by Jaycee Clark
She folded the paper and stood, the black traveling gown swirling around her ankles. She’d just leave the note and coins in his room. As she stepped through the adjoining door, she stopped, realizing how such a simple action could almost seem like trespassing. His room smelled of spice and the outdoors, a scent that would forever be imprinted on her mind as his.
Lord Ravensworth would not be pleased when he found her gone. They might be newly acquainted, but she was hardly a fool. He’d left two days ago on urgent business and promised to return as soon as possible.
Well, it was no secret she had relatives in London, but he didn’t know who they were—or even where. Besides, she’d imposed enough on him. It was time to move on. Emily knew the marquess was frustrated with her vague and half answers, but so be it. The man had more questions than that Socrates person she’d read about. Some Ravensworth had asked, she’d simply ignored. He’d wanted to know who Mary was.
She ran her hand down the black skirt and breathed deeply. Some things she would discuss with no one.
Sighing, she hurried across the room and put the letter and coins on the dark mahogany writing desk. In her own room, she grabbed the black bonnet from the bed and put it on, flinging the veils over her face. Perhaps she would be left alone by any inquisitive persons. She picked up the valise, again a borrowed one from Ravensworth’s sister, and the black cloak.
As she walked down the stairs, she wondered if perhaps she should wait another day, only having been allowed to walk about the last few days. She tended to tire easily. But, if she waited, his lordship could return and then he’d insist on going with her.
That thought brought her up short as it always did. Finding her family was something she had to do alone, practically a quest for her. It made no sense to others, she knew, but to her it was important. There was at least one thing in her life she could do on her own. Had to do by herself—for herself.
She took another deep breath and grabbed the banister and shakily descended the steps. By the time she’d carried her bag to the bottom, she wished she could sit down, but that would never do. She had places to go.
“Madam?”
Emily gasped and turned. The man moved like a cat. “Yes, Mr. Grims?”
He looked over her with shrewd gray eyes. “If it pleases, Madam, as I’ve stressed before, it is just Grims.”
The man seemed to hate having “mister” put before his name. For the life of her, Emily could not understand why.
He continued, looking down his long, beak-like nose at her. “I can’t help notice you seem packed.” His gaze landed on her bag.
A smile threatened, but she quelled it. “How observant of you, Grims.”
“I am ever observant, Madam. May I inquire as to why you are seemingly readying for a journey?”
She couldn’t hold in the smile. “You may indeed inquire, and I shall tell you that your powers of deduction have proved you correct.”
“May I assist you?”
The man was so incredibly stiff, he oft reminded her of Theodore though he’d never been anything but kind and polite to her.
“Yes, I need a carriage, if you please, to take me to the stage stop?”
One gray brow rose. The stare was silent and made her squirm. She backed up.
He tilted his head. “As you wish, Madam, but may I ask as to your destination? Perhaps a private conveyance would be more suitable. We wouldn’t want a repeat of The Attack.”
No she didn’t want a repeat of—as everyone around here seemed to term it—The Attack. She’d already wrestled that fear earlier this morning, but saw no help from it.
“London.”
Grims turned and walked away silently. He was forever doing that, asking her questions and then just leaving. She had no idea what to make of the austere man.
Tired, she walked over to an ivory settee and perched on the edge of it. If the trip down the stairs and merely packing left her this drained, she hated to think what the trip to London would do, but it didn’t matter. She was going.
As she waited, Emily ran her gaze around the grand entry of the house. The black and white marble floors gleamed, reflecting the sunlight. Marble columns stretching up to the plastered ceiling marched down each side of the entryway. Mirrors adorned the walls, statues were hidden in alcoves. This part of the house was lovely, but she preferred the older wings she’d discovered a few days ago. The ancient stones of the house told of stories forgotten, armor and faded tapestries depicting battles hung from those walls. That part of this giant mansion reminded her of knights of old. This part of the house, new and shiny she just couldn’t really understand.
Minutes later Grims stood to her side. She jumped, her hand flying to her chest and glared before dropping her gaze to the floor.
“I apologize, Madam, for startling you. The carriage will be brought around shortly and will see you safely to London.”
The words surged relief through her. “Thank you, Grims.”
He cleared his throat. “You do understand that his lordship will not be happy about this?”
He couldn’t see her behind her veils so she smiled again. “I’m sure he’ll come to terms with my leaving, Grims. The marquess has more important things to worry about than an imposing houseguest.”
His look said he thoroughly disagreed.
* * * * *
The Marquess of Ravensworth was rarely speechless, but there were exceptions.
How was he to deal with this?
It had taken him almost two days to get to the village in the Cotswalds and when he’d arrived, it had been well after dark. He’d stayed at a nearby inn, The Goose and Gander, to wait until morning.
Now it was morning and here he stood inside Isobelle’s cottage. His heart ached when he saw the vibrant woman sick and pale in bed. Her once lustrous hair was limp and dull. She’d lost so much weight, the once curvaceous woman appeared gaunt to the point of starvation.
The story she’d told him shocked him and he had no idea what to say to her.
Anger came hot and fast, roaring through his veins. But he’d never been one to show his anger, let alone to a woman, and now didn’t seem the time to start with one that was at death’s door.
He took a deep breath through his nose and wondered what he was supposed to say.
“I’m telling—” She broke off in a fit of strangled coughing. The maid hurried to her, but Isobelle waved the woman away. “I’m telling you the truth, Jason.”
He didn’t doubt it. Isobelle had been unfailingly honest above all else. It had been one of the many commonalities between them. “Why? Why wait to tell me this?” He thumped his hand on his thigh, wondering what to do, too many emotions hitting him all at once. Coldly he asked, “Did you think I… Damn it, I had a right to know. Why Isobelle?”
“I’ve no real excuse that you’d understand, not one that even makes sense to me.” That smile he remembered so well, faintly tilted her lips, but her once sparkling eyes were darkened and filled with pain. ”I should have been honest at the time, and then I found out I was sick.” Her breath wheezed from her lungs. “I waited as long as I could. I’m selfish. Always have been, and I only got such a short time. You have all the rest, Jason. All the rest. Please don’t be angry with me. It would, after all, be wasted on a dying woman.”
How could he argue with that? Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and walked to her. Jason sat on the edge of the bed, picking up her frail hand. The cloying scent of sickness wrapped around him.
…dying woman…
“I’ll send for another physician,” he said, wondering who and how quickly they could arrive.
The edges of her mouth tightened and her eyes slid closed even as her hand tightened on his with surprising strength. He rubbed his thumb back and forth over her bony knuckles.
Finally, her eyes slid open. “Jason. So strong, so right, so damn honorable and…and…good.” Her sigh caught on a moan. “I’m dying. There’s nothing anyone can do. Not
even you.”
“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.