Something About Emmaline (24 page)

“Precisely.” Emmaline glanced around and shivered.

Sedgwick took her by the hand and led her around the corner, stopping before a regal-looking house, the columns and bow window speaking of rich elegance.

“Who lives here?” she asked.

“Jack.”

She glanced at the house again. “Seems a little fine for your friend. Aren’t his pockets a bit thin?”

“Jack barely owns a pocket,” Sedgwick said with a laugh. “The house belongs to his brother, the Duke of Parkerton, but the two of them have a tacit agreement that Jack can live here so long as he keeps himself out of scandal.”

“And he still retains use of it?” she said in jest.

“With a fair amount of groveling,” Sedgwick told her, walking up the steps and pulling the bell.

A beleaguered-looking butler came to the door with two footmen in tow.

“Lord Sedgwick?” the man said. “Thought you were the master, come home drunk again.” He turned to the other servants and nodded at them to go back to their posts. “Sometimes Lord John needs a bit of assistance in seeking his bed.”

“I can well imagine,” Sedgwick said.

“I fear the master is out and I don’t know when he’ll return.” He was about to close the door, but Sedgwick shoved his boot into the crack.

“I’m not here to see Lord John,” he told the butler. “But I have need of your parlor for about an hour.” He stepped aside and let the man catch sight of her.

Emmaline saw the old servant glance first at her and then at Sedgwick.

“There will be no doxies in this house, milord,” he said, shaking a finger at Sedgwick. “If His Grace heard of such goings on in his house, he’d have my hide, not to mention what he’d do to the young master.”

“Birdwell, you are an admirable man, but this isn’t what it seems—”

“Should I remind you that I work for Lord John?” Birdwell frowned. “I know exactly what it looks like.”

Sedgwick caught her by the hand and pressed her forward, even as Birdwell was trying to close the door on them again.

“My good man, I want you to meet my wife, Lady Sedgwick.”

“My lord, if you think I am going to believe that this is your wife—”

Now that she had clear sight of the man, she took another good look at the butler. It wasn’t just his voice that was familiar, but his face as well. Emmaline grinned at him. “Proper and reputable, now that’s a fine one, if ever I heard one,” she said in a broad country accent. “But then again, I don’t suppose the duke would be all that happy to know he’s got Dingby Michaels as his trusted and faithful servant.”

Birdwell’s brows rose in alarm. Then he let the door ease open a little farther, letting a single narrow shaft of light fall onto her face.

“Button?” he asked. “Button, is that you?”

She grinned and nodded. “Now let us in, you demmed codger, or I’ll have Bow Street down here to nick your nob.”

Birdwell, aka Dingby, shook his head but then swung the door open wide. “Get in here, both of you, afore anyone sees you. The servants on this street are more gossipy than their mistresses.”

Sedgwick followed her inside. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Button?”

She waved her hand at him. “Don’t think it will get you any closer to finding out what you want. ’Tis an old name.”

“And we’ve a code to keep, now don’t we?” Birdwell was saying. “Come along, down the hall and to the garden room. It’s got a nice set of doors to the back and there’s mews to the right if you need them.”

Emmaline nodded. Once a highwayman, always a highwayman, she thought. She held no doubt that her father’s former partner knew every route out of London, and then some that even a weasel wouldn’t be able to wiggle through.

Elton had always said that there wasn’t a hangman’s knot tight enough to keep Dingby Michaels from slipping through it.

“You two know each other?” Sedgwick asked.

“How much does he know?” Birdwell asked Emmaline.

She glanced over her shoulder and winked at Sedgwick. “Not near as much as he would like.”

The butler laughed. “Button, you always were a sharp one. What are you doing here in—” The man came to a halt
and spun around, pointing a bony finger at her. “It was you. You were the one down at the Queen’s Corner tonight! I should have known it when I heard that some wench had cleaned out that cheat who’d been playing fast and loose down there the past month.” He reached out and put a hand on her cheek. “’Twas a good thing you did.”

“Oh, on with you,” she told him.

The butler laughed again. “Still modest to a fault, but that’s your mother’s touch, I daresay.”

Sedgwick edged into their cozy reunion. “I don’t mean to be rude, but we came here for a reason.”

“Nobs,” Birdwell said to her in an aside.

