The Fixer: New Wave Newsroom (14 page)

But he had rules. And Jack hadn't gotten as far as he had without following his self-imposed rules. The relevant one here was that he was never the pursuer. Well, at least not until a woman got him into her bed. Then all bets were off. But, in general, he thought it fairer to let women come to him, given that he was never going to see any of them more than once. Pursuing a specific woman risked raising her expectations.

As he ate his pork loin—preserved lemon on the side—he gave up on the rows and rows of numbers, which were forever eluding him anyway, and contemplated the hot bartender. Why had he never noticed her before? The world was always throwing women at him—hence no need to be the pursuer. Daughters of vendors—Jesus, 
wives
 of vendors. Flight attendants. Women hitting on him in bars. At Edward's, and at most downtown Toronto high-end spots, they were almost all of a type, looking like they were on hiatus from the National Ballet to do their MBAs. They were all slippery shiny surface, nothing a man could hold on to, figuratively, or…well, this bartender, damn. He could just imagine pinning down those gorgeous full hips and—

“Will there be anything else tonight, sir?”

“Pardon me?” The object of his absurd little fantasy stepped into his line of vision, which put his eyeballs right in line with the second button of her white shirt—it had looked like it was about to pop off all evening.

“I'm cashing out—got to be up early tomorrow. So if you need anything else, more preserved lemon, maybe,”—one corner of her plump pink mouth turned up—“Edward will help you, okay?” She gestured to the older man at the other corner of the bar, whom he knew to be the owner.

He was not the pursuer.
 And, God, a bartender? Not exactly his type. “Thank you,” he said flatly, keeping his face neutral.

With a dip of her head, she disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later the door swung back open, and she stepped through transformed. A pink pea coat had been thrown over her shirt and her hair had come down. Freed from its prim bun, it fell well past her shoulders. When it was up, he'd thought of it as merely dark brown. But he saw now that it was a shiny mahogany subtly streaked with auburn and copper.

And she'd lost the tie. He shifted in his seat. The top two buttons of her shirt were undone; that heroic button had been taken off active duty, no longer straining to cover her up. He could see just the barest bit of cleavage, a mere hint of what he suspected lay beneath.

He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining the rest.

Well, if fucking Carl was going to take down Winter Enterprises, at least Miss Lemon on the Side had given him something else to think about tonight.

M
ay
, 1813, Essex

“Being the last surviving member of one's family does have its advantages,” said Eric Woodley, the twelfth Earl of Blackstone, to his friend, Trevor Bailey, as the men slowed their horses on the final approach to Clareford Manor. “There's the succession to worry about—supposedly—but there's nobody around to harangue one over the matter, either.”

The earl narrowed his eyes as he hopped off his bay gelding and surveyed the deep green expanse of lawn surrounding the ancestral home. The graceful house, built atop and around an ancient abbey, wore its centuries of accretion with aplomb, as if it had always perched atop this gentle slope. In the slanting late afternoon sun, the fading red-brick walls glowed.

“My God, I hate the country,” he said.

Bailey laughed. ‘It's a beautiful house. A beautiful estate.”

“Yes, well, to each his own. The more pertinent question is will it do?”

“Judging by the number of creeks and estuaries we rode over, I'd say it's perfect. He won't be able to resist.”

Blackstone turned toward the stables. “Since we weren't expected until tomorrow, there isn't anyone here to meet us. I imagine we can scare up a groom, though.”

“You keep a groom even though you're never here?”

“Good point. I don't know if I keep a groom. But regardless, shouldn't there at least be one retained for the party?”

Bailey shrugged. “It's
your
party.”

“I'm fully capable of seeing to my horse myself. And yours, too, if need be. It's something we aristocrats learn, even the devoted city-dwellers among us.”

Bailey rose to the bait. “I'll have to take you up on that offer, then, won't I? We
commoners
can't be expected to know anything about the care of such fine specimens as these.” He slapped the withers of the black hunter he'd hired in Chelmsford, where they'd last changed horses. “Especially those of us in”—he paused for effect—“
trade
.”

Blackstone smirked and threw open a heavy oak door to reveal an empty but immaculate stable. “Hmm. I'm a little concerned the place is looking too well. You could eat a meal off this floor. And did you see the house back there? All pink and aglow like a chit on the marriage mart?”

“You're overthinking this, Blackstone.”

“I'm supposed to be the impoverished peer. Drowning in debt, encumbered by all this bloody beautiful entailed land. It won't do to look too rich.”

“Thankfully, you have me around to sully your reputation.”

Yes, he did have Bailey. The one person in the world he trusted. His friend had been busy overseeing his expanding empire, buying up mines and planning to open London's most modern and luxurious hotel. But no matter how engaged Bailey was making money, he always made time when duty called. Ever loyal to the cause—and to the captain—he understood what was at stake.

“And,” Bailey added, “you look a fright.”

“Thank you very much, indeed.”

“Your hair is too long, and you appear not to have shaved in days.” Bailey's gaze swept down to Blackstone's dusty buckskin breeches. “In fact, I'd say you look exactly like a peer in need of a cash infusion.”

“Do I look like I'd be willing to commit treason to get it?”

Before Bailey could answer, a boy came running up. “My lord!” He bowed to Bailey, who shot Blackstone a triumphant grin. “You're a day early.” The boy reached for the reins Bailey held. He threw Blackstone a passing glance.

“I can take your horse, too, sir.”

Blackstone scanned his friend's neat appearance. With his close-cropped ginger hair, a deep burgundy coat, and perfectly starched cravat, Bailey showed no signs of having endured a hard half-day ride. Clearing his throat, Blackstone said, “I am master of this house.”

The boy reddened and began to stammer an apology, but Blackstone cut him off. “Before you see to the horses, take my friend Mr. Bailey to the house and make his presence known to…” It seemed he had blocked out everything about this place. “What is the housekeeper's name?”

“Mrs. Sheldon, my lord.”

“Yes.” He conjured the image of a reedy, unsmiling woman who'd seemed old, even when he was a boy. “I'm going to take a walk around the grounds.”

“Would you like company?” Bailey asked.

“No.” The single syllable came out sharper than intended. Blackstone knew the younger man worried about him, just as he always had on the peninsula. He closed his eyes and forced a softer, “Thank you, no.”

As always, he preferred to face his demons alone. Tossing aside topcoat and cravat—he would not meet anyone on this excursion—he strode across the manicured lawns. When they met the rougher expanse of meadowland that lay between the house and the farms, he didn't bother looking for an already trodden path. Though it had been three years since he'd walked this land, the terrain was as familiar as his own skin, so often did it appear in his fragmented, late-night imaginings. Those unwelcome memories that shaded into dreams, wearing a groove in his soul—sometimes he wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't. Who's to say they weren't back to haunt him, to accuse him under cover of night? It was no less than he deserved.

Concentrating on the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze, he strove to focus on something besides the roar of blood in his ears. He looked at the sky, having learned that anchoring himself in the physical sensations of the present was often the only way to move forward, to force himself to do what needed doing. An unbroken expanse of cloudless blue stretched as far as he could see, decorated only by the same sun that had painted the house in such a lovely light. Once he reached the crest of this last little hill, that unforgiving sun would glint off the lake, illuminating it utterly.

A few more steps, and he reached the apex. He had to squint to allow his eyes to adjust to the brilliant expanse of water. The bucolic scene was just as he'd expected. A small lake was bordered on the far side by a stand of birch trees and dotted in the shallows with lily pads. Birds sang, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of honeysuckle.

This is how demons work
. Sometimes the hells they inhabited were dark and stormy, something out of a Gothic novel. Other times, hell was deceptively beautiful, aromatic, and bathed in sunlight.

The sound of something breaking the water's surface drew his attention. A head emerged. Instinct kicked in, and he hit the ground. The open meadow abutting this side of the lake offered nowhere to hide. The head moved toward the dock.
Could it be?
No, that was lunacy.

Don't be a fool. Alec is dead.

As if to illustrate the absurdity of his thoughts, the figure hoisted itself up the ladder in one sleek, fluid motion. The swimmer was tall, lithe—and female.

Unexpectedly, but most decidedly, female.

She wore only a chemise that clung to her slight curves like a second skin. A pale, elegant ankle drew his attention as she shook her leg, trying to dislodge a leaf that had stuck to her skin, bold emerald in stark relief against alabaster. As she reached up to squeeze water out of hair that fell past her shoulders, the sodden linen of her chemise strained against her small breasts. She looked like she belonged in a painting, as if an Old Master had conjured her out of oil paints, but she, too vivacious to remain contained in two dimensions, had swum off the canvas and, inexplicably, into his lake.

Ogling a local servant or the daughter of one of his tenants was unseemly. But it was good to be reminded that he was a man. He had sublimated much, sacrificed everything. The cause was his mistress. It was gratifying, if bittersweet, to remember that this was what men did. They admired the local ladies. Maybe they even wooed them. How would that happen, exactly? Picnics, he imagined. Country dances. A kiss stolen beside a lake very like this one.

It was not a life he could have, but it was nice to pretend for a moment. He wrenched his gaze from the woman and forced himself to remember where he was.
The lake.

Yes, hell could be disguised as a sun-drenched paradise.

And, it seemed, hell could even come complete with a golden angel.

Emily stood by the open window in her room willing her hair to dry faster when Sarah rushed in to announce that the Earl of Blackstone had arrived a day early and that they were wanted in the drawing room.

“Can you imagine?” exclaimed Sarah, breathless.

Emily was unmoved. Her friend, ever susceptible to melodrama, often bubbled over with excess enthusiasm. “It
is
his house,” she couldn't resist pointing out.

“Yes, but he wasn't expected until
tomorrow
.”

Indeed. And now they would have to spend the evening making polite, mindless small talk. That was exactly why Emily avoided society. People chatting endlessly about nothing that mattered. And Sarah's father was not even in attendance, and he was the whole reason she'd come. Without Mr. Manning, there was no reason for her to be here either. If she wanted to find Billy, Mr. Manning was the key.

Sarah clapped her hands. “To think, our evening was going to be so
dull
, but now we'll spend it with the Earl of Blackstone!” She threw open the armoire and began rummaging through Emily's things. “He's very mysterious, you know.”

“So you said.” Sarah had talked of nothing but the inscrutable aristocrat since her family had received an invitation to a party on his Essex estate, a place that had taken on almost mythical status in the collective consciousness of polite society. No one had been to the estate since before the death of the current earl's older brother nearly three years ago.

“One sees him in London from time to time, but he's so very…”

“Enigmatic?” Emily supplied. “Unfathomable? Downright odd?” Sarah was a dear girl, and Emily felt the sharp tug of loyalty that only a shared childhood can inspire, but inside that pretty chestnut-tressed head was…not much. It never ceased to amaze Emily that a woman with such a limited vocabulary could be such an expert babbler.

“Mysterious,” finished Sarah with a decisive nod. “He appears at parties and balls from time to time, but he never dances—though perhaps that's attributable to his injury. He's not at all interested in female company, even with the question of succession looming. He's almost a hermit. And yet in theory, he's one of the most eligible bachelors in the realm. It's very…”

“Puzzling? Vexing?”

“Mysterious. Because why a house party all of a sudden, if not that he's decided to turn his attention to setting up a nursery? Why in the world would someone so, so…”

“Antisocial? Misanthropic?”

“…mysterious as the Earl of Blackstone suddenly open his home to a crowd of people he would seem to care nothing about?”

“Perhaps we'll find out. Did you not say we were wanted downstairs?”

Emily grinned as Sarah shrieked and threw a gown at her head. Her lavender muslin. A little worn, but respectable enough. “I'll have to put my hair up damp. It will take ages to dry.”

“I'll send Anne in.” Sarah scowled at what was no doubt the cacophony of curls emerging as Emily's hair dried.

“Don't bother.” Her friend's maid wasn't up to the task. It was only through years of trial and error—and of walking around looking like she had a bird's nest on her head—that Emily had learned to wrestle her hair into a state of semi submission. “Go ahead without me and tell them I'll be down shortly.”

Sarah gave a little hop of excitement as she departed.

Emily pulled on her stays—short and laced up the front so she didn't need a maid. As the light boning compressed her upper rubs, she imagined the garment as a suit of armor. She had to believe that Mr. Manning would show up. Going home to Sally and telling her she had no new information about Billy's whereabouts was simply not an option, so she must be bold. Brave. Real reformers did more than write, more than talk. They acted.

But first, an evening of meaningless conversation. Sighing, she upended a small box of hairpins and prepared to do battle with her chaotic curls, girding herself to meet the mysterious Earl of Blackstone.