“I was going to say that we’re alike, you and I,” she continued, “but that isn’t so. You’ve lived your lies for the sake of king and country. My lies were because I didn’t want the life I’d been handed and I decided to make another. I don’t have any right to drag you into my troubles, and I’m sorry I ever tried to. You’re a good man, Nate Stokes. That’s the part you should be remembering.”
Her touch left his back, and he heard her walking for the door. And then it struck him. “Eloise Smorkley?” he said, facing her. He laughed. He couldn’t help it, any more than he could help the torrent of words a few minutes earlier. “Smorkley? Really?”
Emily lifted her hand off the door’s handle and turned around. For heaven’s sake. She’d just bared her soul to the man, just as he had for her, and now he wanted to laugh at her very unfortunate name? The sound of his laugh, though, deep and rolling and genuine, stopped the retort she’d been about to make. She found herself grinning back at him.
“It’s awful, isn’t it? And I had the poor fortune to be tall as a child. Smorkley the Storkley, the other children called me. Oh, I hated that name.” Emily chuckled.
Nathaniel’s shoulders lowered, and he crossed the room to stop in front of her. “I swear I will never call you that, Portsman,” he returned, still laughing. “If you’ll let me help you, that is.”
She studied his gaze for a moment. Humor touched his light eyes, but there was determination there, as well. Flight still seemed the wisest choice, but at the moment she didn’t feel in the mood to discount the brave, devious, troubled man currently gripping her shoulders. “I will take a chance,” she said, sobering. “Because I don’t want to have to begin all over again.”
Nate leaned down and touched his mouth to hers. “I’ll hold you to that, Portsman.”
Chapter Eleven
Nathaniel swung down from Blue and retrieved his cane, then limped up the drive of Velton House. The last time he’d been here, he’d wondered if Lord Ebberling had told him the entire truth about Miss Rachel Newbury and the events that had befallen his wife, Katherine. This time, he knew he was about to speak with a murderer.
He’d done so before, of course, back when the information he was after outweighed the crime of the moment. Today he needed to tread even more carefully.
The butler pulled open the door as he topped the shallow marble steps. “Good morning, Lord Westfall,” he said politely.
“Good morning. Is Lord Ebberling in?”
“If you would care to wait in the foyer, I shall inquire, my lord.”
Once the butler had closed the front door he vanished up the stairs and into the bowels of the large house. Nate stayed where he was, his back to the wall, and listened. Every household had its own peculiarities and quirks, and they all meant something.
What he noticed first about Velton House was that it was silent. No servants chatted about the weather or about his lordship’s request for fresh flowers. Young George, wherever he was, seemed to be going about his morning in silence. An odd thing for an eight-year-old boy.
Mentally Nate shrugged. It was entirely possible, he supposed, that the lad was out of doors, the servants were finished with their morning duties and were in the kitchen having breakfast, and he was reading sentences onto blank pages.
The butler reappeared at the top of the landing. “This way, my lord, if you please. Lord Ebberling is in his library and will see you now.”
Ebberling sat before the fireplace, a thick book resting in one hand while he flipped pages with the other. Curious, Nate dipped his head as he adjusted his spectacles. Grain Supplies in Europe during Bonaparte’s Conquest. Ah. The book was only meant to look impressive, then—a serious-sized tome for a serious man.
“Good morning, my lord,” he said, inclining his head again.
The marquis lifted a finger, evidently intent on finishing a paragraph before he could tear himself away from the book. “Westfall. Have a seat.”
Taking the chair on the opposite side of the fire, Nate leaned his cane against the arm and sank back into the soft cushions. Emily was afraid of this man. She hadn’t said so directly, but her expression and her tone of voice had spoken volumes to anyone who knew how to listen. The heavy jaw, the straight line of his back even while seated, the immaculate, expensive clothes, all bespoke a man of wealth and power. There was more, though—the lack of laugh lines, the clenched jaw, the slightly narrowed eyes, things he’d noted before but put to the man’s anger at a thief and murderer escaping—that he now saw as marks of a foul temper, or even possibly of cruelty.