“He’s not so bad, as toffs come,” she confided.

There was a loud harrumph from the toff himself.

“How can I help you, Button? For you know I owe your dah my life more times than I can count.” Dingby hung his head. “God rest his soul.”

Obviously he hadn’t heard about Elton’s continued good health, and she didn’t see any need to enlighten him. While they had been thick as thieves, literally, she didn’t think either man would want to renew their past association.

“Dingby,” she whispered, “I need a place to change my clothes, clean up a bit.”

“Like I thought, on the run, are you?” He nodded sagely. “The parlor will do you fine.”

Sedgwick stepped forward. “One of my servants will be arriving with her clothes in a few minutes. Can you see that they are brought in here directly?”

“Yes, milord,” Birdwell said, returning to his role as London butler, leading them down the hall to the elegantly appointed salon. He limped slightly and his shoulders were stooped with age. Apparently there were some things even
Dingby Michaels couldn’t steal—his youth and vitality having been long lost.

He paused at the doorway and eyed Emmaline’s disguise anew. “I’ll fetch you a pitcher of water, some good soap and clean towels. Be back right smart,” he told her, his words hinting at his Yorkshire roots.

He set the brace of candles he’d been carrying on a sideboard, then turned to leave. He started to close the door, but then with a second glance at Sedgwick left the door slightly open, as if he wanted to ensure she was going to be safe.

“Button?” Sedgwick repeated.

“A nickname, nothing more,” she told him, pulling off her mobcap.

“Dingby Michaels,” Sedgwick said. “Dingby Michaels, where have I heard that name?”

Emmaline shrugged. She’d said too much in front of Sedgwick as it was, but there had been nothing else she could do but reveal herself to her father’s old friend, in order to gain them the help they needed.

Sedgwick needed, actually. She still wasn’t convinced she shouldn’t turn tail and run.

Lady Sedgwick at Hanover Square? Why, she never came to town.

She glanced over at Sedgwick and it appeared he was still trying to recall why the butler’s real name sounded so familiar. And about then his mouth fell open, and Emmaline knew he’d made the connection.

“Dingby Michaels? That man is Dingby Michaels?” He pointed at the door, his head shaking with disbelief. “The Gentleman from York, the Scourge of Norwich?”

“Don’t forget the Thief of Virtue,” she offered. “He always thought that was his most illustrious claim to fame.”

Sedgwick shook his head, his finger pointing at the doorway. “But that man is a dangerous, notorious criminal!”

Emmaline shook her head. “I don’t think he could still get up into the saddle, let alone fire a shot. At least not a straight one.”

“That doesn’t excuse what he’s done,” Sedgwick began, his lips drawing into a tight intractable line. “The law is quite clear in these situations.”

Her hands went to her hips. Sometimes Sedgwick’s sense of right and wrong was wound so tight it became overly tiresome. “So you are going to report to the law that you believe the Duke of Parkerton’s aged butler was once the most notorious highwayman between London and Gretna?” She shook her head. “Setting aside the resulting scandal and ruin you would bring upon the duke and his family, I must ask, who is going to believe you? And secondly, when the authorities ask you how you came upon this remarkable piece of information, what are you going to tell them? That Dingby Michaels is an old friend of your wife?”

He tossed his tall beaver hat on a nearby settee. “Emmaline, there are rules and order in this land for a reason. Demmit, I’m a magistrate, sworn to uphold the law.”

She could see the conflict in his eyes. As much as she didn’t really agree with him, how could she not admire his moral fortitude? With Sedgwick, the world was so very neat and orderly. Right and wrong.

And she’d spent a lifetime dancing over that line, sidestepping it at will and outright ignoring it when necessity and an empty purse required it.

And as much as she wanted to pull Sedgwick out of his pompous sanctuary, and take some of the starch out of his perfectly tied cravat, a part of her wanted to be able to
climb into his ivory tower and never leave. To tip up her nose in noble indignation that such an outrage could be living not three blocks from Hanover Square.

A highwayman in Mayfair!

And from her lofty tower, high amongst the clouds, she wouldn’t spare a second thought for Dingby, with his limp and rheumy eyes as the constable dragged him off to some cold cell, then dangled his broken and aged body from the end of a rope while crowds jeered.

