Her lips trembled.
“I know I made everything worse, but I did not intend to hurt you. Don’t push me away, Emily. You don’t have to be alone.”
She took in a sharp breath, her wide brown eyes filling with tears. “I would rather be alone than live in constant fear you might hurt me again.” And shoving his hands aside, she walked toward the bed alcove.
Grey remained rooted to the spot, unable to move, to breathe. Her bitter conviction disarmed him as nothing else had, not even the moment she’d denied him five years ago. Whereas her betrayal then had been borne of fear, her calculated rejection of him now hurled him into an even grimmer hell.
Slowly he turned around and found her seated on the edge of the bed, her features composed, spiritless.
The creeping hand of despair reached for his throat. “Emily—”
“Leave. Please.”
His legs weakened. He girded his muscles and hastened toward the door before he lost all his strength. “I’ve an interview with your former butler in the morning. Nine sharp. Come to the study.” Hand on the latch, he offered in a detached voice, “I won’t trouble you again, princess.”
And he left the room, heart in his belly.
~ * ~
Grey felt like shit. His head throbbed. His muscles ached. He had lazed the night in his armchair, downing a bottle of Martel, but still her merciless remark haunted him . . . I would rather be alone than live in constant fear you might hurt me again.
As her words sliced ever deeper into his soul, he cursed himself for being a ruddy fool and taking her back into his heart.
He snorted. Had he really ever closed his heart to Emily? In the five years they had been apart, had he ever stopped loving her?
Never. He had never stopped loving her. From the moment he’d recognized her on the stage of the gentlemen’s club, he’d trembled with that love, even if he’d denied it then. But he should have known, with so many defeats in the past, he and Emily were never destined to share a life together. He had changed. Her world had changed. But their love had remained the same—impossible.
His head lolled to the side. He narrowed his bloodshot eyes on the clock. A quarter to nine, maybe. The dials pulled in and out of focus.
His bond with Emily had been reduced to a single thread—the search for her father’s killer. And once the hunt was over and that thread snapped, he’d return to the Continent. Or go to America, perhaps. He’d leave Emily the house and forget he ever reunited with her.
He doubted such a feat was possible.
Pushing out of the armchair, Grey slogged toward the study. He opened the door and found Harry seated behind the desk, pen in hand. His heart dropped again. He had hoped to find Emily waiting inside the room. And again he rebuked himself for being an ass. Of course she wouldn’t be there a minute before nine. Of course she wouldn’t come and spend any more time with him than necessary. She loathed him.
“Good morning, old chum.” Harry cleared his throat. “I was just, um, organizing your letters.”
Grey stepped deeper into the room, ignoring the stabbing pain in his breast. He absently examined the envelopes he’d previously dumped onto the floor, now sorted into three piles. “Why?” His head still pounded with drink, and he hadn’t the lucidity to comprehend what his skiver-of-a-houseguest was doing.
Harry colored and shifted from side to side as if his arse hurt. “I thought I would be helpful.”
As Harry helped himself alone, Grey frowned at the obvious clanker. He looked more closely at the piles of letters, thumbed through them, and noticed one stack was from creditors, another from renowned concert halls, and the third contained invitations to balls and other parties. It was the third pile Harry seemed most interested in, for he’d opened every letter.
Grey lifted his cloudy gaze and centered it on Harry. “What exactly are you doing?”
His sheepish friend tapped the pen on the desk. “I undertook the task of responding to your many invitations. I know you’ve not the time or interest for them.”
“I see” he drawled, then reached over the desk. His musical fingers light, even in his inebriated state, Grey outmatched Harry’s reflexes and snatched the correspondence.
Harry’s features turned grim.
As Grey skimmed the handwritten lines, his brow furrowed. He read a portion of the dispatch aloud: “As I am otherwise engaged, I regretfully decline the generous invitation to supper, however, if it pleases your lordship, I will send my delegate and closest friend in my stead.”
Harry shrugged. “It’s tiresome being alone in this empty house. If you’re not going to attend any of the parties, why shouldn’t I?”
The word “alone” triggered an unwelcome pressure on his chest, and Grey tossed the letter back onto the desk. “I don’t care if you impersonate me, Harry. Go to as many parties as you like.”
His eyes brightened. “Thank you, old chum. That’s mighty good of you.”
“Not a’tall. And after you’ve replied to every social invitation—” he waved his fingers over the remaining, untouched piles “—you’ll respond to the rest of the mail.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re my new secretary, Harry. So long as you live under my roof, you’ll look after the entertaining and dull correspondences alike.”
“But I—”
“Thank you for being so helpful.”
Harry closed his lips, then sighed through his nose. “Right, old chum.”
A knock at the door.
“Come,” said Grey.
His butler, Furze, entered the room. “A Mr. Pearson is here. He claims a nine o’clock appointment with you, sir.”
Grey glanced at the clock. Five minutes to nine. “Show him in, please.”
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No, thank you, Furze. Enjoy your day off.”
With a bow, Furze left the room.
