to help them, they might avoid a great deal of unpleasantness. “I’m trying to prove that he’s innocent before the authorities take action. I love my father very much. He’s a good man. You know that, don’t you?”
“Er, yes, miss.”
“He has a reputation for treating those in his employ well, doesn’t he?”
She blinked. “I s’pose.”
“We think someone who works in this house has been placing documents where an investigator could find them to make it appear as if my father is involved in a murder plot. Have you seen anyone do something suspicious?”
“Er, no. Sorry miss, but I must be up early. We can talk later, can’t we?”
Irritation wove through Jocelyn. She’d caught Emma out with her lover, forgiven her instead of sacking her, and now Emma attempted to dismiss her?
Firmly she said, “No, it can’t wait. Someone followed you. They saw you and a young man go into a meeting at a pub—a meeting where others were not invited.”
Emma’s mouth opened and closed and she shifted from one foot to another. “Oh, that.” She offered a sickly smile. “That was jes some friends tossin’ back a few drinks.”
“It’s a group of people who plan to assassinate the prime minister, and you’re helping them.”
Pure fear twisted the maid’s expression. With a leap, she rushed toward the stairs and pushed Jocelyn so hard that she stumbled and fell. Scuffling and a cry of alarm came from behind her. Jocelyn glanced back. At the top of the stairs, Grant and Jackson had a hold of Emma. She kicked and fought in a tumble of limbs as the two men tried to subdue her.
“Don’t hurt her!” Jocelyn cried out as she climbed to her feet.
The moment she uttered the words, shame wagged its finger at her. Grant and Jackson were not brutes who’d hurt a women. She should not have insulted their honor. The maid got off a few good punches but they finally captured all her pummeling limbs and held her fast
, clearly trying to treat their captive as gently as possible.
Emma bucked and twisted one last time as if to test her captors before she finally relaxed. She stared at the three of them with open hatred.
Nearby doors and faces peered out. Jocelyn turned to them. “Return to bed. All is well.” To the men, she said, “Let’s continue this in my father’s study. Perhaps it’s time to tell him what’s really going on.”
As Grant and Jackson hauled the angry, silent prisoner down the stairs to the study, Jocelyn tapped on her father’s bedroom door. “Papa?”
Dressed in only his shirt and trousers, he peered out. A lone lamp burned in the room behind him. At least she hadn’t awakened him. “Jocelyn? What’s amiss?”
“Trouble. Please come with me to the study.” She headed to the stairway.
He caught up with her. “What’s this all about?”
“Bow Street has uncovered a conspiracy to murder the prime minister. The conspirators have named you the leader, and have even gone so far as to place evidence in the house that implicates you. It appears one of the parlor maids, Emma White, is involved. Grant Amesbury and a Bow Street Runner have her in the study and are questioning her.”
Her father said nothing for a moment. Then, “How long have you known about this?”
“I learned of it a few days after the House Party began.”
“And Grant Amesbury. He’s been investigating me all this time?”
“From the beginning.”
He let out his breath. “The scoundrel. He’s been using you to get to me.”
The words hit too close to the mark. Still, Grant had never led her on, had never made any pretenses about how he felt. He even denied his feelings now.
“He never used me or pretended to court me. He did try to ingratiate himself to you so he could learn if you were truly involved in a murder plot. But he is satisfied you are innocent.”
He glanced at her. “You seem to be taking this very well.”
“His reasons for befriending our family do not change my feelings for him. I knew the truth before I gave him my heart.”
“You never saw fit to tell me about this conspiracy or Amesbury’s intentions?”
