“But—”
She shook her head. Her eyes widening, the glaze in them sharpening away as she focused on him. “I want you to promise me something, Jason. Promise.”
He frowned. “You know I’ve never agreed to just anything,
Izzy
.” He tried to lighten the words with a smile, but she didn’t return it or his jesting words. He squeezed her hand. “What is it you ask of me?”
“I ask that you treat her right. If you claim her or not, that is your wish. If you raise her as your ward, that is your wish. Just love her, please?”
He nodded.
Still looking at him, she said, “And I want you to go. Her things are already packed. I don’t want either of you here at the end,” her words trailed off into another gasp.
“I’m not leaving you now,
Izzy
.”
“Yes, you will. Because I asked it of you, and for our child. Your child. I don’t want her to be here at the end, or to chance sneaking in. That wouldn’t be good for her, Jason.” She coughed again. “Joy is your daughter.”
A child. Bloody hell.
His child.
“
Isobelle
.”
Her eyes glared at him. “Don’t argue with me. I’m tired and I hurt and more than any-anything. I want…” She stopped, tried to draw another breath, her face pale. “I want a chance to tell her goodbye before I take m-my…” Her mouth tightened and a gargling cough racked her body.
Helplessness slithered through him and he realized there was not a damn thing he could do except do as she asked.
“My medicine,” she finished.
He sighed and smiled, brushed his hand across her cheek and forehead. “What am I to do with her?”
Laughter danced momentarily in her eyes before pain stole it away. “You’ll know, Jason. There’s never been a man I’ve had more faith in than you.” She squeezed his hand. “You’ll make a wonderful father, I know it. Now p-pr-promise me.”
How could he deny her? His heart sank heavy in his chest, but he nodded.
“Anything you want,
Izzy
.”
Chapter Four
Emily stood on the curb of Number Five Upper Brook Street. The
marquess
’ carriage was caught in traffic several blocks over. A wagon of overturned goods had blocked the carriage’s path, littering the street, a few barrels broken, produce scattered out, heating and rotting on the cobbles. She’d quietly asked for directions to Upper Brook Street from a gentleman standing near her carriage window. When she realized it was only two blocks over, she quickly alighted from the carriage and gathered her single valise to her.
Darnlin
, the driver, tried to talk her out of it, but she told him her relatives just lived a couple of blocks over and left him to deal with whatever he dealt with.
The early afternoon sun shone weakly through the overcast day. England always seemed to be overcast, even when it wasn’t.
This part of London—Mayfair she thought it was called, though maybe not, they’d taken so many turns—was quieter than the outskirts. The outer edges were dark, dreary places, full of poverty and despair. She’d seen gaunt, shoeless children, dirty faces, bedraggled women and downtrodden men. Mud and dirt caked to them as was filth from days of hard work.
She’d quickly sat back and shut the window. Their blank stares, especially on the children, were more than she could presently stomach. She remembered that look. The one others must see when one accepted one’s lot in life would never improve, would always be as it was. Emily knew without a doubt, her eyes had often been just as vacant, her spirit just as disillusioned as those she’d passed on the street.
A carriage, its wheels clattering on the cobbles, rolled by, the horses’ hooves clipping softly, jerked her from her thoughts back to where she was now. On the corner of the street, across from a nice town house. Dark green hedges grew tall around the gate and fence. Waiting was not making this any easier.
Taking a deep breath, shoving her exhaustion aside, and hoping to finally see her mother after all these years, Emily tightened her hold on the bag at her side and walked up the short drive to the house.
She tried not to think how large a house it was. And she should be used to large houses after her weeks at
Ravenscrest
Abbey. Besides, the way Mama described her family clearly said they were well off.
As her shoes clipped across the street, doubts swooped down and slowed her steps. What if, for whatever reason, her mother wasn’t here? What if they didn’t believe her? What if they thought she was lying? Would they leave her on the street? Call the guard? At the top step she stared at the black door and tried to calm her rolling stomach. Wiping her hand down her skirt, she reached out and gently banged the brass knocker.
The noise startled her and she jumped.
These were just people like any others and if for some reason they didn’t believe her…
No, Mama would not have told her or Anne to come here, to seek help here, if these were bad people. And…
The door opened.
A man, not much taller than herself, stared out at her. He must be the butler. His inquisitive glance and black garb was too reminiscent of
Grims
. The familiar thought made her smile.
“May I help you?” he asked in very clipped English syllables. He looked down his nose at her, as much as he could, given he was one of the few people she could look in the eye.
“Yes,” she murmured, the veils over her face shifting slightly. “I’m here to see…”
My mother. My sister. My grandparents. My family.