But as much as the lure of Sedgwick’s life held, as much as she’d spent so many years envying the gentry with their beautiful homes and endless servants, she couldn’t forget where she’d come from, the life she’d lived.

The debts she owed.

Nor could she forget the man who’d brought her peppermint candies and ribbons for her hair, and remembered her birthday when her father had forgotten the day and her mother was so lost in her ravings to notice.

Meanwhile, Sedgwick had taken to pacing back and forth on the Turkish carpet. A very nice Turkish carpet.

Distracted, Emmaline bent down to examine it.

“Whatever are you doing?” he asked.

“I think this would look perfect in the library,” she said over her shoulder, as she turned up one corner to inspect the quality. “I wonder if the duke would mind if I brought over Mr. Saunders to show him what I want him to weave? This is utterly perfect.”

“Have you gone mad?” His pacing came to an abrupt halt. “There is a dangerous criminal in this house and all you can do is inspect the furnishings?”

“Leave poor Dingby alone,” she told him, as she got up from the carpet and started eyeing the sideboard. It had nice
lines and the carving was exquisite. “I doubt he’s robbed anyone in a good fifteen years,” she told him. “And you’re a fine one to talk. You and your Emmaline. Did it ever occur to you, Lord Magistrate, that making up a wife might be unlawful?”

His jaw worked back and forth. But he said nothing, just looked at her with his brow all wrinkled and his teeth clenched. She hated it when he looked at her like that. As if he couldn’t wait to get her and her bothersome past out of his life. So much for all his care and concern.

“Fine, I will forget Birdwell’s past, if you will stop fingering the duke’s possessions.”

“Bother, Sedgwick, I’m not going to steal anything. Why should I when I have your money at my disposal?”

His brow furrowed at her jest.

She ignored his ill humor, and despite his protests picked up a vase she’d been looking at, turning it over to see who’d made it. Unimpressed, she put it back. “Counterfeit.”

“What do you mean, counterfeit?” he said, walking over and taking his measure of the
objet d’art.
“I’ll have you know the Duke of Parkerton is a very discerning collector. His eye for quality is renown.”

“Then he should have his eyes checked. That is a fake. Not a Wenley.”

“How would you know?” he said, picking it up himself and taking a look at the potter’s mark. “The mark is right there—Wenley.”

She shook her head and pointed to the inscription. “And do you see the ivy leaf to the left of the name?”

“Yes.”

“On an original, it is right side up. Whoever made this was not only inattentive, he was outright lazy.”

He stared at her openmouthed, and very carefully she took the piece from his hands and replaced it on the mantel. “I wouldn’t like to see you drop that. Even if it is a fake, we would be hard-pressed to prove it if it was in pieces.” She sashayed past him and went to look at the sconces nearby.

“How do you know these things?” he finally managed to ask. “That this isn’t a true Wenley, or that Mr. Starling’s chinoiserie wallpaper came from Cheapside?”

“Or that Lady Neeley’s gems were paste?” she offered.

“They were?”

“Most decidedly.” She shrugged. “When you were learning Greek and Latin from your tutor, I was learning the fine art of appraising goods.” She paused and met his questioning gaze. “Stolen goods, Sedgwick.”

His hand went to his temple and he rubbed his wrinkled brow as if to take away a sudden pain.

“My grandmother was a fence, and Dingby one of her finest…suppliers.” Dingby
and
her father, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. At least not now. He looked about ready to fall over.

She went to his side and led him to the settee. “If anything, consider what my rather unorthodox education has saved you with these London tradesmen. Why, it is shocking what they try to pass off as quality.”

“Demmit, Emmaline,” he managed to say, “every time I think I’ve discovered your worst secret, you shock me anew. Is there anything left or dare I risk apoplexy and learn all your darkest secrets?”

She slanted a sly smile at him. “That depends on the state of your health. It would be a shame to have my past be your undoing. I doubt very highly that Hubert would be very generous to your widow.”

This time they both laughed, and then something magical happened: Sedgwick reached out to touch her cheek.

His touch sent tremors through her. Unbidden, her gaze drew up to meet his.

“You shouldn’t have risked so much tonight.”

Her heart thumped in a wicked beat. Had he truly been worried for her welfare? Not just for the risk to Emmaline, but for her? And then he told her as much.