Which meant, unless she were prepared to relocate her business—a financial impossibility—she was likely to need protection for some considerable time. Yet more reason to stand alone now, for who could predict how long the quixotic Earl’s interest in her welfare would last?
Perhaps it would be possible to have his solicitor maintain the defensive policies already set in motion. She should consult the man immediately. And determine safety’s unpalatable price.
That unpleasant conclusion reached, she instructed Francesca to take over the shop, and embarked on the long walk to the offices of his lordship’s counselor.
The bored-looking young clerk who answered her knock subjected her to an insolent inspection her glacial manner did nothing to discourage—until she stated that her business concerned the Earl of Cheverley. Instantly the clerk turned respectful, ushering her to a seat and announcing he would immediately inform his master of her presence.
Yet another indication of the Earl’s power, she thought uneasily as she leaned back to rest her tired shoulders. The chair on which she sat was luxuriously appointed in leather; heavy damask drapes hung at the windows, and a Turkey carpet graced the floor. The entire establishment reeked of exclusivity and expensive cigars.
Suddenly she was transported in memory to a room very like this, where a lifetime ago a defiant young lady had informed her sire she intended to embark, not on the London Season planned for her, but on a vessel bound for the Peninsula, as the bride of Lieutenant Andrew Waring-Black. When she remained steadfast in the face of her father’s adamant disapproval, he alternately mocked, threatened and finally raged he’d see her dead first. “Where do you think you would find yourself, missy, when that impertinent jackanapes got himself killed? Destitute in some heathenish land, that’s where, earning a living upon your back!”
“Mr. Manners will see you now.” The clerk’s deferential words startled her out of reverie. Clenching her fingers on her reticule, Emily followed him.
Behind a huge desk sat a thin man with spectacles perched on his narrow nose. Shelves of legal tomes lined the walls; a leather armchair astride another tasteful carpet poised before the desk. A lamp glowed, adding the piquant scent of its flaming oil to the melange of cigar and lemon wood polish. The heavy curtains were drawn, as if the occupant did not wish even the daylight to intrude into his sanctum. The polite but piercing look he fixed on her said he resented her intrusion as well.
“That will be all, Richards,” Mr. Manners said. The clerk, who had been staring at her again, hastily bowed himself out. “A chair, Mrs. Spenser?”
Emily sat. This forbidding man did not seem likely to trouble himself over one such as her. More than ever, she sensed the excluding wall that barred all that was weak and womanly from the world of male privilege and power.
An old, familiar resentment revived her flagging spirits. “Mr. Manners, Lord Cheverley consulted you about me. A matter of attempted extortion, you may remember.”
“Yes, Mrs. Spenser, I’m fully cognizant of the details. Has there been another…incident?”
“No, sir, the, ah, guard his lordship promised has been dispatched. There have been no further threats. I just wished to inquire as to the normal procedure in such situations.”
“There is no ‘normal’ procedure, ma’am. I don’t usually prosecute matters of this sort, but as his lordship refers all his legal business to me, I have of course undertaken a full investigation. You need have no further concern for your safety, I assure you. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
Emily resisted his clear dismissal. “Oh, but I wish—”
“Mrs. Spenser, I am sure his lordship, at his convenience, will acquaint you with any details he deems appropriate. I simply cannot discuss a pending case with other than my client.” This time, he rose and indicated the door.
“And if I were your client?” Emily persisted, rising, but refusing to let his obvious annoyance intimidate her.
“I see no need for that. His lordship already retains me, and as I’ve informed you, everything needful is being done.”
“I am sure it is, Mr. Manners. You must not think I doubt your competence, or that I am not grateful for his lordship’s intervention. But if this…situation should recur in future? Sadly, there are always rogues only too ready to prey on the honest. As a woman alone, I would wish to be informed of my alternatives.”
Mr. Manners tilted his head and tapped at his chin. “’Tis true, ma’am, that despite taking appropriate action now, one cannot rule out the possibility of future difficulties.” He looked her up and down. “You are a widow, I understand. You have no near relatives, yours or your late husband’s, to see to your protection?”
“If I had, would I be here now?” she replied, an edge of anger in her voice.
To her surprise, the humorless face creased in what might be construed as a smile. “Excuse me, I meant no disrespect. Please, sit back down, Mrs. Spenser. What is it you wish to know?”
Emily felt some of the tension leave her. “How does your office handle such a matter? Should I report any future threats to the authorities? And what…” She faltered. “What fee would you require, were I to retain you?”
“First, I would not have you contact the authorities—not initially. Come to my office first. Most of the magistrates are honest folk, but from time to time a bad apple falls into the basket, as it were. My contacts would ascertain the background and intention of the perpetrators and proceed from there. And my normal fee would be two hundred pounds, plus the expense of hiring runners if I thought the need justified.”