As it was Sunday, a traditional holiday for servants, Grey had invited Pearson to the house. Well, his “hound” had issued the invitation, making it a summons. The priggish Pearson might have declined the meeting, otherwise. And Grey couldn’t risk his refusal. He needed as much information as possible before approaching the police. If the investigation was bungled in any way, and the killer eluded justice, Emily would remain tethered to her guilt, in agony. Forever.
Grey walked toward the window. The light burned his sensitive eyes, but he refused to turn away, letting the sharp pain skewer right into his brain. He had tried coaxing Emily from her nightmare, but she’d resisted his outstretched hand. She would hold fast to her misery, even if it destroyed her. And he couldn’t bear to watch her fall. He would see her father’s killer hanged for her sake, and hers alone. It would bring her some measure of peace, he hoped, for he, clearly, had none to offer her.
The door opened again.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Pearson,” said Grey, maintaining his position beside the window. He didn’t even look over his shoulder to confirm Pearson had entered the room. He just knew it wasn’t Emily. “Harry, fetch us some tea.”
“Tea?”
“Yes, tea,” confirmed Grey. “Be a good chap, will you?”
After a moment of cold silence, a surly “Of course, sir” was bit out, and Harry stalked away, slamming the door behind him.
Grey grimaced. He waited for the spasms in his head to subside before turning to confront his former overseer.
As soon as the colorful spots cleared from his vision, he found a portly old man holding a pompous, beaver-felt hat. Pearson had a large head with bushy curls. His white brows, just as bushy, pinched together as he surveyed the study in critical fashion.
He had not changed in five years, thought Grey.
“Have a seat, Mr. Pearson.”
“No, I shan’t stay long. What is the meaning of this . . . this . . . ?”
“Interview. At the behest of Miss Wright.”
Pearson’s flushed cheeks turned an even ruddier shad
e. “And what have you to do with Miss Wright?”
No, the old man had not changed a’tall. To him, Grey was still a serving boy, a ‘chimney sweep,’ and now, as then, his daring to reach for Miss Wright was beyond the pale.
The door suddenly opened.
Grey lost his bearing as Emily gracefully entered the room. She was dressed ever the same in a simple day dress, her crimson hair pulled back in a knot, but she looked lovelier than a real princess covered in jewels and satin. She held her poise like a real princess, too. He already knew the breadth of her spirit and the depth of her love for her father, and now he knew the measure of her strength as she approached Pearson with firm resolve, revealing none of her bitter heartache.
“Good morning, Mr. Pearson.” She extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. Thank you for coming.”
Pearson appeared discomfited about taking the hand of his former mistress, but it would have been rude to remain unmoving, so he reluctantly accepted the greeting. He offered a short bow, too, as was his usual custom, then glared at Grey with pure condemnation.
But his censure was misplaced, thought Grey, for though it appeared he’d taken advantage of Emily’s plight by keeping her under his roof, he was the servant here, not Emily.
As ever.
“Will you sit with me, Pearson?”
“No, thank you, Miss.”
With a flounce, Emily settled on the divan, keeping both men at attention.
“Pearson, I would like to ask you a few questions about my father.”
“If I can be of service, I’m honored, Miss.”
“Thank you.”
She folded her hands in her lap, demure and prim, so unlike her true nature. And that Grey knew her true nature so well made their separation all the more intolerable. She was an indelible part of him.
He turned toward the window again and wondered if Pearson didn’t have the right of it. If Grey had kept his born place in life, he would never have given is heart to Emily all those years ago. And he wouldn’t be in hell now.
“I know Papa trusted you, Pearson. He often commented on your loyal service.”
“Thank you, Miss,” the man returned, obvious pride in his voice.
“I will be blunt, Pearson. Was there anything unusual going on in the house in the last few months before Papa’s death?”
“Unusual, Miss?”
“An unexpected visitor, perhaps?”
“No, Miss.”
“How about in the kitchen? Was there an unwelcome visitor in the kitchen?”
“The kitchen? Why no, Miss. Never.”
“I am not accusing you of any wrongdoing, Pearson. Please know I hold you in high esteem. I only ask because it has recently come to my attention Papa might have been troubled in his final months. I simply must know if anyone in the household, even an unwelcomed visitor, upset him.”
“There was no one unusual in the kitchen, Miss. Well . . .”
“Yes, Pearson?”
A pause, then, “Dr. Snow once visited the kitchen.”
“I see.”
“He asked if you, Miss Wright, ever prepared your father’s meals. The question! I assured him you had never done such a thing.”
“I understand, Pearson. Unusual, indeed. Anything else?”
“No, Miss. I insisted your role in the kitchen was purely managerial, that you only ever prepared the formal menus with Cook.”
At that, Grey wondered, “You dined formally while your father was ill?”
“Twice a week with the Earl of Dresmond.”
“So often?” he asked.
“I had an attentive fiancé.”
Her eyes were on his back, gouging, impossible to ignore.
Grey shifted from the window and returned her heated gaze. Her eyes, alight, held his, mesmerizing him. He damn well forgot Pearson was in the room until the old man interjected, “Yes, the earl visited often. Why, he joined your good father for tea every afternoon.”
