Emma held her tongue but with difficulty. It was such a challenge that she had to bite her tongue to keep back the retort that threatened to explode from her lips.
“When will your father return?”
“In four days,” Emma replied. “That is, if his meetings in London go as planned.”
The man nodded. “Very well. In four days send your father to Bonehedge Estates. He has until the clock strikes ten to appear. If he does not…” Without finishing his threat, he turned and walked out the door, slamming it behind him.
Worry coursed through Emma as she ran to the door and opened it. “Your Grace!” she called out into the rain, “and if he is unable to arrive on time?”
The man stopped and turned to glare at her, the rain streaming off the rim of his hat. “Then I will find someone who will.” He turned back around and disappeared into the night.
Emma returned to the room just as the last light of the setting sun disappeared. Dark shadows moved around her as she sat down in the chair belonging to her father, but she made no effort to light a candle. She gave a heavy sigh. Regardless of the man’s threats, her father would not arrive at the appointed time. Losing another client, especially one of the caliber of the duke, would more than likely be what drove them into the streets.
Chapter Four
The knots in Emma’s stomach began to tighten as the clock struck eight. Two hours remained before the duke would cancel his account, and she had only one course of action that could put a stop to it. She took a deep breath and glanced over at Stephen, who stood with his hands clasped before him.
“Miss Emma,” he pleaded, “there must be another way.”
She shook her head sadly. “I do not believe there is,” she replied with a sigh. “I must do it myself.”
“Surely if you tell him the truth? Perhaps he will understand.”
“You and I both know that is not possible,” Emma replied. Although the thought of lying was unsettling, she had no choice when it came to her father. Many reasons for her deception existed, but if the truth was exposed, all their clients would flee. She sighed again. “I suppose I should go.”
“Very well,” Stephen replied. “I’ll wait here until you return. Are you sure you don’t want me to escort you? I’m afraid to have you walking alone at night.”
Emma opened the door and turned to give the man an appreciative smile. “That will not be necessary,” she said as she took a step out the door only to run straight into the landlord of the property, one Lord Gordon Miggs. He might have been a baron, but Emma found the man to be more abhorrent than even the duke. Where the duke was quick to anger, this man held lust in his eyes at any woman under the age of thirty; married or unmarried mattered not to him.
He ran his fingers through what was left of his silver hair. “Ah, Miss Emma,” he said in that oily tone she despised. “I have been meaning to speak to you.”
“My Lord,” she replied with a quick curtsy, hating to show any form of diffidence to the man. “If it is concerning the rent…”
The man raised a hand, and Emma went quiet. “Let us get out of this night air,” he said as he took a step forward, forcing her through the door without laying a single finger on her. When he noticed Stephen, he said, “Leave us.”
Stephen looked at Emma, who gave him a quick nod. As soon as the man stepped through the door, the baron slammed the door closed, turned around and studied Emma, his hands clasped behind his back. The buttons on his black coat strained to keep his large stomach enclosed in it, as did those on his crisp, white shirt; however, it was the man’s dark eyes that had always bothered Emma, for they held a hunger in them that left her feeling somehow soiled.
“The rent is late,” he said. “You do realize that I do not run a charity here.”
“Yes, My Lord,” Emma replied. “Times have been difficult, and it is not because I do not care…” Her heart froze as the baron took a step forward and ran the back of his hand down her cheek. The caress brought about revulsion and made her wish to run away, but she held her ground. She could not allow this man to make her feel less than she was.
The man licked his lips. “Such a beautiful creature,” he whispered. “I know you care, for you are a good woman.”
Unsure as to what to do, Emma offered him a forced smile. “I-I appreciate you saying so, My Lord.”
“To be honest, I thought you were, perhaps, taking advantage of my good nature, but then I thought, no, not Emma.” He ran his hands over the bare skin of her arms.
She swallowed hard. “Thank you, My Lord,” she said, attempting to keep her dinner from rising. “If I could have only another week, I would be most appreciative. Tonight, I am leaving to settle an account, and I shall have the money for the rent when it is completed.”
“For both months?”
Emma looked down at the floor. She had not considered he would ask for the current month, as well.
“Ah, I see.” He took her hands in his, and she forced herself to look up at him, though she continued to keep herself from sicking up at the way his eyes devoured her. “Well, I am sure you know that the rising costs of maintaining properties such as yours have forced my hand.”
“W-what do you mean?”
“I am afraid to say that I will have to raise your rent beginning next month.”
Emma’s heart fell to the floor. “I cannot pay more,” she said with shock. “I beg of you, give me time!”
He narrowed his eyes at her and rubbed his chin. “If it were anyone else, I would say no.” He tightened his grip on her hands. “However, this matter must be discussed further. Is that fair?”
Emma felt a sense of relief wash over her and she nodded. “Yes. And thank you.” His offer to discuss the matter was gracious. She had seen what had happened to Mrs. Little and her daughter; they were not given any chance at all.