For some reason, she knew this was not the thing to say. What was her grandfather’s title? Lord… Lord… The Earl of
Redgrave
.
“I wish to see the Earl of
Redgrave
. Edward or Victoria Warring.”
His nose pinched ever so slightly on his inhale. “Who may I ask is calling?”
Emily decided now might be a good time to show who she was. She’d always looked like her mother. With one black gloved hand, she flipped back her veils and opened her mouth, but she never got a sound out.
“Oh my!” The dour face split into a startling gap-toothed grin, making him seem almost human. “Lady Elizabeth. Oh my. Oh this is…that is…” He stopped and cleared his throat, the mask, though not as austere, falling back into place. “Come in, come in. I will let your father know at once. Yes, at once.”
A lead weight sat heavy on her chest. She didn’t move for a moment and he stood there, holding the door open for her. Her mother wasn’t here. She wasn’t here. Perhaps her mother just wasn’t in residence at this time. No, this man thought she was her mother. Oh God.
With a tightened grip on her bag, she carefully asked, “Is my mother not here?”
The black garbed man reached out and guided her into the foyer. “Why, yes, she’s in the conservatory. This will be quite a shock, quite a shock, Lady Elizabeth.”
Emily halted and he stopped. She pushed her veils back completely and said, “I’m not Elizabeth. My name is
Emmaline
Merryweather
Smith. Elizabeth is my mother. She’s supposed to be here,” she finished on a whisper.
Gray and white tiles shined up at her.
Her mother wasn’t here?
Ice skittered along her nerves and heat rushed over her skin. Blowing out a careful breath, she suddenly wished she were still at
Ravenscrest
Abbey. Still blissful and hopeful in her ignorance. Her head and shoulder were starting to throb.
The man cleared his throat. “Miss
Emmaline
, did you say?” He steered her down a hallway and into a drawing room.
“Yes. No. It’s actually Mrs. Smith. I’m a widow you see. And was finally able to travel here.” Emily looked to the butler. “My mother is supposed to be here. She
has
to be here.”
Emily heard the desperation in her own voice, saw in the butler’s face he caught the edged plea. She licked her lips and wiped a hand over her forehead, noting it was beaded with perspiration.
“Please have a seat. I will have tea sent in while I inform Lord
Redgrave
you are here.” Something in his eyes sparked and what might have been a smile flitted at the corners of his mouth. Then again, perhaps she was mistaken.
She heard his shoes click across the floor. Emily stared at the deep plush Persian carpet, the grays and greens swirling and mixing together. No fire was lit, but then it was August after all. She shivered and rubbed her arms. Her shoulder ached and she really didn’t feel at all well. The euphoria of being here shattered into.
What was she to do now?
The mantle clock ticked ceaselessly, timing against her frayed nerves.
Maybe she should have stayed at the Abbey. What if these people didn’t believe her? If her mother wasn’t here… If she’d never been here… No. Maybe her mother had, but was traveling also. Or maybe…
Footsteps echoed down the hallway and her stomach tightened.
Emily licked her lips and stood, wondering, hoping, fearing.
A man with gray hair, fine chiseled features, intense dark eyes and an imposing aura stepped into the room.
“
Cranely
tells me we have a visitor,” he stated as he came toward her. “A widow, clearly not from these parts. Blasted butler could never talk straight.”
Emily stepped to the side, and as she did so, out of the window’s backdrop.
“I’m Lord
Redgrave
, M—” His voice fell into silence. His eyes widened. “Elizabeth?” he whispered, faltering.
Oh, God. She took a deep breath and automatically stepped back as he moved toward her. Emily shook her head, the lead weighing heavier, her breath coming faster.
She was not going to faint. She never, never fainted.
Taking a deep breath, she shook her head again. “No, my lord. My name is
Emmaline
. Elizabeth is my mother. She’s supposed to be here. She’s supposed to…”
“Edward?
Cranely
said we have guests?”
A woman in a gown of emerald green and ivory stripes, glided into the room. Her hair was more white than auburn, though some strands reddened the coif.
This was her grandmother.
Edward…Lord
Redgrave
…her grandfather looked from his wife to her and back again.
Finally, he cleared his throat, once twice. A frown creased his brow.
“Who have we here?” she asked, coming closer. “We weren’t expecting anyone today, unless my mind is slipping and at my age, unfortunately, that is too much of…” She stopped her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my, God. Oh my, God. Can it be?” Tears filled the woman’s eyes even as a hand reached out. “Elizabeth.”
Emily sighed and shook her head. This was a dream, had to be a dream. “My name is
Emmaline
. Elizabeth is my mother.”
Silence sat hard and fast in the elegantly furnished room. A parlor. No,
Grims
had told her they were called drawing rooms here. Drawing room, parlor, neither matter. Her mother wasn’t here.