Emily blinked, then turned back toward Pearson. “Tea?”
“Yes, Miss. The Earl of Dresmond was most attentive to your late father.”
“I—I did not know.” She frowned. “Do you know what they discussed, Pearson?”
“I did not spy, Miss.”
“Of course not, Pearson, but did you hear anything offhand? Anything at all?”
“I believe their discourse amiable, Miss. The earl impressed upon your father his many estates.”
“Thank you, Pearson,” she said weakly. “I sincerely appreciate your help. It puts my mind at rest, knowing Papa was so comfortable in his final months.”
The butler bowed.
“I shall see you out, Pearson,” from Grey.
The older man glowered, but said nothing.
Grey walked ahead of him until they reached the front entrance. “Thank you again for coming, Pearson. I know Miss Wright appreciates your valuable time. Let my pay for your return trip—”
“Not. A. Penny.” With a jerk, Pearson tugged his top hat over his bulbous head. “You are a villain for keeping her here, and I shan’t take a penny from you!”
With that, Pearson stormed from the house.
Grey slammed the door after him. His head throbbed from drink, from rage. He was sick of being accused a blackguard. All he had ever done was care for Emily. And damn everyone to hell who condemned him for it!
Milling around the front entrance like a caged bear, he waited for his blood to cool. When he returned to the study, Emily was clumping and twisting her skirt, lost in thought.
Her disquiet sobered him all the more. He approached a nearby chair and dropped into the seat, intent upon her.
“Do you think the earl the killer?” he asked plainly.
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
“He stood to gain an impressive dowry upon our marriage. And he needed the money to restore his crumbling estates.”
“Was there a feud between him and your father?”
“No, nothing of the sort.”
“And yet he had tea with your father every day. There was opportunity there.”
“To poison the man who was going to make him rich? Impossible,” she cried again. Then more weakly, “Why would he do such a thing?”
“Perhaps he wanted all of your father’s money?”
“So he killed him before our wedding?”
He shrugged. “Poison is unpredictable. If he miss-measured the doses . . .”
“No.” She bounded to her feet, pacing. “I cannot believe that. Why would he drive Papa mad? He lost his fortune under the effects of the poison?”
“Perhaps the earl wasn’t aware of the effects? You told me once he pressured you to declare your father mad and save the remainder of his wealth.”
She rubbed her brow as if suffering from a headache. “I would have inherited Papa’s entire empire upon his natural death. There was no reason to murder him.”
“And if he wanted the money sooner?”
“But he wouldn’t have had any control over it as my husband.”
“Why?”
“When the Married Women’s Property Act was extended to include all property, Papa transferred everything to me in his will. The terms of the will expressly prohibited any future husband of mine from gaining control of the assets.”
“Was the earl aware of this?”
“Of course, I—I don’t know. I wasn’t present when the dowry was negotiated.” She dropped back onto the divan, her face pale. “Do you really think he hurt Papa? I—I just can’t believe it, Rees. Papa was going to pay off the earl’s creditors and help him restore his estates. He wanted Dresmond to prosper, to be worthy of me.”
Her every word twisted his innards. She had such faith in Dresmond, but had believed him capable of murder. The earl’s title and restored estates made him worthy of her hand, but his love for her, his music, his wealth had no meaning.
Grey forced the bane back into the bowel of his soul, but he knew i
t would devour him—achingly slow—with time.
Her eyes intent on the window, she said in a staid voice, “I will contact Papa’s former solicitor and ask about the marriage contract.”
The door opened then. Harry entered the study, a small tray in his hand. He dropped the pot and teacups on the desk, the dishes clattering.
“Your tea, milord.”
Grey ignored his surliness. “Harry, is there an invitation to supper or such in that mammoth pile from the Earl of Dresmond?”
“And if there is?”
“Is there or isn’t there?” he growled.
Harry had enough sense to set aside his dander. “There is,” he returned. “A ball, I believe, in about one week.”
“I want you to respond to the invitation. Inform the earl I will be attending the event.”
Harry’s feature’s brightened. “There’s the spirit! It’ll do us both a world of good.”
“You are not coming with me, Harry.”
“And why the devil not?”
“Because he will be attending the affair with me,” said Emily.
Harry whirled around. “What happened to the bloke—?”
“Never mind, Harry.” Grey settled his gaze on Emily. “You will not be attending the ball, either.”
“I will,” she retuned icily. “I will have the truth.”
The sudden violence in her eyes indicated she wanted more than the truth, that she wanted vengeance, and he winced to feel her coldness, even if it wasn’t directed at him. In truth, it damn well frightened him to feel her slipping away, into that abyss, and he didn’t want her anywhere near the earl.
“I can’t bring you with me,” he insisted. “You are not my wife or sister or any relation whatsoever. How would it appear if I brought the earl’s former fiancée to his house?”
Harry’s eyes widened. “You were engaged to the earl? Ha, I was right. I knew you were a lady.”
“Get out, Harry!”
“Righto, chum.”
As soon as Harry vacated the room, Emily coolly responded, “I don’t care what anyone thinks.”
The Princess and the Pauper Page 12