by Amanda Quick
It would take a good deal to overwhelm Emma, Edison thought. But it was possible that she had had enough of the demands of her new position for a while and had given herself the afternoon off.
Nevertheless, he had sent a message with specific instructions for her to be ready at five. She was only a few minutes late, he thought, glancing at the hall clock. Perhaps he was overreacting. Some women made a point of keeping a man waiting. It was the fact that no one seemed to know precisely where she was that bothered him the most. It occurred to him for the first time that he did not know all that much about Emma Greyson. She might well have friends here in Town. Or a lover.
The thought hit him with the force of a thunderbolt. What if Emma had gone out alone to meet a man? And what business was it of his if she had? In spite of the circumstances, she considered him her employer, not her fiancé. And that was exactly what he was, he reminded himself, her employer.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “She cannot be far off. I shall go and look for her.”
“But where will you?” Letty broke off as the front door opened. She beamed. “Here she is now.”
Emma walked through the doorway and came to a halt at the sight of the small group gathered in the hall.
“Oh dear,” she murmured a bit too innocently. “Am I late?”
“Yes,” Edison said. “Where the devil have you been?” He caught sight of Letty’s elevated brow and immediately regretted the tone of his voice. Newly engaged men did not speak that way to their fiancées, he reminded himself. He had to remember his role in this charade. He cleared his throat. “I was a trifle concerned.”
“I took a walk,” she said airily, heading for the stairs. “I’m afraid I went a little farther than I had planned. Don’t worry, it won’t take me more than a few minutes to change. I shall be ready shortly, sir.”
Edison studied her critically as she dashed up the stairs. She looked slightly flushed, perhaps from her exertions. She had no doubt quickened her pace on the way back to Letty’s house because she had realized that she was late.
But that same degree of warmth could have been caused by a man’s lovemaking. she had looked just as heated when he himself had kissed her. He caughtt a glimpse of her kid half-boots as she went up the steps. They were stained with a reddish mud. The paths in the park were covered with ggravel. Wherever it was that she had gone, it had been a good deal farther than the park.
Chapter Thirteen
“Lady Mayfield was right.” Edison’s mouth curved with icy satisfaction as he led Emma out onto the dance floor later that evening. “You are, indeed, a sensation.”
“Do not be deceived, sir. The ton finds me temporarily fascinating only because of the circumstances of our engagement. Most of Lady Ames’s guests believe that I really am a murderess. They cannot imagine why you would choose to save me from the hangman’s noose.”
Edison looked unconcerned. “It will give them something to talk about while we pursue our inquiries.”
Who would have thought that she would one day find herself dancing the night away in the arms of the most intriguing man she had ever met? Emma thought. Her gown was a delicious confection of pale green. Her hair was studded with small green leaves fashioned of silk. She was back in the fairy tale.
Edison, of course, was his usual devastatingly elegant self. She wondered where he had learned the trick of looking so formidable and so perfectly attired at the same time. He danced with a powerful, effortless grace. His dark hair gleamed in the light of the chandeliers.
She could not wait to write a letter to her sister telling her all of the details of this night. It was strange, and a bit disconcerting, to find herself on the dance floor rather than watching from the side of the ballroom. It was even more disturbing to find herself dancing with Edison. The moment would have been a good deal more enjoyable, possibly even thrilling, if it were not for the fact that her employer was in a foul mood. He had been in one all afternoon.
He had kept his expression polite during the ritual afternoon promenade, but she knew that was for the sake of onlookers. After a few polite attempts to make conversation, she had abandoned the effort and ignored him for the duration of the forty minutes they had spent displaying themselves to the ton in the park.
His temper had not improved much by the time he had arrived at Miranda’s ball to join Letty and Emma. The music swelled in the lilting strains of the waltz. Edison swung Emma smoothly into a long, gliding turn. She was intensely aware of his hand, strong and warm, on her back. The expensive gowns of the other ladies on the dance floor whirled past like so many gossamer jellyfish caught in the waves of an invisible sea. But for Edison’s dark mood, it would have been a magical evening.
Emma’s patience evaporated.
“I vow, you are no better than any of my previous employers,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?” He brought her to an abrupt halt near the terrace doors. “What are you talking about?”
“Under normal circumstances it would not matter, of course. No one expects employers to be civil to employees.” She gave him a steely smile. “However, in this instance, I feel obliged to point out that you may be ruining the very impression you wish to create.”
She saw the glint of irritation in his eyes and knew that he comprehended her meaning perfectly.
“Let’s go outside.” He seized her arm. “I feel the need of some fresh air.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Stokes.”
“Do not, whatever you do, use that tone of voice with me.”
“What tone is that, sir?”
“The one that makes you sound as though you are addressing a recalcitrant idiot.”
“I assure you, sir, I do not think of you as an idiot, recalcitrant or otherwise,” she murmured as he swept her out onto the terrace. “Difficult, moody, and occasionally rude, but definitely not an idiot.”
He slanted her an enigmatic glance. “Just one more difficult employer in a long line of the species, is that it?”
“Indeed.” She smiled coolly. “By the bye, have you completed my reference yet?”
“No, I have not.”
“You did promise to write one straight off,” she said reproachfully.
“We struck a bargain, if you will recall.”
His hand tightened on her arm. “I have not forgotten the terms.”
“Ouch.”
“Sorry.” The line of his jaw was rigid. Nevertheless, he slackened his grip and brought her to a halt at the edge of the terrace. “I’ve been extremely busy since we returned to Town. I have not yet had time to attend to the matter of writing your reference.”
“Are you certain you don’t want to borrow some copies of the ones I wrote myself? It really will make it much simpler for you.”
He looked out over the night-shrouded gardens. “Miss Greyson, if you want my signature on your bloody reference, you will allow me to pen it myself.”
She said nothing.
He turned slightly, braced one mirror-polished boot on the low stone wall, and studied her with unreadable eyes. “Since we are discussing our relationship as employer and employee, I may as well take this opportunity to inform you that I do not want you to go off on your own again the way you did this afternoon.”
From out of nowhere anger exploded within her, a bright, hot shower of fireworks that would have done credit to Vauxhall Gardens.
“Mr. Stokes, you go too far. Every employee is entitled to an afternoon off at least once a week. Even the meanest of my previous employers granted that much.”
“I hardly think you can complain that I am an overly demanding employer. I doubt that you were so well dressed in any of your other posts.” He frowned at the low neckline of her gown. “Although, I will point out that you were a good deal more modestly attired before you took this position.”
“Lady Mayfield assures me this gown is in the first stare of fashion.”
“Stare is a particularly appropriate word, Miss Greyson. Ever
y man in the room has stared at your bosom this evening.”
“I’ll admit that the livery you have provided for this post is superior to what I have worn in my other positions, but that does not—”
“Livery?” He gave the jewel-toned silk skirts a meaningful look. “You dare call that gown livery. Livery is what footmen wear.”
“As far as I am concerned, livery is what an employer requires an employee to wear. The gowns that I am obliged to wear in my role as your fiancée constitute livery so far as I am concerned.”
He leaned closer. She could see the dangerous glitter in his narrowed eyes, but she refused to give in to the urge to step back.
“Miss Greyson, am I correct in saying that the gown you have on tonight cost me a good deal more than you received in wages in your last three posts combined?”
“Indeed, it did, sir.” She raised a gloved finger. “Actually, that brings up another point I wish to discuss with you. I assume that when I have completed my duties, you will have no particular need of the gowns and bonnets you have purchased for me to wear.”
“Of course I won’t need them.”
“Then I would like to ask you if you would allow me to keep them after I leave your service.”
“Do you really think that you will have any occasions to wear a closetful of expensive ball gowns in your next post, Miss Greyson?”
“Highly unlikely.” She forced herself not to succumb to the wretched feeling she got whenever she considered the prospect of leaving Edison’s service. “But I suspect I may be able to pawn some of them.”
“Bloody hell.” He sounded genuinely incensed. “You intend to pawn the gowns I bought for you?”
“It is not as if they have some sentimental value, sir.”
“I see.” He caught her chin on the edge of his hand. “What sort of gift would you consider to have sentimental value?”
“Sir, we are straying from the topic—”
“Answer my question. What sort of gift would you consider sentimental, Miss Greyson?”
He was even angrier than she was. She did not understand it, but she had a feeling discretion might be the better part of valor. He was, after all, her employer. She could not afford to lose this post.
“Well, I suppose I would consider a book of poetry or a pretty handkerchief to have some personal, sentimental value,” she said cautiously.
“A book of poetry?”
“I enjoy Byron enormously,” she went on hastily. “I am also very fond of horrid novels, especially those by Mrs. York. I vow, she writes the most exciting tales of dark mysteries.”
Something in his eyes made her stop quite suddenly. For an instant she thought she had made a serious miscalculation. So much for trying to placate him. Edison looked furious. But even as she watched him warily, she could see him apply the full force of his iron control to his temper.
“You’re right, Miss Greyson,” he said much too evenly. “We stray from the topic. I believe we were discussing my new instructions. From now on, you will not disappear for hours on end. You will make certain that you are accompanied by someone whenever you leave the house, and you will inform the housekeeper where you are going and precisely when you will return.”
Her sensible notions of placating him went out the window. She could not remember the last time she had been so furious. “You have no right to give me orders of that nature. My free time is my own. You are not my husband, sir.”
“No. I am not your husband. I am your employer.” He gave her a grim smile. “And you need this post very badly, so you will obey my instructions. I do not think there is anything else to be said.”
“Quite right. You have said more than enough.” She whirled and started toward the open doors.
He reached out and caught her arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To the ladies’ withdrawing room, Mr. Stokes. I trust that meets with your approval. Or are you going to forbid me to attend to matters of a personal nature while I am in your employ?”
His mouth tightened. There was not enough light to allow Emma to tell whether or not he had turned a dull red, but she rather thought he had. Served him right.
