“He doesn’t love me. He’s never claimed to love me.”
“Well, of course he wouldn’t say the word out
loud
.” Freddie snorted.
“I took off the blindfold and my hair. He didn’t recognize me. I didn’t have the heart to tell him outright.” She led the way out of the stable and into the snow, three inches deep and building. “I just couldn’t.”
“Women,” he said.
They trudged in silence down the deserted road, guided only by the dark lumps of buildings along the way. The snow glowed faintly on the ground, a ghostly landscape. Emilie walked with her head bent downward, and still the stinging flakes caught her cheeks, her eyelids.
At the Anvil, they collected their horses and paid off the stableboy generously. “Pardon the observation,” said Freddie, swinging up in the saddle, “for I’m not well versed in these sorts of matters, but you don’t seem particularly happy. All things considered.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Again, I speak without experience, but aren’t women in love supposed to be beamy and delighted and that sort of thing? You look rather . . . downcast.” He paused delicately as they turned into the road. “Everything all”—cough, cough—“all right?”
“Quite all right. We . . .”
He flung up his hand. “God, no. No details. This is bloody awkward enough as it is.”
“I wasn’t going to give you details. For heaven’s sake,” she added, blushing at the recollection of those details. “I only meant to say that we were quite in accord. But of course it can never happen again.”
“Why not?”
“Because tomorrow morning, or rather this morning, after breakfast, I’m going to tell him the truth.”
“Thank God. He’ll rant and storm, of course, but at least things will be out in the open. No more of this ridiculous secrecy. Tramping through the snowy roads in the dark of night, dodging foreign agents.” Freddie blew out his breath, causing a mad swirl of snowflakes around his face.
“Freddie.” She looked down at the dark smudge of her hands on the reins. “Don’t you see? I won’t be able to stay here any longer. Disguised, disgraced. An unmarried woman . . .”
“Oh, Pater’ll fix that straightaway, I’m sure.”
She didn’t answer. How could she? They rode along in silence, the horses keeping to the obscured road by instinct, moving briskly in eagerness to be home. The air was cold and sharp with snow; it sawed Emilie’s lungs at every breath.
“Freddie,” she said at last, “I can’t marry your father. I simply can’t.”
“Why the devil not? You love him, don’t you? God knows why. Some peculiar disposition for gruff old chaps with dodgy peepers, I expect.”
“That’s not the point. And
do
mind your language. I am still your tutor, at least until later this morning.”
Freddie’s voice rose. “Then what the devil
is
the point? I thought true love conquered all, and all that rot. Why the devil not marry him?”
“Freddie.”
“I beg your pardon. Why the dickens?”
“For a multitude of reasons. Because he wishes to marry me out of . . . of desire, and . . . and a sense of duty, not love. And because . . .”
“Rubbish. Just because he hasn’t got the proper words for it . . .”
“. . . because I am not some ordinary young lady, who can fit comfortably into your lives. I’m in mortal danger at the moment, or don’t you remember? And lastly”—her voice dropped—“because I have deceived him, and what marriage can survive that?”
“Oh,
that
. He’ll understand.”
“I don’t think he will.”
“Try him. You’ll see.”
A dark shape was rising against the milky snow. “Here we are, anyway,” Emilie said. “Do try to get some sleep. I promise I shan’t insist on your nine o’clock lesson.”
Freddie, for once, said nothing. They went to the stables and unsaddled their horses side by side, then put them away with oats and water. Freddie’s hands moved with knowledge over the straps and buckles, the brushes and blankets. He had likely spent a great deal of his childhood in here, Emilie mused.
She let them both in the kitchen door with her key. Freddie turned to her at the bottom of the service steps. “Give him a chance, Grimsby. Please.” In the light of the oil lamp, his eyes were serious and pleading. “Just trust him, will you? Let him . . . Well, just give him a chance. He needs this.”
The ache in Emilie’s chest was too much to bear. She placed her hand against Freddie’s cheek. “I’ll do my best,” was all she could say.
The upstairs corridor was still and silent. A distant clock sounded four o’clock in steady chimes as Emilie crept down the cold floorboards, guilty and churning, muscles still thrumming from Ashland’s bed. She found her door, opened it without a sound, and let her knapsack slide to the floor.
A fire still simmered gently in the tiny grate. Emilie took off her greatcoat, hung it on the rail, slipped her black wool jacket from her shoulders. She sat down on the bed to remove her shoes.
The bed moved.
Emilie leapt to her feet.
