by Amanda Quick
“Yes, it would.” Edison paused. “Then again, perhaps there never was a Lord Ames.”
“A good point.” Emma raised her brows. “After all, if I can invent my own references, I suppose another woman might invent a husband. But that would not explain her obvious wealth. It must come from some source.”
“Indeed. And the name of that source should prove extremely interesting.” Edison straightened away from the desk. “I shall begin making inquiries in that direction first thing in the morning. In the meantime, you and I have something else to discuss.”
Emma stiffened. “If you don’t mind, sir, I would rather not continue this conversation. It is late and I am quite exhausted.”
“Emma—”
“It has been an eventful evening,” she said hastily. “I fear I am not accustomed to the, uh, rigors of the social world. I am eager to go to my bed.”
He looked as though he would argue. She held her breath. But Edison had apparently reached some private decision.
He inclined his head with awful formality. “As you wish. But do not think that this matter between us can be ignored indefinitely.”
“The less said, the better,” she muttered. “Good night, sir.”
He hesitated. She could see the irritation flicker in his eyes. Again she feared that he would force a conversation. Instead, he turned and went toward the door.
“Good night, Emma.” He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “As your employer, allow me to tell you that you went above and beyond the call of duty tonight. Rest assured that you will be suitably rewarded for this evening’s work.”
She could not believe her ears. And then rage lanced through her.
“Rewarded. Did you say rewarded?”
“I feel compelled to add an extra few pounds to your wages at the end of your employment in my service,” he continued thoughtfully.
“How dare you, sir?” She seized the nearest object, a small globe, and hurled it at his head. “How dare you imply that I would take money for that ... that stupid incident in the carriage? I am obliged to work for my living, but I am no whore.”
He caught the globe with a seemingly absent movement of his hand.
“For God’s sake, Emma, I did not mean that you were.”
She ignored him. She was in the grip of a storm of fury. She cast about for something else to throw and got hold of a vase full of flowers.
“I will not take money for what happened between us. Do you hear me? I would sooner starve in the workhouse than accept money from you for that.”
She tossed the full vase with all of her strength.
“Damn it, calm yourself, Emma.” He managed to catch the vase but he did not succeed in avoiding the contents. Water and flowers splashed him in the face. He grimaced and shook his head once. “I was talking about rewarding you for your investigation in Miranda’s library. What you discovered may prove extremely useful.”
“Rubbish.” She planted her hands on her hips. “I don’t believe you.”
Anger flashed across his face. “I’m telling you the truth, you maddening, stubborn, feather brained creature.”
He was suddenly roaring at her, Emma thought, nonplussed. She had never heard him lose his temper like this.
“Do you swear that on your oath?” she asked, not bothering to conceal her suspicion.
“Hell’s teeth, woman.” He glared at her, wet hair plastered to his head, eyes glittering with anger. “If I was in the market for a mistress, I would have chosen a female with a more compliant character and a good deal more experience in the passionate arts than you’ve got.”
Her jaw dropped. “Now you’re insulting me for lacking experience in that sort of thing?”
“I’m trying to make it bloody damn clear that I do not view what happened in the carriage as a business venture.” With a disgusted gesture he flicked some stray petals from the sleeve of his coat. “The reward I mentioned was for what you discovered concerning Lady Ames, or Fanny Clifton, whatever the case may be.”
“Edison—”
He scowled at her as he jerked open the door. “And while we’re on the subject, allow me to inform you that if you ever again take that sort of risk, I will never write that bloody reference for you.”
“Edison, wait.” She picked up her skirts and rushed toward the door. “Perhaps I was a bit hasty in my accusations.”
He did not deign to respond. The library door closed very firmly in her face just as she reached it.
Chapter Sixteen
Edison steeled himself the way he always did on the rare occasions when he was obliged to pay a call on his grandmother. He even dreaded the simple act of entering the mansion in which she lived, although he could not explain his reaction to the house. By rights it should have pleased his taste in such matters. It was a grand structure in the Palladian style, with classical lines and well-proportioned rooms. But it always seemed oppressive and cold to him. Long ago he had privately dubbed it the Exbridge Fortress.
He crossed the drawing room to the sofa where Victoria, Lady Exbridge sat, a regal, solitary queen of a woman. It was at times such as this, he reflected, that he truly appreciated the usefulness of good manners. They were both sword and shield in the brutally civil skirmishes in which he and Victoria engaged.
“Edison.” Victoria regarded him with the austere, imperious air that was second nature to her. “It is about time you got here.”
“I believe your note requested me to call at three, Lady Exbridge.” He never addressed her as Grandmother. To do so would have been to yield a tiny fraction of the ground he had vowed to defend. She had never wanted him as a grandson, not even after he had salvaged the Exbridge fortune for her. Damned if he would admit that he wished to have her for a grandmother. “It is precisely three now.”
He studied his opponent as he inclined his head very formally over her hand. Victoria was, he concluded, in her customary fit fighting form today, perhaps even a bit more eager for combat than usual. Age had added a few lines and wrinkles to what had once been a strikingly beautiful face, but nothing would ever soften the hawklike glitter in those golden brown eyes. Eyes that were, Edison knew, the mirror image of his own.