Edison inclined his head very formally. “When you return I shall meet you near the foot of the stairs. We have spent enough time here tonight. I do not want Miranda to think that we are so eager for her invitations. Best to keep her uncertain. She is far more likely to give herself away if she remains anxious.”
“I understand, sir.” Damn his eyes, she thought. She could be just as formal and correct. “I shall look for you near the staircase.”
She did not look back as she swept into the crowded ballroom.
A few minutes later she emerged from the withdrawing room and walked back toward the main staircase. She was pleased with herself. She had her emotions back under control and her thoughts in logical order once more.
It worried her that Edison seemed to have an increasingly unsettling effect on her emotions. It was not wise for her to spend any longer in his employ than necessary, she thought. The sooner he completed his inquiries, the sooner she would get paid and the sooner this entire affair would be finished. It was in her own best interests to do everything she could to assist him.
The music and the hum of conversation reverberated up from the ballroom below. She glanced down the hall and noticed the darkness that marked the servants’ staircase. As she watched she saw a familiar figure emerge from a room and disappear into the gloom. Swan.
A flicker of curiosity shot through her. She wondered why Miranda’s devoted footman had not bothered to take a candle to light his way along the darkened stairs. She paused. It was almost as if Swan did not want anyone to see him, she thought. Which brought up the obvious question of why he was attempting to conceal himself in the very house where he was employed. Swan was part of the mystery that surrounded Miranda. Emma knew it with a certainty that defied logic. His secretive behavior tonight aroused her intuition. It would not hurt to follow him and see what he was about.
She hesitated a moment longer and then made her decision. Turning, she went quietly down the hall. When she reached the servants’ staircase, she peered into the gloom. There was no sign of Swan. He had disappeared into a well of dense shadows. She gripped the banister firmly and went cautiously down the narrow, twisting steps. When one tread groaned softly beneath her foot, she froze. But Swan did not loom up out of the darkness to confront her.
After a moment she continued downward, past the ballroom floor, all the way down to the ground floor. She used the toe of her dancing slippers to feel for the edge of each step. It would be extremely embarrassing to tumble headfirst down the servants’ stairs here in Miranda’s house, she thought. Edison would no doubt be annoyed.
A short time later she emerged in the back hall. There was a door that opened onto the large garden. She could see the dark shapes of the hedges through sidelight windows. She paused again in the shadows and listened intently. The ballroom was now above her. She could still hear the music, muffled though it was by the ceiling. The voices of arriving and departing guests echoed from the front hall. They sounded very far away.
There was enough moonlight filtering through the windows to allow her to see the door directly across from her. The library, perhaps. Or a study. Just the sort of room where one might hide a valuable book.
She wondered why Edison had not thought to search the house during the ball. Now that the notion had struck her, it seemed an obvious course of action. There was no reason she could not carry out the task herself. How hard could it be to search a library for an ancient manuscript?
Before she could lose her nerve, she crossed the hall and twisted the doorknob. If there was anyone inside to take exception to her entrance, she could always claim to have gotten lost looking for the ladies’ withdrawing room.
She opened the door and slipped inside. Shafts of moonlight poured through a bank of high Palladian windows, creating geometric shapes o
n the carpet. The walls were lost in dense shadows, but the large globe, the decorative classical busts, and the broad desk told her that she was, indeed, in a library. There were very few books on the shelves that lined the walls, she noticed. Miranda obviously followed the current fashion, which held that books were not a terribly important component of the properly decorated library.
She decided to start her search with the desk. It stood squarely in a patch of silvery moonlight, and it seemed a likely place to hide a stolen volume. She hurried across the room. Her kid dancing slippers made no sound on the soft carpet. She circled the desk and opened the first drawer. Disappointment struck immediately when she saw only an array of quills and extra bottles of ink inside.
The next two drawers revealed nothing more mysterious than a stack of foolscap and a scattering of calling cards and invitations. The last drawer, the one on the bottom, was locked.
Excitement bubbled up inside her. There was something important in the bottom drawer. Why else would Miranda have taken the trouble to lock it?
She reached up to her elegantly dressed hair and cautiously removed one of the green silk leaves. The pin the hairdresser had used to secure the decoration might work on the lock. It would not be the first time that she had used a hairpin to unlock a desk drawer, she reflected. In the last few months of her long life, Granny Greyson had grown increasingly befuddled and forgetful. She had developed the unshakable conviction that the local vicar was determined to steal her few valuables. Whenever he came to visit, Granny locked her cameos, wedding ring, and the pearls her mother had given her in the drawer of her writing desk. Inevitably she had misplaced the key. She had been fretful and anxious until Emma had picked the lock and retrieved the items.
Emma slid the hairpin into the lock of Miranda’s desk. And went very still at the sound of a footstep in the hall. Someone was standing on the other side of the library door.
“It’s about time you got back, Swan.” Miranda’s voice was low and tight with anger. “What on earth took you so long?”