“Oh, sir! Oh, sir, never be frightened! It’s nobbut mysen.”
A figure rose from the pillow. The firelight outlined its body, clad only in a chemise, young nipples pointed jubilantly to the ceiling.
“Lucy!” Emilie exclaimed. She clutched the ends of her unbuttoned waistcoat together. “Good God, Lucy! Your . . . your
clothes
!”
Lucy held out her arms. “Oh, sir, never go away! I nobbut . . . Why, dear me, sir. What’s happened to yer whiskers?”
“I shaved them.”
“Oh.” Lucy blinked, took a deep breath, and plunged on. “Well, I thought . . . Oh, sir, that there wicked Freddie, taking ye out to t’Anvil and those . . . those bad women. I can’t bear it anymore, sir, I can’t! I pinched t’key from Mrs. Needle . . .”
“You did
what
?”
Lucy sprang from the bed and drew off her chemise in a single dramatic stroke. “Take me, sir! Take me instead!”
Emilie spun around. “For God’s sake, Lucy!”
“I . . . I guess I’m as nice as those wicked women at t’Anvil, aren’t I? I’ll be taking good care of ye, sir. You can . . . We can be married, t’duke will let us, I’m sure, and . . .”
Emilie stared at the dark wall before her and counted to ten. “Lucy, my dear, this is
most
improper.”
“It’s no more wrong nor what you does!” Lucy’s voice broke into sobs. “Night after night, coming home at all hour. It ain’t right, sir, not for a gentleman like thassen. I’d be ever so much better to you, sir. I would. Don’t I darn up yer hosen and lay them out for ye?”
“That was you?”
“Don’t I bring ye t’best bits of cake and leave t’heels for His Grace? Don’t I bring up yer coffee ever so hot, and keep yer nice coat brushed?”
“Lucy, I . . .”
The floorboards creaked, and Lucy’s arms flung around Emilie’s shoulders. “Oh, take me, sir, do!” Lucy’s arms were surprisingly strong. Emilie found herself spinning around to face the maid. The girl’s eyes were closed, her head flung back like a martyr facing the pyre. She was wearing her frilly white cap and nothing else.
“Have yer wicked way with me, Mr. Grimsby!”
“Lucy!”
“Sate yer unnatural lusts! Do what ye will with me!”
Emilie put her hands to her temples. “Lucy, Lucy. What sort of novels have you been reading?”
“Pluck t’precious flower of me innocence!”
“Lucy, remember yourself! Have you been drinking His Grace’s sherry?”
An indignant gasp. “Why, I
never
, sir!”
Emilie’s exhausted head was beginning to pound. She reached out and patted Lucy’s shoulder, keeping her gaze trained resolutely upward. The faint scent of Mrs. Needle’s lemon oil gathered between them. “Lucy, my dear. Put your clothes on.”
“Sir?”
“I’m afraid my unnatural lusts are quite at rest at the moment. No need for any . . . any heroic floral sacrifice on your part.”
Lucy crossed her arms over her breasts. Her eyes rounded plaintively, like a puppy’s. “Nay?”
“Not at all, I’m afraid.” Emilie smiled kindly. “You’re very sweet to . . . to offer yourself up to my . . . my unruly passions in such a . . . an unexpected manner. But I assure you, I have no wicked designs on your person, Lucy. None at all.”
Lucy sniffed. “Nowt at all?”
“None.”
Lucy’s lip trembled. Her eyes blinked.
“Now, don’t cry, Lucy . . .”
Lucy lifted her arms and pounded her fists on Emilie’s bound chest. “
Cruel
, that’s what ye are, sir! Letting me think ye cared for me! I seen t’look in yer eye when ye thanked me for yer coffee! Burning with t’flames of desire, ye were! And then ye runs off down to t’Anvil and drains yer knackers with t’wicked ladies there!”
Emilie grasped Lucy’s pummeling fists. “Lucy, do hush. I assure you . . .”
Lucy wrenched away, picked up her chemise, and threw it over her head. “Me mum were right, weren’t she? Never do trust a gentleman, Lucy, she says to me. It’s only t’working boys is decent.”
“Now, Lucy . . .”
“Never ye
Lucy
me, Mr. Grimsby! Ye keeps yer wicked hands to yessen, from now on!” The dressing gown went on, belted at the waist with dramatic tugs. She picked up the candle on the nightstand, lit it on the coals, and swept to the door. “Satyr!” she spat, and turned in the doorway.
Emilie sank onto the bed.
“Oh, and Mr. Grimsby, sir?”