Victoria wore the cloak of elegance and style as easily as if she had been born in it. Her high-waisted, silver-gray morning gown with its crisp ruff and full sleeves was obviously the work of an expensive French modiste. It was a perfect complement to her silver hair.
Edison was well aware that her natural sense of style together with her position as the wife of a wealthy viscount had combined to make her a glittering hostess at one time. Her soirées and balls and fashionable salons had once been the talk of the ton. Widowed when her son, Wesley, had been fourteen, she had remained prominent in social circles. But all that had changed several years later after Wesley’s death and the shock of learning that he had gambled away the family estates. She had withdrawn from the social whirl altogether. She rarely went out, preferring the solitude of her conservatory and occasional visits with a handful of old friends. Not even the restoration of the Exbridge fortune had brought her out of her self-imposed seclusion. What had he expected? Edison asked himself. That she would be grateful to him for protecting her from the shame and ignominy of bankruptcy? As if such a gesture from a bastard grandson could possibly make up for the loss of her legitimate son and heir.
“You should have called to tell me the news of your engagement as soon as you returned to Town,” Victoria said, by way of her opening salvo. “I was left to learn the information from Arabella Stryder. It was exceedingly awkward for me.”
Arabella was, Edison knew, one of the few friends Victoria still saw regularly.
“I doubt that even a volcano erupting in your drawing room could make you feel awkward, madam.” He smiled humorlessly. “Certainly no news of me would have the power to do so.”
“One would think that having endured your disdain for the social niceties often enough in the past, I would have grown i
nured to it. Nevertheless, this time you go too far.”
“That is an odd complaint, coming from you, madam. As I recall, it was only last month that you again took me to task for failing to find myself a suitable wife.”
Victoria’s eyes snapped with anger. “Suitable is the key word. From all accounts, your fiancée is hardly suitable.”
“You are in no position to form an opinion on the subject. You have not yet met her.”
“I have heard more than enough to conclude that you have made a disastrous choice.”
“Why do you say that?” Edison asked mildly.
“According to Arabella, your Miss Greyson was employed as Lady Mayfield’s paid companion when you met her. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Incredible. A professional lady’s companion? In your position you could easily choose any heiress on the marriage mart.”
“I don’t know that I can afford to be too choosy, madam.” Edison smiled thinly. “We must not forget that I am not exactly a prize myself. I was born on the wrong side of the blanket, if you will recall. Miss Greyson’s parentage, on the other hand, is quite respectable.”
Victoria’s gaze crackled with anger but she did not take the bait. “I was also told that the reason you announced your engagement to Miss Greyson, in the middle of the night, no less, was because she was in danger of being accused of murdering Mr. Crane.”
“That was a factor in the timing of my decision,” Edison admitted.
“Everyone who was at Ware Castle believes that she actually did kill Crane. Most of the ton think that you’ve just engaged yourself to a murderess, of all things.”
“It makes no great difference to me, one way or the other.” Edison shrugged. “Crane deserved to be shot.”
Victoria stared at him. “How dare you sound so blasé. We are speaking of the dreadful killing of an innocent man.”
“Chilton Crane was not what anyone would call innocent.”
“Have you forgotten that Mr. Crane was a highly esteemed gentleman of the ton? He belonged to all the best clubs. He moved in the most elevated circles. He was connected to the marquis of Riverton on his mother’s side.”
“Crane was a thoroughly debauched rakehell who preyed on young women who had no one to protect them from his lechery. He specialized in forcing himself on chambermaids, governesses, and companions. He was also a reckless gamester.” Edison paused. “In point of fact, he probably had a good deal in common with my father.”
“How dare you say such a thing?” Victoria’s voice vibrated with fury. This time she did take the hook. “I have told you often enough that Wesley did not force himself on your mother. She was a foolish young woman who got involved with an engaged man well above her station, and she paid the price.”
“She was foolish,” Edison agreed politely. “Foolish enough to believe my father when he claimed that he loved her. Foolish enough to put her faith in him when he said that he was free to marry her. Foolish enough to think that she had given herself to a man of honor.”
“Never forget that she sold her own honor in the process.”
He clamped his fingers around the mantel and forced himself to produce a politely quizzical smile. “I am, of course, delighted to discuss family history with you, madam. But I must warn you that I cannot stay long, as I have another appointment at four. If there is something else you wish to talk about this afternoon, perhaps we ought to get to it.”
Victoria’s mouth was a flat, hard line. As Edison watched she took a visible breath, schooling her raw fury, just as he had done a moment earlier. He wondered if she would retreat to her conservatory after he left. It was what he did when he needed to calm the dark, dangerous emotions such conversations aroused. He watched her pick up her teacup. The dainty china trembled ever so slightly in her grasp.