If he was now seeing things from Portsman’s point of view he needed to stop, however; whatever and whoever Ebberling was, Nate wanted to see him clearly. Facts only, body language only. Anything else was dangerous and counterproductive.
“Do you have news for me, then?” the marquis finally asked, closing the book and setting it aside.
“I have news that I have no news, I’m afraid,” Nate returned in his most harmless tone.
“Rycott said you were competent.”
“Yes, well, I’ve never attempted to find someone who’s been missing for three years, and could well be anywhere in the entire world. For a moment I thought I’d tracked her to London, but that young lady had green eyes and a shortened left leg. In fact, I have found no trace of her at all. No one of her description that anyone recalls has boarded a ship, or taken work, or turned up dead, or married, or … anything.” He pulled the uncashed banknote from his pocket. “And so I cannot, in good conscience, take your money.”
“You’ve only been looking for four weeks. Are you so certain she’s completely vanished?”
“If I thought there was a reasonable chance of locating Miss Newbury, I would continue looking.”
Ebberling gazed at him levelly. “What is your fee, then, for looking and finding nothing?”
Nate smiled, pushing at his spectacles again. “This is my hobby, Ebberling. It was entertaining, attempting to find a ghost. But I won’t take your money when I have no results.”
“Not even a penny?”
“I haven’t earned it.”
“But you know that she hasn’t boarded a ship or married or died, do you not?”
The low arrogance permeating the room chilled into a tense hostility. Nate shifted his elbow, checking that his cane and the rapier inside it remained within reach. “No, I don’t know that. I could not find anyone who recalled seeing someone of her description. In three years people leave positions or die or simply forget.”
“You offered bribes?”
“Where they seemed appropriate.”
The marquis sat back again. “Then I do owe you some money. Tell me how much you spent, at least, and I will recompense you.”
Nathaniel didn’t want his money. Not a shilling, not a penny. But Ebberling was after something, and he didn’t quite know what it was, yet. “The amount came to twenty-one pounds, if you insist, but it isn’t necessary. I was looking for the woman you believed may have killed your wife. With no results, I won’t—”
Pulling money from his pocket, Ebberling counted out exactly twenty-one pounds and set the blunt on the table beside him. “Then we are finished here. I will hire someone who can produce results and find me Rachel Newbury. Good day, Westfall.”
Rising, Nate set the banknote on the table next to the cash, which he scooped into a pocket. “Good luck to you, Ebberling,” he returned, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
If the marquis found Portsman, he would kill her. Of that, Nathaniel was certain. Which left her with two choices—running again, or striking first. Legally, or physically. That was a question he would leave up to her, though he had his own preferences. He’d killed for his country, and while he hadn’t enjoyed it, he hadn’t hesitated, either. This was the first time that the idea of removing someone from the equation, as Wellington tended to put it, was something he could look forward to.
He found a groom holding Blue, and climbed
back into the saddle with his practiced lack of grace. His first thought was that he wanted to go see Portsman, or Smorkley, or Newbury, or whatever name she chose to go by. Smorkley. He couldn’t conjure a less likely name for a more interesting, elegant, clever woman. No wonder she’d left it behind.
Instead, though, he turned for Teryl House. He’d promised to let Laurie know how the meeting had gone, and he needed to find some perspective where Portsman was concerned. He liked her. He wanted her. But were those things worth further tangling himself into her life? She’d confessed to being a poacher’s daughter, after all. And while that might have done for bumbling Nate Stokes, bookish cousin to an earl, he wasn’t that man any longer. He’d never regretted his cousin’s death more than he did at that moment, either.
This past winter the Duke of Greaves had raised eyebrows all over England by marrying a Tantalus girl, and she’d been a duke’s daughter. An illegitimate one, but even so, half aristocrat. Because he was now an earl, he’d be expected to marry and father little heirs himself, though he’d already half decided to pass the title on to Laurence and let him have the worry of procreation and parenthood.