“What is it, Lucy?” Emilie whispered tiredly, not lifting her head from her hands.
“Ye looks like a lady without t’whiskers.”
The door slammed, and Lucy was gone.
Emilie stared at the floor. Her head ached with fatigue, but her thoughts were jumping spasmodically, as if shocked by electricity. Ashland. Freddie. Her family. Bloody
Lucy
.
What the devil was she going to do with this mess?
She turned her face and gazed longingly at the pillow. It was dented from Lucy’s head, probably still warm.
Emilie heaved herself to her feet. At least there was one place at Ashland Abbey she could be certain of peace and quiet.
* * *
A
sleepy footman unbolted the door at half past five o’clock, after only a minute’s brisk pounding. The Duke of Ashland swept through the portal in an urgent slap of boots on marble.
“My apologies, Lionel. Awaken my valet at once. I shall require a bath and a change. I have ordered the carriage.”
Lionel made a half bow. “At once, Your Grace.”
Ashland made his way around the corner of the great entrance hall and down the corridor to his study, not pausing an instant. A clatter of shoes echoed behind him as Lionel rushed to obey his instructions. He threw open the door to his study and strode to his desk.
“Pater!”
Ashland started and turned. “Freddie? What the devil?”
His son rose from a reclined position on the sofa, rubbing furiously at his eyes. A stalk of straw extended prominently from the back of his head. “Was waiting up for you, of course.”
“Waiting up for me?” He let his hand fall to the desk. In all his panic at waking to an empty bed, in all his wild worry for Emily and the almost physical pain of her absence, in all the week’s bustle of laying plans and settling affairs, Ashland had allowed the thought of Freddie to slip from the forefront of his mind. A stab of remorse struck his chest at the sight of his hollow-eyed son. “I beg your pardon, Frederick. I have been immensely busy of late. How are you getting along? Everything well with Mr. Grimsby?”
Freddie knit his hands together between his knees. “Well, you see, Pater, that’s the thing. Grimsby . . . he . . .”
Ashland gripped the edge of the desk. “He’s all right, isn’t he? Has something happened?”
“Easy, Pater. Grimsby’s quite all right. He’s very well indeed, except . . .” Freddie raked his hand through his hair.
“Except what?”
“Well, he’s not quite what I expected. What either of us expected.” Freddie coughed. “Full of surprises, our Grimsby.”
“What the devil do you mean by that?” The cold tension began to uncoil, replaced by impatience. Ashland felt the clock ticking away by the mantel, putting Emily farther away from him at every stroke.
Freddie jumped from the sofa. “Let’s talk about this new bird of yours, Pater.”
“You will not refer to her by that word,” Ashland snapped reflexively.
“All right, all right. Beg your pardon and all that. This . . . this lady you’ve been seeing in town. Don’t bother denying it.”
“I haven’t the least intention of denying it. In fact, I wish to speak to you about her.”
“Well! Jolly coincidence, that. I was wanting to speak on the subject myself.” Freddie raised his head and met Ashland’s gaze squarely. “What are your intentions toward her?”
“My
intentions
?” Ashland folded his arms. “What the devil do you mean by that? My intentions are honorable. I have, in fact . . .” And, just like that, under the intensity of Freddie’s expression, the words began to thicken and muddle in Ashland’s throat. “Look here, Frederick. I didn’t wish to spring all this on you suddenly . . .”
“Spring away, Pater, I assure you.”
Ashland adjusted his throat. “I want to make things clear: I have no wish to dishonor your mother. But after the passage of so much time, and . . . and having formed an attachment . . .”
“You’re going to divorce Mother at last and marry her?”
“I have that hope,” Ashland said quietly.
Freddie’s face broke into a grin. “Well, I say! That’s splendid! Thank God! I knew you had it in you, Pater.” He crossed the rug, shoved his fist into Ashland’s crossed arms, and grasped his hand for a vigorous shaking. “Splendid news!”
“I . . . I . . .” Ashland watched his astonished hand being pumped. “I’m . . . glad you approve.”
“Approve, by God! I’m delighted. Just the thing for you. There’s just one . . . one very slight complication. Nothing of great consequence, you understand. I’m sure you’ll brush it off straightaway, sensible old chap that you are, and sort everything out in an instant. Or perhaps a week or so, realistically speaking.”
Ashland shook his bemused head. True, he hadn’t had much sleep last night, but surely this interview ought to be making more sense. Coffee. He should have ordered coffee. “Complication?” he said numbly. “What the devil do you mean by that?”