Clearing her throat, she asked the next question. “Is-is-is my sister here? Anne? Sarah Anne? Did she make it here?” Her voice caught on the end.
They had to be here. They
had
to.
Her hands shook and tears pricked the backs of her eyes. She closed them to will away the useless emotion. Swallowing, she opened her eyes and stared at the faces of her shocked grandparents.
“My dear, sit down,” Edward Warring said. Emily didn’t realize he was talking to her and jumped when he laid a hand on her arm. “Please,” he asked.
She nodded and sat in a chair across from her grandparents. No one said a word and the clock ticked teasingly.
“What did you say your name was again?” her grandmother asked.
“
Emmaline
Merryweather
Smith.”
“
Merryweather
,” her grandfather said, his jaw clenched. His shrewd dark eyes raked over her face, down her as if trying to see the truth or lies or something.
“Yes,
Merryweather
. Neil
Merryweather
.”
“I know the—“
“Edward.” Victoria laid a hand on her husband’s knee.
Emily smiled. “’
Tis
all right. I feel the same way, believe me.”
Victoria shook her head. “You must excuse us. This is quite a shock.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to be. I thought… I’d hoped… You see…” How on earth did she explain? Where did she even begin?
Suddenly, Victoria stood, walking to Emily. She too stood, not knowing what to expect. Her grandmother engulfed her in a tight, fierce hug. “My dear, dear grandchild.” Victoria pulled back and gazed directly into Emily’s eyes. “You look so much like her. So much.” Her hands cupped Emily’s face. “Look, Edward, she even has Elizabeth’s widow’s peak, like my own. And that mole just there by her hairline, is the same as Elizabeth’s. So much like her.”
And it had been the very bane of her existence. “Yes, I know.”
Her grandmother smiled. “Oh, welcome. Welcome.”
She looked over to her grandfather, who’d stood as well, though he clearly reserved his judgment. Emily stepped away from her grandmother and said, “I know you wonder at me, wonder if I must be telling the truth. I want nothing from you. I have money and will find a place to stay. I’d thought Mama would be here, you see. I thought he had to have lied, he had…” She stopped and looked away, the idea that Neil might have actually told the truth sinking into her for the first time. Her shoulder pulled and the headache built. Neil had said her mother was dead. Had he killed her? No. No, otherwise that meant he lied to Anne. Could he have lied? Oh, God, what if her mother were truly dead?
Emily swayed.
Edward cleared his throat. “No, you look too much like her not to be her daughter. But I can’t help but wonder why you thought she was here. We haven’t seen her in over twenty-one years.”
Emily nodded and sat, picking up her valise. She took out the bundle of letters from the top and untied them. She gave her grandfather those that were his or his wife’s. After he accepted them, she handed him the next aged bundle. Paper, slightly yellowed by age, the edges creased from her carrying the letters around, rested within the confines of the black frayed ribbon holding them together.
“These are for her siblings.”
“Why did you think Elizabeth was here?” Victoria asked, resuming her seat.
“Because he couldn’t have won. He just couldn’t have. All this time. All these years.”
Her grandfather took a deep breath, adjusted his vest and said. “I don’t like liars and I abhor thieves, if I find you’re either…”
“Edward!”
“No, he’s right. He should protect his family.” Anger burned through her. And without thought she asked him. “Why? Why did you never visit? Did you not care?” Her mother’s bruised and beaten face flashed through her mind. “Did you not worry about her or her children with the kind of man he was?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Deep breath. This was not the time, nor the place. And it wasn’t her grandfather’s fault. It wasn’t as if her mother had ever asked for help. That Emily knew. Knew with every fiber of her being, though as a child she didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. Only later, years later, battles later, had she understood.
“I apologize, my anger is misplaced. It’s not you I’m angry with.” She rubbed her forehead again, weariness sinking into her bones.
“Then who?” Edward asked.
She noticed he ran his hands lovingly over the correspondence in his hands, his fingers tracing the letters of his name written in her mother’s slanting script.
“I don’t understand this,” Victoria said. “You said earlier, he couldn’t win. What did you mean? Who did you mean?”
Emily vaguely wondered how to soften the blow. How to tell without telling. “Neil. Neil
Merryweather
told my sister and me that our mother was dead.”
When their faces paled and her grandmother gasped, Emily quickly tried to explain. “He said she was dead, but we never believed it and years later he told my sister, Anne, where he’d taken our mother. My sister and I were separated, however, before she could impart the news to me.” She looked around the room, back at them and absently shifted her aching shoulder. “I always assumed, hoped, she was here. That at some point, she’d made it home.”