Nate shook himself. He’d bedded Emily Portsman on several occasions, and had enjoyed each and every one of them. She wasn’t his first lover, however. So why the devil had the word marriage popped into his head? Because she knew who he was? That only made her dangerous. Except that he didn’t think of her that way, however much logic urged him to do so. In his mind she was simply Portsman, of the deep brown eyes and witty, sinful mouth. Someone with whom he no longer had to pretend to be anyone but who he was—whoever that might be.
A horse reined in beside him. “What did you say to Ebberling?”
He looked over at the black Thoroughbred. “Isn’t that the Duke of Greaves’s horse? Zeus or some such?” he asked, leaning sideways to scratch his calf—and loosen the knife in his boot.
The Marquis of Haybury nodded. “It was. Now he’s mine. What did you say to Ebberling?”
This was Portsman’s employer. Or rather, the husband of her employer, since if the rumors were to be believed Oliver Warren had signed a paper upon his marriage to Diane Warren promising never to take ownership of The Tantalus Club. The marquis was rich as Croesus in his own right, so he certainly had no need of the income from a gentlemen’s club, anyway. The more pressing question where Nate was concerned, however, was how much Haybury knew, and how much he cared to share. “Ebberling and I had a business arrangement, which we have mutually terminated. I don’t believe that to be any of your concern, however.”
“Terminated in that you let him know where to find Emily, or in that you told him to go stuff himself?”
Haybury kept his voice low, but Nate flinched anyway. “I beg your pardon, Haybury, but I was tasked with finding someone named Rachel Newbury. My friendship with Emily Portsman, if that is the Emily to whom you are referring, has nothing to do with that.”
“Hm. You’re more slippery than the French twist, aren’t you? Spies. Bugger ’em all.”
He and Portsman were going to have to have a chat about her confidence-sharing, if she meant to continue exposing him every time he turned around. Haybury had given him a bit of information, anyway. This French twist had to be the one Emily had spoken to, the one who’d identified him as a spy. And French twist sounded like a female. Someone else at the Tantalus? Bloody hell, that place was turning out to be quite the interesting hive of buzzing bees.
“I suppose you’re completely straightforward and aboveboard in everything you do?” he shot back.
“I do what’s necessary to protect myself and mine,” the marquis retorted.
“As do I. The mine you speak of merely means all of England, in my case. And I’m retired. So keep your damned mouth shut about it.”
To his surprise, Haybury grinned at that. “That’s better. You’re flesh and blood, anyway. So you told Ebberling you couldn’t find our girl?”
“I did.” Denying it to this man seemed utterly pointless.
He knew Haybury’s reputation as a gambler and a rake with a penchant for causing trouble when it amused him. Everything he saw riding beside him, from the steady gray gaze to the easy hold on a formidable-looking mount, spoke of confidence and charm and happiness. The marquis was deeply in love with his wife. And Nate liked him for it. And for his direct, straightforward manner. There was a world of difference between this marquis and the one he’d just left.
“Did he believe you?”
“He thought I was an incompetent ninny, and he said he would hire someone better at the job than I was. There is no one better at the job, but I did find her, so another man might, as well. And a new fellow might be less inclined to question his employer’s motives than I was.”
“She’s still in danger, then.”
“Yes.” And that was what troubled him more than anything. He might have turned Ebberling’s offer down, but he hadn’t saved her from the man. Far from it. In fact, he might have made things worse.
“What do you mean to do about it?” Haybury asked on the tail of his own thought. “Assuming you mean to do something and not simply walk away.”
Nate eyed him. “And what do you know of Portsman’s background and parentage?” he asked crisply.
“Nothing.”
“Then consider why she trusts me more than she trusts you. I’m not walking away.”
He kept his expression cool and blank, but Haybury nodded anyway. “Good. If you need assistance with not walking away, come see me. I’ve a certain lack of affection for any man who would harm his own wife.” With that he kicked his heels into the black’s ribs and turned toward Hyde Park.