Emily tried not to gasp. Lord Cheverley was laying out two hundred pounds, plus expenses, to thwart Mr. Harding? And she had thought another ten pounds a month exorbitant!
She forced herself to rise on shaking legs. “Th-thank you for the information, and for your time, Mr. Manners.”
He rose and nodded. “Think nothing of it, Mrs. Spenser.” His shrewd eyes scanned her again, and she colored, sure he must have realized how staggering was the sum he’d quoted her, how impossibly far beyond her means.
“Don’t distress yourself, ma’am,” he said, his tone kind. “Lord Cheverley will pursue this to its conclusion, regardless of time or expense. I have had the privilege of his patronage for many years, and one could not find a more conscientious member of the nobility. You may trust him to do the right thing, Mrs. Spenser. And I doubt you will be troubled again.”
His attempted reassurance was nearly as daunting as his fee. She had known pursuing the miscreant would be costly, but had never dreamed the total would be that vast. How could she allow a virtual stranger, be he ever so noble, generous and dutiful, to absorb such an enormous expense on her behalf? But then, how could she ever reimburse him?
Emily sat in her tiny garden, absently eating the nuncheon Francesca had insisted on preparing for her when she returned. She was still pondering the dilemma, and no closer to a solution, when a shadow fell across her teacup.
Lord Cheverley himself stood over her. As her gaze met his, he gave her again that enticing, intimate smile. “Forgive me for disturbing you. I just wished to ascertain that the runner we sent was satisfactory.”
“Yes, of course. I hardly know how to thank you.”
“There’s no need.” He was looking at her intently, waiting, she realized, for her to offer her hand. When she raised it, he brought it to his lips, lingering over it a fraction longer than was proper.
“I would have called last night to report the guard was in place, but I had several appointments, and ’twas late when I returned to check. I saw no lights, and did not wish to disturb you.”
“You came by last night?” she echoed in astonishment.
“Of course. I told you I would. I could not have slept, had I not been assured of your safety.”
It had been so long since someone other than Francesca had expressed any concern whatsoever for her well-being that in spite of herself, she was touched. “You are too kind. Again, I t
hank you. And you must allow me to defray some of the costs—the runners, perhaps—”
He waved away the suggestion. “Certainly not. A business as clever and stylish as yours must surely succeed, but hardly needs any additional expenses at its inception. I am fully recompensed by knowing you are safe.”
Again, she felt absurdly touched. “I do feel safe. Thank you for that.”
His compelling gaze captured hers. “I would not beteem the winds of heaven/visit thy face too roughly,” he paraphrased from Hamlet. Gently he touched one finger to the bruised corner of her mouth.
A jolting spark tingled her lip. She stood mesmerized as he slowly removed his hand.
Bemused, she raised her own hand to the spot. ’Tis the bruise that throbs, she told herself.
“Ev, the runner wishes to speak with you.”
It seemed to take a moment for the newcomer’s voice to penetrate. With a grimace, Lord Cheverley stepped back. Waving at him from the garden door, Emily saw, was the man who had accompanied him to her shop the previous day.
His lordship turned on her another dazzling smile. “I shan’t keep you any longer, ma’am. The patrols will be properly maintained, so you may rest easy. If anything occurs to frighten or trouble you, send to me at once. Number 16, Portman Square. Someone there will know where to reach me if I’m from home.”
Once again he raised her hand to his lips. “I shall call again later.”
“’Twould be an honor, my lord,” she managed to murmur.
As Lord Cheverley strode from the garden, his companion ambled toward her. “Brent Blakesly, ma’am,” he said with a bow. “You can rest easy, you know. Evan is as good as his word. Trust him to guarantee your safety.”
“So I’ve been urged,” she murmured, recalling the solicitor’s advice. “I only wish he were not doing so at such great expense.”
She must have looked troubled, for Blakesly’s friendly face sobered. “You mustn’t distress yourself, ma’am. Evan is wealthy enough that his kindness places no strains upon his purse.” He gave her a deprecating smile. “I suppose, having always had vast sums at his disposal, he never realizes it might be difficult for his friends to easily accept his assistance.”
“But I am not a friend,” she replied, her voice low. “I have no more claim to his largesse than I have the means to repay it.”
“May I speak candidly, Mrs. Spenser?” At her nod, he continued, “Evan has a great dislike for bullies. ’Twas how I first met him, when as a runty lad at Eton he pummeled the two upperclassmen who were tormenting me. Seeing some villain attempting to take advantage of a lady, he would feel compelled to prevent it, even—” he grinned at her “—did he not so greatly admire the lady. But you must not imagine his doing so places you under any…obligation whatever. Indeed, I am certain he would be appalled should you even consider such a thing.”