He should have been able to take some measure of satisfaction in knowing that he had the power to force her to the brink of her self-control. But as usual, the knowledge that he had done so did nothing to elevate his mood. He wondered again, as he always did, what it was that he wanted from this formidable woman. Why did he continue this bristly, unpleasant association? Why did he not simply ignore her very existence? It was not as if she wanted any attention from him.
“You know very well that I asked you to come here today so that I could hear the truth about your so-called engagement from your own lips,” Victoria said icily.
“There is nothing so-called about it. I am, indeed, engaged.”
“I refuse to believe that you actually intend to marry this ... this murderess.”
“Have a care with the way you fling that word murderess around,” he warned her very softly. “If necessary, I am prepared to testify in court that Miss Greyson was with me at the time of Crane’s murder.”
“Crane was killed in the middle of the night. Arabella said that when you and Miss Greyson appeared to join the others at the scene of the crime, she was dressed in a nightshift, cap, and a wrapper. She appeared to have just got out of bed.”
Edison raised his brows. “Your point?”
“My point is that if she is not a murderess, if she was indeed with you at the time Crane died, then it is obvious that she was in your bed. That means she is no better than any other round-heeled lightskirt. You are under no obligation to protect her.”
“Neither you nor anyone else,” Edison said through his teeth, “is allowed to refer to my fiancée as a lightskirt.”
Victoria stared at him. “She can have been nothing more than a brief fling for you.”
“She is my future wife.” Edison removed his watch and flipped open the case. “I regret to say that it grows late.” He dropped the watch back into his pocket. “As much as I hate to cut short this charming conversation, I fear I must bid you good day, madam.”
“If you are actually contemplating marriage to this Miss Greyson,” Victoria said, “then it can only be because there is some profit in it for you.”
“Profit?”
“Your success in matters of business is legendary. You would not make a move as significant as this unless you expected to reap some great financial rewards. Have you discovered that Miss Greyson is about to come into a fortune?”
“Miss Greyson is, so far as I know, as poor as a church mouse. She apparently lost what little she possessed in an ill-fated investment scheme.” Edison paused long enough at the door to incline his head in a barely civil gesture of farewell. “But it is always illuminating to learn exactly what you think of me, Lady Exbridge. It is obvious that as the years go by, in your eyes I continue to fall far short of the illustrious example set by my noble sire.”
A short time later Edison sank down into the second of two well-padded chairs that flanked the hearth in his club. He absorbed the comforting drone of low voices, rustling newspapers, and gently clinking coffee cups. The small, civil sounds would provide privacy for the conversation he was about to have.
He picked up the coffee cup that had just been set on the table beside him. Ignatius Lorring was already seated in the opposite chair. Edison was heartened to know that his old friend still felt up to a visit to his club. Ignatius looked paler than ever, however, and Edison noticed that his chair was set even closer to the fire than it had been on the previous occasion when they had spoken in this room. Nevertheless, when Ignatius put down his copy of The Times and smiled at Edison, there was a flash of the old, familiar brightness in his eyes.
“You look as though you are more in need of a glass of brandy than a cup of coffee, Edison.”
“You have the right of it, by God.” Edison took a swallow of the coffee. “I have just come from paying a visit to my grandmother.”
“Ah, that explains it, of course. I suspect she wanted to hear the details of your recent engagement. Perfectly natural.”
“There is nothing natural about Lady Exbridge.” Edison put down the cup. “But there is nothing new in that, so we may as well turn to the reason I asked you to meet me
here this afternoon.”
Ignatius steepled his birdlike hands. “If you are hoping for information concerning Lady Ames, I fear I must disappoint you. I have had no more luck than you did. The woman appears to have sprung into existence like Athena from the head of Zeus, fully armed and gowned for the Season.”
“Her finances are a mystery also,” Edison admitted. “I have been unable to discover the sources of her income. Nevertheless, my assistant happened across some information that will allow us to reach a little further into her past.”
“I am eager to hear it.”
Edison leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, and contemplated the fire. “We have reason to believe that Lady Ames may have once trod the boards under the name Fanny Clifton.”
“She is a former actress? That would explain a great deal.” Ignatius pondered that briefly and then shook his head. “But I have attended the London theater quite faithfully for years. Indeed, it is one of my passions, as you well know.”
Edison smiled. “I am well aware of your love of the theater.”
“Ah, yes. Had I been born in other circumstances, I believe I would have taken quite happily to a life on the stage.” Ignatius sighed. “But then I would never have discovered Vanzagara and the philosophy of Vanza, which has given me so much pleasure and satisfaction. In any event, I can assure you that I have never heard of this Fanny Clifton.”
“Very likely because she never rose above the level of a player in a small traveling company that performed mostly in the North. And her career may well have been quite short.”
“I see.” Ignatius bobbed his head in a robinlike motion. “That would explain why I am unfamiliar with her. Very interesting. It will certainly give us a new direction in which to search.”
“If we can find a link to Italy and Farrell Blue, we would at least have some notion of how she might have got her hands on the recipe. In the meantime, something else has come up.”
Ignatius cocked his head. “Indeed?”