Well, that had been interesting. Nate wondered if Portsman had any idea that she had allies. Powerful ones. More than likely, she didn’t. As a spy he generally trusted to no one’s counsel but his own. However, this wasn’t about him. And if it meant keeping one Eloise Smorkley safe, he was somewhat troubled to realize that he was willing to do anything. Even trust. Even be himself.
“Haybury,” he called, wheeling Blue after the marquis. “There is something you can do for me, actually.”
* * *
“Are you too good now to work in the dining room?”
Emily looked up as Lucille Hampton plunked herself down at the communal dinner table opposite her. “I haven’t been feeling well,” she returned, thankful she’d taken time to consider that one of her fellow Tantalus girls might not look too kindly on her altered duties. “Diane and Jenny thought it best if I remain out of the club for the time being.”
“Are you pregnant, then?”
“What? Good heavens, no.” Her cheeks heated. All she needed was for that rumor to get about. None of her friends would talk about anything else, and all her plans to remain quietly in the background would explode in her face.
Lucille stood up again. Rather than flounce away as Emily had expected, though, Miss Hampton walked around to her side of the long table and slid onto the bench directly beside her. “Then what’s truly going on?” she whispered in a much quieter voice. “With you and Lord Westfall spending so much time together I thought perhaps you were after a wedding. If you’re not carrying his babe, though, and you’re still seeing him, and you’re claiming to be too ill to work out with the gentlemen, then something is afoot.”
Evidently Lucille did have a mind; she just used it only rarely. Even so, Emily had no intention of telling her what was truly going on. “Oh, very well,” she whispered back. “You know that I came here to avoid my previous employer, yes?”
“Yes, we all know that story. You worked for some old couple and the lord of the house made advances.”
Telling herself that not all lies could be sins, when they saved people’s lives, Emily nodded. “Exactly. Someone saw my former employer in London, and I’ve been worried that he might make an appearance here. There would be a terrible scene, and … well, I just don’t want to set eyes on him again. He smelled like mold
, and oh, it was just awful.” There. It was partly the truth, at least, and if Ebberling ever did discover that she was at the Tantalus, it would be worse than awful. At least for her.
Lucille patted her on the shoulder. “You know, I was mad that you stole Westfall from me, and I still am, but we’re all sisters here. I won’t mention your name to anyone. And if some moldy old lord comes here asking after you, I’ll say that I’ve never heard of you.”
“Thank you.” And even if Lucille was sincere, Emily was still thankful that no one would come here looking for Emily Portsman. Just in case.
“Since today is ladies’ day, I’ll even invite you to come have dinner with my cousin and me,” Miss Hampton continued.
“Thank you again,” Emily returned, “but I’m accustomed to spending ladies’ day upstairs here. And Jenny’s given me more accounts to do, since I’m not out on the floor working shifts.”
Wrinkling her nose, Lucille stood again. “I’d rather kiss a moldy old lord than do accounts.”
By mid-afternoon most of the Tantalus girls had left the premises or were making plans to do so. And the replacement staff—footmen and croupiers and waiters Diane hired for two days each month from Pall Mall’s most auspicious clubs—was beginning to arrive. At first the owners of White’s and Boodle’s and the Society, among others, had refused to allow a portion of their own employees the evening off to go serve the ladies who flocked to the Tantalus to dine and wager together twice a month. Once they’d realized that all the ladies’ husbands would be the ones flocking to their clubs in the absence of the Tantalus, however, their tunes had changed.
As the common room began to fill with young, attractive men, Emily gathered up her things and retreated to her own room. As accustomed as she’d become to the upheaval that occurred every other Wednesday, this time it unsettled her. None of the men would be Lord Ebberling, of course, and it was likely that none of them even knew the marquis, but they were strangers. And she disliked strangers.
The Handbook to Handling His Lordship Page 17