Somehow, his certitude didn’t raise her spirits. She followed as he walked out to join Lord Cheverley on the street. No obligation whatsoever, Blakesly assured her. Trust him to do what is right, the solicitor advised.
But what is right? she wondered as, with a wave, the two men started down the street. And why did her dratted lip still tingle?
Hours later, Emily looked up from the tangle of bills on her desk. Dusk had fallen, and she could hear the lamplighters going about their tasks. Through the salesroom window she glimpsed the glow of a lighted cheroot. Another guard on duty, she surmised.
Sighing, she rubbed the tight muscles at the back of her neck and took another sip of her tea, long cold now. She had entered all the invoices into her ledgers, and though several customers had settled their accounts today and Lord Cheverley had brought his mama’s payment along with an advance on another order, the debit and credit columns still were nearly equal.
We are just barely surviving, she thought with a sigh. If she did attempt to repay Lord Cheverley, ’twould likely be his great-grandson who signed off the debt. Would he give her that long? Dear God, what was to become of them if he refused?
Immediate reimbursement in coin was impossible, the ledger clearly showed. A woman had but one other asset.
She recalled his heated glances, his lingering hand on her lip. She had seen lust in other men’s eyes, during and after her marriage. If she could bring herself to offer, would Cheverley accept that means of canceling her debt?
For an instant, she imagined those hands cherishing her bare skin, that lean mouth at her breast. A deep tremor sent heat rushing through her.
A flush of guilt succeeded it and she felt as if caught out in some unforgivable indiscretion.
Nonsense, ’twas ridiculous. She could not be unfaithful to a dead man.
Oh, but I didn’t want him to die, her heart cried back. How many times had she gone down on her knees on the rough stone of the village church, imploring God as Andrew’s life drained away breath by ragged, painful breath? Promising to go anywhere, do anything, if only God would spare him?
Well, her prayers had been for naught. At the end, her husband had died in that small dusty village. And if God had not heeded her desperate pleas then, He was hardly likely to concern Himself with Emily Spenser Waring-Black now.
No, if salvation came, she would have to arrange it herself. And while her shop teetered so precariously between success and failure, having, for a time, a rich protector to keep trouble away could only help.
The very idea of it ate at her soul like acid.
She gave a bitter laugh. For years while she scraped together the funds to return and open her shop, she’d managed to avoid the fate so often dealt beautiful but impoverished widows. How ironic that it threatened her now, back in the homeland she’d pined for and imagined a haven.
“Mistress, ’tis darkness you work in,” Francesca scolded as she entered. “And your tea, é frio! Another pot will I fetch, and light up the lamp. What’s to become of us, querida, if you lose those bright eyes?”
“What’s to become of us anyway?” Emily replied, more than a hint of despair in her tone. “And don’t make fresh tea—we can scarce afford what we drink now. I’ll make do with this.”
The maid sat herself on the desktop and, head tilted like a small brown bird, gazed down at her mistress. “Be of good heart, querida. Always, we have worries, but always, you prevail. We shall—how you English say it? Ah, yes, we shall come into.”
Emily had to smile. “Come about, I believe you mean. And I wish I had your optimism. Just now, I am having a difficult time imagining how we shall ever come about.”
“Yesterday, that porco threatens you, and today, poof—” the maid waved an expressive hand “—he is gone. Other worries, they too will go.”
“’Twill take more than a—” Emily stopped abruptly. “What know you of Mr. Harding?”
Francesca shrugged. “I hear things, yes? When I hear that voice, I come. I see what he does. Almost I am running to you, but then, the beautiful one arrives. And saves you.”
“Aye,” Emily said in a whisper. “But for what?”
The maid raised her eyebrows, as if the answer were all too plain. “He is a great lord, querida. He saves you for his honor.”
Emily made a scornful noise. “Heaven preserve us from the ‘honor’ of great lords!” She turned accusing eyes toward her maid. “Or have you forgotten, Francesca?”
“Not all lords threaten like the padre of your husband. Also I remember Don Alvero. He would have had you for his lady wife, would you but pledge your troth. But no, we must return to this—” nose wrinkling, she made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the tiny office “—this England.”
“Incomprehensible to you, I expect.” Emily smiled as she squeezed Francesca’s still-outstretched hand. “Dearest friend, to have left your homeland to follow me! I thought we could build a future here, that at last we would be safe.” She sighed and put a weary hand to her forehead. “Was it a fool’s journey, I wonder?”
“The great lord could keep us safe.”
Em
ily straightened. “In exchange for what?”
When the little maid remained silent, Emily gave another cynical laugh. “Ah yes, his honor. