by Jo Goodman
“Ferrin will not approve of the use I’ve made of his footmen, but those three are infinitely better suited to intrigue than service.”
“Perhaps that is because you hired them.”
Restell roused himself enough to open one eye and give Hobbes benefit of his wry glance. “True, but my brother is paying their wages.”
“An excellent arrangement,” Hobbes said.
“I have always thought so.”
Chuckling, Hobbes released Restell’s right foot and let it fall to the floor. He noticed that not a drop of brandy was lost, that in fact, Restell barely stirred. “Do you wish to postpone your bath?”
He did, but the thought of falling asleep with the stink of the road upon him was equally unappealing. “No.” He finished his brandy and held out the snifter for Hobbes to take. “God’s truth, but I can still feel the horse under me.”
Hobbes stood back as Restell got to his feet. “Did you come straightaway from Walthamstow?”
Restell nodded. “I thought I would stay one night at an inn, but…” He didn’t finish. How to explain the sense of urgency he’d felt to return to London when he didn’t understand it himself? “The weather held,” he said after a moment. “It seemed a piece of good luck so I rode on.”
Hobbes did not comment. He opened the door to the dressing room and waited for Restell to follow, then he assisted Restell with the removal of his frock coat, waistcoat, and linen. While Restell stripped off the remainder of his clothes, Hobbes retrieved the warm towels. By the time he returned to the dressing room, Restell was up to his neck in water and looked as if he intended to sleep in his bath. “More hot water?”
“A little.” Restell didn’t move while Hobbes tipped the kettle and a stream of hot water was added to the copper tub. “Who was the doctor that attended Miss Hathaway? Bettany?”
“Harris, his name was.”
Restell supposed it was too much to have hoped that Lady Rivendale and Sir Arthur shared the same physician. “What do you make of the incident that landed Miss Hathaway in the drink?”
“It’s a puzzler. I watched her the whole of the evening and didn’t think she would ever leave the music salon. That was all to the better, I thought. She was safe enough there. Now, Miss Vega, by way of contrast, flitted about like the veriest butterfly. That young lady doesn’t know a stranger.”
“What prompted Miss Hathaway to go outside?”
“I couldn’t say,” Hobbes said, “not being privy to her mind, but she went to the card room after your father spoke to her, then Charters approached her and it was no time at all before she was outside.”
“Did he force her?”
“No. Leastwise not as I could tell. It seemed to me that she was happy for his company.”
Restell grunted softly.
“I do not know how their assailant moved so quickly,” Hobbes said. “I know this old peg slows me a bit, but I can still give a good chase. This villain was like a wraith. Come and gone on the back of the wind. It was not yet dark so it seemed to me that I should have seen something.”
“I believe you said the fountain blocked your view.”
“Yes. But it strikes me as a good piece of luck for the attacker to have made his approach so squarely behind the fountain. It made me wonder if he knew I was observing.”
Restell had wondered the same thing. “What was Charters’s account of the events?”
“You will want to inquire of him. I was only able to learn that he was struck down.”
“The weapon? Was it found?”
“A crystal-knobbed walking stick. A gentleman claimed it as his own but denied that he’d used it in such a fashion. There were witnesses that he was in the music salon when the attack occurred. His name is Gibson. I had no opportunity to examine the stick.”
Restell began lathering his arms and chest. “Did guests speculate about the attack?”
“I heard none of those conversations.”
“What do you believe, Hobbes? Was Charters attacked because he stood in the way of getting to Miss Hathaway, or did Miss Hathaway come to injury because she happened to be standing beside Charters?”
Hobbes was long in answering. Finally, he shook his head and shrugged a bit helplessly. “I don’t know.”
Restell nodded. It was an honest answer, but nothing about it settled well with him.
Emma sat on the piano bench with her back to the keys and studied the painting on the far wall. It was the seascape by Sir Anthony Eden that held her attention. The fine brushstrokes, the liberal use of blue-green pigments, the careful observance of the manner in which light glanced off the waves, all of it was the hallmark of Eden. Emma knew it was not at all unusual for someone studying art to try their hand at imitating those artists whose work was admired. Learning the nuances of color and light and brushwork required instruction and application, and application meant practicing the techniques used by others. Often, the most effective way to do this was by copying a painting.
Emma had observed the students her uncle mentored imitating his style as they began to experiment and develop their own. She wondered if that’s what she was seeing here. If it was indeed the work of a student, it was well-done and most likely sanctioned by the artist. Sir Arthur did not permit his students to remove the works they copied from his studio. He required them to paint over the work. As a consequence, a single canvas might have two or even three complete paintings beneath the one visible to the eye.
“Miss Hathaway?”
Lost in thought, Emma was slow to recognize that she was being summoned. She swiveled on the bench and saw Lady Rivendale’s housekeeper standing in the doorway. “Yes, Mrs. Posey?”
“You have a visitor, Miss Hathaway. Mr. Gardner wishes to speak to you. Will you receive him?”
Emma’s fingers curled around the edge of the bench. She did it so that she might keep her seat. “Has Lady Rivendale been informed?”
“She is gone from home.”
Emma could not imagine that Lady Rivendale would object to a visitor, but she did not want to overstep. “Please tell Mr. Gardner he should return when Lady Rivendale is here.”
“If you like,” Restell said from behind the housekeeper. “But I’ll see you now as well. Please, step aside, Posey.”
The housekeeper looked in such a misery of indecision that Emma took pity on her. “It’s all right, Mrs. Posey. I will see Mr. Gardner now.”
Restell slipped past the housekeeper before she had completely given way and closed the pocket doors firmly behind him. He made a quick appraisal of Emma first, and upon assurance that she was all of a piece, his eyes followed the same head-to-toe path again, this time as a study.
Emma suffered the inspection, her mouth flattened in a disapproving line to emphasize that she had no patience for his scrutiny.
Restell was having none of it. “I might do the same, you know. Your mouth is all priggish displeasure and your eyes are…well, let us say they are betraying a like interest in my person.”
If anything, her expression became more severe. “Can you not see that I am mocking you?”
“You are?” His head tilted to one side as he entertained the possibility. “No, I don’t think that’s so. You were regarding me with the same careful attention you give to the examination of a painting. I am choosing to be flattered.”
Emma threw up her hands. “It is not possible to offend you.”
“I had not considered it, but you may well be right.”
Not wanting to be at a disadvantage as Restell approached, Emma shot to her feet. She was unhappily aware that his slow, deliberate advance pulled every one of her nerves taut. Had she ever been so anxious in his presence? Emma did not think so, not like this, not when anticipation was part of what she felt. This was not the dread she experienced when stepping past the threshold of her own home, but that hopeful, pins-and-needles state she knew when she was in expectation of something good coming her way.
Of something very good.
The moment he inclined his head, Emma rose on tiptoes. Her arms went around his neck with enough force to bring her body flush to his. His hands at the small of her back held her there. She lifted her face and the distance that separated their mouths ceased to exist. When he whispered her name, it was as if she could taste the sound of it on her lips.
She was delighted to learn her name tasted like warm brandy.
Restell edged Emma backward against the pianoforte, and her hip brushed the keys. Neither of them noticed the oddly discordant accompaniment to their kiss, nor would they have done anything differently if they had.
This kiss would suffer no trivial interruption.
There was little that was gentle in the press of their mouths. Need did not make much allowance for tenderness. There was heat here, and passion. Nothing about the movement of his lips across hers was hurried. He drank slowly, tempered by the knowledge that he had been thirsting for just this end for a very long time and desiring that the end should not come too quickly. Emma’s desire matched his own.
Her fingertips brushed the damp, curling ends of his hair just above his collar. The color and texture of it was so light she might have been threading sunshine. She felt him shiver, then knew a like response in herself and realized it was not a shiver at all, but a nerve plucked so sharply that the pleasure of it veered perilously close to pain. She needed him for support, for heat, for air, and as a balm for her wounded heart. Her breasts swelled, and they ached with an unfamiliar heaviness. She welcomed the cup of his hands there and the pass his thumbs made across her turgid, sensitive nipples. It never occurred to Emma to deny herself the relief his hands offered. If it was a liberty that he took, then she wished he might always make himself so free.
His tongue swept across the ridge of her teeth. She opened her mouth wider and her own tongue tangled with his. The intimacy of it made her want to weep. She held nothing back, not the tremor that he roused in her, not the harsh breath that she drew when he lifted his head.
“Emma?” He held her face in his palms, and his thumbs supported her chin. The slightest pressure raised her face. “Look at me.”
She opened her eyes and found herself staring into his. He was still so close that she imagined it was her reflection she saw in the wide, dark mirrors that his eyes had become. “You will not tell me you are sorry,” she whispered.
He shook his head. “No. I couldn’t.”
“I am not sorry, either.”
Restell’s faintly wry smile revealed a single dimple. Emma sounded a bit defiant. “Do you mean to convince yourself that’s true?”
“It is true.”
“Very well.” His voice was gentle. “Until the kiss, your greeting was not at all warm.”
“I thought you said I was studying you as closely as I would a painting.”
“Yes, but not one you particularly liked.”
“And yet you chose to be flattered. I think you enjoy being perverse.”
“I’m sure you are right.”
Emma could only shake her head. For reasons she could not comprehend, her response seemed to invite his kiss. The surprise of it was a large part of its charm since it was neither as thorough nor as heated as the last time he’d put his lips to hers. She was left with sense enough to ask, “What was that in aid of?”
Restell was not given opportunity to reply. Lady Rivendale chose that moment to make her presence known. Her raised eyebrow and artful smile was proof to even the meanest intelligence that she had observed the better part of the exchange.
“La! but I hope it was in aid of a proposal. Of marriage, I mean. That is the only sort of romantic entanglement I can support in my own home. You understand, don’t you? It is not that I am against an offer of protection, but it must not be made here.”
Restell turned slightly to face the countess. “I mean to propose both to Miss Hathaway,” he said. “Marriage and protection.”