“Then, be at my house by six p.m. tomorrow to discuss your rent and perhaps come to a solution.” He looked her up and down. “Be sure to dress, for we will dine together, as well.”
The man’s wife had died four years earlier, and rumors of his roguish ways were rampant throughout the village. Emma feared she knew what the baron wanted as payment, but what choice did she have?
“I will be there at six,” she replied, although hearing the words aloud made her cringe. “I am late for an appointment, so I must leave.”
Much to her relief, he released her hands. “Very good. I look forward to it.” He walked to the door but paused. “Oh, and if you do decide to change your mind, just understand that I will be very upset.” Before she could respond, he opened the door and closed it behind him.
A moment later, Stephen returned. “Are you all right, Miss Emma?” he asked, concern etched on his face.
“I am,” Emma replied, though she could not help but worry that she might have made an unwise decision in meeting with the baron for dinner. However, it was too late to back out now. Furthermore, if she did not appease the duke tonight, it would not matter, anyway. “Come. We must be off. We do not want to be late.”
Stephen’s eyes widened. “You want me to join you?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Do not leave me.”
The thought of being alone after what had just happened and what she had to face did not sit well with her. Therefore, with her friend by her side, the two left the office, the future as uncertain as ever.
***
The estate on which the duke lived was nearly an hour’s walk from the village, and without the benefit of a full moon to guide her steps, Emma was thankful for the company of Stephen. Her mind turned over the plan for this evening and how she would present her story to the duke.
“Don’t you worry, Miss Emma,” Stephen said from beside her. “You’ll be fine; I just know it.”
“How did you know I was concerned?” she asked. She had thought she had done an adequate job of hiding her worries. “Do you have the ability to read my thoughts?”
Stephen laughed. �
�Oh, no, Miss,” he said as the large home came into view. “You mumble sometimes when you’re thinking is all. Gives you away every time.”
Emma could not help but laugh. “I will be certain not to do that again.”
With each step, the house appeared larger, and Emma’s worry increased. When they finally came up the marble steps that led to the front door, she thought the air around her had disappeared. It took several moments to calm herself before she reached up and knocked on the door.
“You are very brave,” Stephen murmured. “You don’t have nothing to worry about. Just remain strong.”
She placed a hand on his arm. “Thank you for saying so.”
Stephen blushed, but his smile beamed greater than the half-moon that had led them down the road. “It’s only the truth.”
The door opened, and a man Emma presumed to be the butler stood at the entrance. “Please,” he said as he moved aside and extended his hand to indicate they should enter.
Emma looked around the foyer, her eyes wide. Dark stained oak ran along the walls and floor. A carpet longer than any she had ever seen ran the length and breadth of the room that could have held not only her office but the flat above it, as well. The chandelier held more candles than she had ever encountered lit in one place.
“This way, please,” the old butler said with a kind smile that somehow surprised her. What she expected, she did not know, but kindness had not been on the list, even if the man was a servant. The smile made her straighten her back as she followed the butler down the hallway. She would succeed in keeping the account of the duke if it was the last thing she did!
Although the house was large and the items luxurious, a coldness seeped into her bones, and her temporary burst of courage began to wane. Every piece of furniture and décor had its place, but the house lacked a sense of home.
When they reached a set of tall double-doors, the butler turned to Stephen and said, “If you will have a seat.” He indicated a pair of high-back chairs covered in red velvet sitting just outside the doors.
Stephen gave her a concerned look, but Emma nodded. With reluctance, he took a seat, clearly unhappy that Emma was to enter the room alone.
“The duke is waiting,” the butler said with a slight nod of his head. He opened the door and announced, “Miss Emma Barrington, Your Grace.” Then he gave a deep bow, moved aside, and extended his hand once again to indicate she was to enter the room.
The duke stood beside an unlit fireplace, his back to her. Emma worried at her bottom lip as the man raised his arm and swept it toward the door. The butler bowed his head and left the two of them alone, closing the door behind him.
The room had tall bookcases built into two of the walls, filled with what had to be every book in existence. A single sofa sat across from two wingback chairs, a low coffee table between them. Above the fireplace was the painting of a family—a man, woman, and a young boy of perhaps ten—the duke’s family, she assumed.
The seconds stretched as she waited, and just before she decided to speak, the man turned, his face solemn and his eyes stern. “Your father?”
“I apologize, Your Grace,” she said with a quick curtsy. “He is unable to attend.”
The duke gave a nod. He studied her for a moment and then let out a maniacal laugh that made her shiver. “Oh, how my patience has run thin,” he said when the strange laugh was gone. In two quick steps, he was before her, glaring down at her like some insect invading his space. “I have been kind enough to you and your father,” he said in a low tone that was worse than the laughter he had displayed. “Our relationship is terminated. Now, leave.”
Tears filled Emma’s eyes before she could stop them. She knew this would be his reaction, had even readied herself for it, yet she responded with tears? She was stronger than this. “Your Grace, please,” she whispered, reaching deep inside herself for the strength she needed. “If you would allow me a moment to explain. I received word from my father that his departure from London has been postponed. If you would allow me to go over your books with you, I can…”
The duke curled his lip. “I will not have a woman attempt to explain business matters to me,” he said. “Leave at once. I will not ask again.”
Accepting defeat, Emma turned. She would not give this man the privilege of seeing her cry. She left the room, and just as the door closed behind her, the tears fell in great streams. She had failed. They would lose the business as well as the office and the small room above where she lived. She was nearly a spinster with no one to love, with only an old baron who lusted after her to whom she could turn.
Bowing her head in shame and defeat, an image of her father came to mind. The man had never given up at any time in his life, so why would she? Had she not said on more than one occasion that she could do as well as he? Had he not said as much himself?
Her composure returned, she placed her hand on the handle to the door she had just exited. duke or not, she would have her say. The business was already lost, and although the Duke of Storms may call down lightning, he was still just a man. And with that thought, she pushed the door open and walked back inside.
Chapter Five
As the door slammed closed, Lucas released a heavy sigh as he tried to understand an unusual feeling inside him. Guilt. His temper had exploded with Miss Barrington, yet that was nothing new. He was prone to outbursts, he was strong enough to admit as much, and this had been minor compared to the explosions he had forced others to endure. Then what brought about this guilt that now hung over him?
It had to be the tears that had brimmed the woman’s eyes. Not the fact she was near weeping, for more than one maid had wept during one of his tongue-lashings. What he saw was a woman who had the strength to keep the tears from falling, which was a rare sight, indeed.
She was beautiful, far more than any woman he had ever seen; even in her tattered dress and bonnet, she could not hide that fact. Yet, that beauty was not confined to that which was seen; inside was a strength the woman could control. It was strange to see someone with the ability to take hold of her emotions with little struggle. How he wished he could do the same with his temper.
Now, with her gone, he wondered if perhaps he should have listened to what she had to say. Although his father had taught him women knew nothing of business—or anything beyond dresses and planning dinner parties, for that matter—perhaps this woman was different.
He shook his head. The beauty of this woman had to be muddling his thinking. All women were the same, and to think that, somehow, she was not like the others was foolishness on his part. What he had done was for the best, but now he had to search for a new bookkeeper. That would be a daunting task, for Mr. Barrington had been the only person to keep his books for him. Well, he had several men he knew who used such services; he would query them.
As he moved to return to his desk, the door opened, and he was shocked when he turned and saw Miss Barrington storm back into the room.
“I do not care if you call down lightning to strike me!” she shouted, slamming the door shut behind her. “Nor do I care if you are a duke. Have me beheaded or hanged, ruined and chastised, whatever it is you do to those who cross you, but I have nothing more to lose, so I will have my say!”
Lucas stared at the woman. He had never seen such fire—such passion—from any woman. Even few men displayed this much anger with such poise. Her voice was strong, her eyes fierce, and her features determined. And in all of that, he had a newfound respect for her.
“Very well,” he replied, pulling his chair to the desk as he sat. He did not offer a chair, nor would he; a line had to be drawn somewhere. “Tell me what you must. Amuse me.”
Miss Barrington jutted out her chin and walked over to stand in front of his desk, each step steady, yet somehow graceful. She stood with her head held high, her hands at her side rather than wringing in front of her as so many who stood in her place in the past had done.
Was it strange he found himself resisting the urge
to walk around the desk and take her in his arms?
“I have assisted my father for years,” she said. She spoke rather well for a woman of the working class. “In that time, we have made very few errors, I assure you. When it came to your books, my father always triple checked, for he valued your custom.”
“Then why are there mistakes now?” he asked, his eyebrows raising, as was his voice. His amusement could only last so long.
“I do not know,” she replied, her voice still as firm as when she entered the room. “However, I can assure you that it is not my fault.”
“Do you mean to say,” he said, leaning forward and placing hands on the desk, “that this is somehow a fault of mine?” He narrowed his eyes at her. “And I would answer with care, if I were you.”
“If it is not mine,” she said, matching his stare, “then the fault lies with someone else. Do you allow others to handle your receipts or record keeping?”
He grinned at her reply. The woman did have a strong wit.
“Now,” she continued before he could reply to her question, “you have a choice in this matter.”
“Do I?” he asked with a light chuckle. “Tell me, Spinster, what choice do I have?” He regretted the use of spinster as soon as he saw her wince.
“Allow me to look over your receipts and your ledgers, the ones you keep for yourself. I may find the error there.” She sighed. “Or not. It is your choice, Your Grace. However, I will not allow the blunder to fall on me if I was not the one to commit it.” She clasped her hands together in front of her and wrung them, for the first time expressing her worry.
Lucas considered these ‘choices’ as she called them. She had failed to admit another choice, which was to simply ask her to leave and allow him to engage another bookkeeper. However, he found he could not do so. What was it she had said when she began this tirade?
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