by Jo Goodman
“There was money involved,” Restell said flatly.
“Why do you think so?”
“Experience suggests it. The husband that I mentioned earlier? The one who had his disobedient wife locked away?”
“Yes.”
“There was a fortune at stake. Her fortune. It was money he could not touch in any other way, established for her in trusts that their marriage contract did not alter.”
A slim smile edged the corners of Emma’s mouth upward. “Does she owe you a favor now?”
“Indeed she does.”
“Good. I’m glad you helped her.” Her smile faded. “You’re correct that money was a factor here also. The best I understand it, my grandmother had a steward who managed her estate and all aspects of her finances. My mother and father reviewed the accounts from time to time to be certain that everything was in order. When she went to Bellefaire everything came under my uncle’s control.”
“He is not that rich, Emma.”
“I know. He lost a great deal of money making bad investments.”
“And gaming.”
“Yes, I suspect from what you’ve told me that it’s so. One hopes that time spent in Lady Rivendale’s company will diminish his urge for that pursuit.”
“Do you manage all of his finances or only keep records of income and expenses related to commissions?”
“It is the latter. I have some awareness of the rest, but no responsibility for it.”
“Who does?”
“Mr. Johnston used to, but when he was released the responsibility was given to solicitors. Meriwether and Stock-well.”
“I am not familiar with them.”
She shrugged. “You cannot know everyone.” Emma smoothed her chemise over her knees. “May I inquire about the sketches you showed me?”
“Of course.”
“I want to know how you came upon that particular cottage, and what suggested to you that I was held there. By your own admission there are many in the countryside like it.”
“It was surprisingly simple. It is where Kincaid—Billy Peele, that is—lived. I learned that he was dead as soon as I showed Mr. Broadstreet the sketches. He was happy to take me to the site of Peele’s demise as well as open the cottage for me. I believe we can depend on his discretion, Emma. Mr. Matlack’s also.”
She waved that aside. “That does not concern me as I will never visit Walthamstow again. I still cannot divine why you suspected so strongly that I was held there.”
“I believe I mentioned I found bits of fabric in the bark of a nearby tree.”
“I imagine you found those after your suspicions were so clearly aroused. Am I wrong?”
“No. Predators often take their prey back to their cave. It struck me that humans are not likely to do it differently, especially if their plan is not well-conceived. It seemed to me that Peele was deviating from a plan. It made him careless.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think the abduction occurred because Peele began to think for himself.” Restell held Emma’s curious eyes steadily. “The plan, or rather the directive he was given, was to kill you.”
Emma blanched. “Or Marisol,” she whispered.
“Or Marisol.”
“But why?”
“When we know that, we shall know everything.”
“Could not Mr. Kincaid—” She stopped, collecting herself. “Billy Peele, I mean, could he not have planned the thing in its entirety? He was clever, after all. He was able to make himself welcome in a society to which he did not belong. That is no small feat. He encouraged Marisol’s attentions and arranged the assignation at Madame Chabrier’s. For all that Marisol is foolish at times, she is still no one’s fool. If anyone could have seen through his pretensions, it would be Marisol. I think we must consider that, Restell.”
Emma set her bare feet on the floor and scooted to the edge of the cushion. She clasped her hands together to keep from flinging them far and wide as she pressed her argument. “I realize that Mr. Peele did not act on his own. The men I heard from time to time on the journey to Walthamstow, neither of them was Kincaid. I know I’m right about that.”
“Perhaps you are, but I submit that you cannot know it for a fact. There are too many things you don’t remember yet.”
Emma offered her agreement, but only reluctantly. “It is entirely possible that his cousins assisted him.”
“I agree. I have men looking for them for precisely that reason. I should like to find them before they come to as bad an end as Billy.”
“One of them might be the murderer,” she said. “You must have thought of that. Why, it might not have been murder at all. You mentioned that it appeared there was a fight in the cottage. What if they fought after I left them? Blamed each another for my escape. It could be that Mr. Peele’s death was an accident. The cousins panicked and moved his body where they hoped it would not be found. They fled, then. They may well be on the continent by now.”
Restell nodded slowly, his head angled to one side as he considered the points she made. “It is not that what you say is impossible,” he said after a moment, “only that it is unlikely. I admit to contemplating something much like it during my return to London.”
“Yet you discredited your own thinking.”
“Upon my arrival, I learned that you almost drowned in Lady Rivendale’s fountain. That was certainly enough to give me pause. Who do you suspect of that bit of business if the cousins are on the continent and Billy Peele is already dead?”
Emma blinked. “Oh.”
“Indeed.”
She recovered her wits quickly. “We do not know with certainty that I was the intended victim at the fountain. I still may have been mistaken for Marisol, and do not forget that Mr. Charters was the one clobbered with the walking stick.”
Now it was Restell who offered reluctant agreement. “I do not understand the whole of it yet.” He rose from the chair. “There is one more thing I must show you.”
Emma called after him as he disappeared into the sitting room, but he didn’t respond. She got up and ran to the doorway just in time to see him go into the hallway. She did not follow further. Puzzled, she slowly retraced her steps to the wing chair and sat, this time drawing her legs toward her chest and resting her chin on her knees.
Restell was not gone long. What he had in his hands, he held behind his back. “I do not want to make more of this than it is.”
“Then I suggest you simply show it to me.”
“Do you recall what happened when I showed you the Barcelona silk handkerchief?”
She nodded. “Is it like that?”
“Yes,” he said. “And more besides.” It was as much preparation as he could give her. He watched her steel herself: her arms embraced her curled legs even more tightly. He took a few more steps toward her before he revealed what he held.
Emma stared at the satin straw bonnet. It was an exact match for Marisol’s bonnet. Even the green-and-white-striped Barcelona handkerchief was the same.
“I found it in the cottage,” Restell said. “Not in the room you identified as the place you were held, but in the room you didn’t know.” He did not think Emma’s complexion could become paler than it already was, but she was very nearly as colorless as her chemise. “Emma? Are you all right?”
She nodded slowly. “That is not something I expected to see again.”
“I understand.” He set it aside. “It’s the bonnet you wore, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” She frowned. “The handkerchief, though, that is your doing. You tacked it on.”
“I’m afraid not. I found the bonnet exactly as it is.” He reached inside his frock coat and removed a striped silk handkerchief from his pocket. Shaking it out, he showed her that it had never been cleaned. “This is the one that Hobbes found behind Madame Chabrier’s.”
Emma’s brow creased. It was difficult not to gulp air. Had the weight of dread not kept her in the chair, she would have fled the room
. “Two of them? It makes no sense.”
“It does if your attackers needed some means of identifying you or Marisol easily. That suggests that Billy Peele was not present, but left it to others to take you. The handkerchief served as a marker, if you will, that the person wearing it was indeed their target.”
“Marisol purchased that handkerchief to make the bonnet fashionable again.”
“Perhaps Peele was with her when she bought it,” Restell said. “You mentioned there were other assignations.”
Emma remained unconvinced. “I suppose that’s possible.”
“Or it may be that he simply told her he found the bonnet particularly fetching and asked her to wear it. Would she find such a suggestion flattering?”
“Certainly. I recall proposing that she should wear the black leghorn, but it was raining and she said it would be ruined. I was the one who thought of the satin straw.”
Restell shrugged. “That hardly matters. She might very well have suggested it if you had not. You simply didn’t give her time. You did mention to me that she insisted you wear her pelisse.”
“That was in aid of fooling Mr. Kincaid until the last possible moment. She wanted me to gauge his response.”
“It would seem he had another plan in mind.”
Emma pulled all of her hair over her left shoulder and absently began to plait it. “It might all be over, Restell. I know that you think what happened to Mr. Charters at Lady Rivendale’s is related to all of this, but what if it is not?”
“What if I am wrong, you mean.”
“It’s possible, isn’t it? You are not omniscient.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
Emma cocked an eyebrow at him. “I’m perfectly serious.”
Restell saw that she was. “Very well. Yes, I might be wrong. It does not mean that I’m willing to act as though I’m wrong. If Billy Peele is solely responsible for the attack and abduction, then I will have the truth of it from his cousins before I’ll allow you to go about unprotected.”
“You may never find them.”
Restell scowled at her.
“I do not mean to be discouraging,” she said, “but merely practical. You agreed they may be on the continent. And you must consider that nothing has happened to me, Marisol, or even Mr. Charters that is the least untoward for weeks now.” She tossed her plait behind her and regarded him earnestly. “In truth, Restell, the point I am making is probably moot since I cannot go anywhere without someone to attend me. I simply do not want to be afraid any longer. Can you appreciate that? I do not want to be afraid.”
Restell hesitated, then walked to her side. He sat on the arm of the chair, turned slightly toward her and laid one hand on her shoulder. She did not try to evade his touch. “Are you ever not afraid, Emma?”
She did not lift her head to look at him, but she nodded.
“Tell me about those times,” he said gently. “I think we need to have more of them.”
Emma was quiet for a long time. Without conscious thought, she leaned into Restell’s hand when he lifted it to brush her cheek. “I am not afraid now,” she said, risking a glance at him. “I am never afraid when you’re with me.”
“Never? I haven’t been certain that’s been true of late.”
She nodded faintly. “I understand, but it’s different if what I fear is myself.”
He waited, thinking she would tell him more. When she didn’t, he chose not to press. “Are there no other times, Emma?”
“None come to mind.”
“What about when you are in your uncle’s studio?” He watched her closely, gauging her reaction to the question. He suspected that in this case it was second nature not to give herself away.
“It is comfortable there, but I am not without fear.”
“Then if you are most easy when you’re with me, it seems we must endeavor to spend more time together.”
“You will not like that, Restell. I do not want you to resent my presence in every aspect of your life. Besides, it is not that I am entirely comfortable with you, only that I am not afraid. It is better, I think, that we go on as we have. You are free to go your own way of an evening as you are wont to do. It is no hardship for me to remain here.”
He chuckled. “It sounds as if it might be a hardship. Have you never wondered where I go?”
“I know where you go most of the time. I have it from your own mother. You go to the gaming hells.”
“My mother cannot know the whole truth of it, Emma. You should apply to me for the particulars.” When Restell observed that she would not ask the question even when he invited her to do so, he understood that she feared hearing the answer. His hand dropped away from her cheek. “Do you think I’ve been unfaithful?”
“No, but I think you are tempted. I smell perfume on your clothing. The tobacco and liquor. You return to our home with it on your person.”
Restell did not attempt to defend himself. “Would you like to accompany me to a gaming hell?”
Emma’s head snapped up. “Accompany you? You would permit it?”
“I would welcome it. It is immensely boring work. I suspect that it would be considerably more interesting if you were there.”
“But it is not done.”
“You cannot visit one as my wife, you understand. That is what is not done. Women of a certain reputation, though, are free to come and go. Should you like to be a woman of a certain reputation?” When she didn’t reply, he prompted, “Well?”
“I am attempting not to appear too eager.”
Restell took Emma by the wrist and stood, drawing her to her feet at the same time. “So it intrigues you,” he said. He cupped her face in his hands. “I confess, it intrigues me as well.” Smiling a trifle wickedly, he kissed her.
Emma welcomed the touch of his mouth. She closed her eyes and simply allowed herself to feel. His lips were warm and damp, and she had wanted to know the taste of his mouth again. She engaged his tongue, sucking it gently as she deepened the kiss. Flinging her arms about his neck, she stood on the tips of his toes and kept him rooted to the floor.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered against her lips when they both drew back for air. “Never doubt it.”
She nodded, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth, his jaw, then against his neck just above the line of his stiff collar.
“Never doubt it,” he said again.
Emma felt the vibration of his voice in his throat, then against her lips. She raised her face and found his mouth again. The kiss was more urgent this time, needier now than it had been only moments before. She was flush to him and wanted to be closer still. If she could fit herself inside his skin, it may not yet be close enough.
Emma knew she wanted to be inside his heart.
The sound that was torn from her throat was somewhere between a sob and a gasp. Her slender frame shuddered with the effort she made to restrain herself, and still the sound was wrenched from her. She held on tightly as Restell lifted her, and when he made to lower her to the bed, she held on then as well.
He tumbled and rolled with her. She ended up under him, slightly breathless and pinned to the bed by his weight, but when he began to move away, she shook her head. “No. It’s all right. I want to know this.”
“I will crush you.”
She smiled. “The weight of my own fears is far heavier than you are. I can still breathe.” To prove the truth of it she sucked in a mouthful of air. Her cheeks were drawn inward while her mouth formed a perfect bow that gave her a rather fishlike countenance.
Grinning, Restell kissed her.
“I suppose you would also kiss a trout,” she said.
“I would if I’d been angling for it long enough.”
“Has it been so long, then?”
Restell didn’t answer, or rather his answer was to kiss her thoroughly and allow her to draw her own conclusion. Her mouth was sweet, tasting faintly of sherry, and like the wine, the effect was intoxic
ating. Each kiss was satisfying and still not enough. He wanted more.
He slid down her body, making a damp trail with his mouth as he went. He kissed the underside of her jaw, the hollow at her throat, then lower until he reached the scooped neckline of her chemise. He paused for a moment, allowing himself to absorb the warmth and fragrance of her. Tugging lightly on the chemise, he placed a kiss on the skin he revealed.
He continued on a path that took him over the soft, delicate batiste, not under it. His mouth made a damp circle around her aureole, teasing the nipple to pebble-like hardness. He rolled it lightly between his lips until he heard her small whimper. Raising his head, he allowed her a moment’s reprieve before he turned his attention to her other breast.
Emma felt as if he’d found the cord that kept the whole of her together. When he sucked on her breast, she felt contractions in her womb. Her fingers curled into fists. Her toes simply curled. The small of her back lifted off the bed as her heels dug in. Sensation washed over her, prickling her skin and infusing her with warmth. She discovered it was possible to be hot and cold at the same time, to feel as if she were coming apart at his touch yet being made whole by it.
Her fingers threaded in Restell’s pale gold hair, and she held him loosely to her breast, stroking his head, lightly caressing the nape of his neck.
Emma knew the crisis was upon her. Pleasure pulled every one of her muscles taut. Her hands dropped to his shoulders; her fingers tightened. She schooled her breathing, hearing herself sip the air, the rhythm of each breath matching the suck of his mouth on her breast.
In the end, she closed her eyes and softly cried out his name. Her body quivered for a long moment, then was still. Warmth crept upward from her breasts to her face as her skin was flushed with color.
Restell raised his head and regarded Emma’s pink cheeks. “You blossom like a perfect rose.” When she opened one eye and added the arch of an eyebrow in her regard of him, he amended his description. “A perfectly thorny rose.”
Emma’s slight smile came and went, and she closed her eyes again, replete. The weight that was upon her now was her own heavy lethargy. She thought she might never move, nor ever want to.