Chapter 8
Lady Rivendale did not remain in the salon long. After assuring herself of Restell’s honorable intentions and hinting that she rather admired his unconventional approach, she ordered refreshment brought to the room and excused herself in light of other pressing matters requiring her attention.
“No doubt she wants to write a note to my mother,” Restell said once she quit the salon. “And send it by messenger at once.” He turned back to Emma and saw that his wry amusement was not shared. “Come, are you so out of sorts with me that you cannot raise a smile? Lady Rivendale means no harm. She is an enthusiastic meddler and enjoys supposing she holds considerable sway over affairs that are almost entirely beyond her control. She likely believes she is responsible for just this end, though how that is remotely possible is incomprehensible to me.”
Emma gave him the sharp edge of her tongue. “Perhaps she thinks the fact that I almost drowned in her fountain is what brought you up to snuff.”
“My, but you are put out with me.”
“With you and your proposal.” Emma desired to give him her back, but she was already pressed against the pianoforte. There was no easy escape unless he allowed it. “Pray, what do you imagine my answer is?”
“As I haven’t yet put the question to you, I hope you have not set your mind on a reply. I stated my intentions to Lady Rivendale, but I have not acted upon them.”
“Are you going to?”
“I imagine that depends on whether you mean to sheathe your claws or tear another strip off me.”
At her sides, Emma’s fingers curled into her palms so the nails made half-moon impressions in her skin. She drew a deep breath and released it slowly. Both were only marginally helpful in calming her. “It would be better, I think, if you were to remove yourself to that chair across the way. I cannot leap so far as that.”
Restell appreciated the warning. He was not at all certain he should turn his back on her while he made his way to the chair, but he chose to do so because if she spied his grin she would claw at him. By the time he was seated, Emma was once again on the piano bench. Her hands lay in her lap, though neither of them was open. She kept them curled in fists, rhythmically squeezing them so the knuckles turned pink and white by turns.
Before Restell could put any question to her, Emma asked, “When did you return to London?”
“This morning.”
“This morning? But it is not yet eleven. Did you ride all night?”
“I did.”
It was not a trick of the light, she saw, that placed pale shadows beneath his eyes, but the unenviable stamp of weariness. “I did not realize,” she said quietly. “I should have seen it at once.”
“You were not meant to see it at all. It is unimportant.”
“I don’t think so.” It was his eyes that she’d noticed when he came upon her. His eyes studying her. She’d been so caught by the intensity of his gaze, the heat of it, that she failed to notice what lay beneath. “Why?” she asked. “You might have stopped along the way.”
Shrugging, Restell offered a partial truth. “I already had spent more time in Walthamstow than was my wont. Perhaps you can appreciate my desire to return.”
“How did you find me here?”
“Hobbes told me.”
“Did he tell you that he saved my life?”
“That is not quite how he regards it. He thinks his inattention is the reason you almost drowned.”
Emma shook her head most vehemently. “That isn’t so. No blame can be attached to him.”
“I didn’t say I blamed him. Only that he blamed himself.”
“What happened to me was an accident. Didn’t he explain that it was Mr. Charters who was attacked?”
“He explained that Charters was hit in the head. Did you see the attacker?”
“No. And I didn’t hear him, either. I was looking at the fountain. It all happened very quickly. One moment Mr. Charters was laughing, then he was falling. I tried to assist him, but he was too heavy for me. There was no opportunity for me to move
out of the way. When he fell on top of me, I couldn’t lift him. It was Sergeant Hobbes who managed it, else I would have drowned.”
“Emma, has it occurred to you that you might have been the intended victim?”
“Of course it occurred to me, but I dismissed it. Mr. Charters was struck, not I.”
“You should consider that was the accident,” Restell said. “The assailant aimed badly, or more likely, struck Charters first to remove the threat he presented. When he fell against you, and you could not remove yourself, the attacker was able to flee without striking a second blow. He believed you would drown.”
“No.” Emma’s response was immediate and firm. “No, it couldn’t be thus.”
“Why do you persist in believing that you are not the one threatened?”
Agitated, Emma’s fingers splayed across her lap. Her palms were damp. “Can you not understand what a terrible thing it is to contemplate?”
“You are the common thread in both attacks. Is it less terrible to believe that your cousin or Mr. Charters is the intended target?”
“No. No, of course not. There is nothing about this that settles easily on my mind. Who could hate any one of us so much that he would be moved to murder?”
“I doubt that hate is the motive.”
“No? Then what? Not money. If you are right and I was left to drown, then the point of the attack was that I should die, not be taken and held for ransom.”
“That is not entirely clear, not when Hobbes was on the scene so quickly. There is the possibility that his presence chased your would-be abductor away.”
“It is all speculation.”
Restell gauged she had heard as much as she could and did not press further. “It cannot be anything else without facts.”
Emma smoothed her muslin gown across her lap. It served to dry her damp palms. “You have not told me what you found in Walthamstow.”
“That will have to be left to a later time. I have sketches for you to consider. It was what required that I spend so much time there. I hired a local man with a modest talent for drawing and watercolor to make a number of drawings for me.”
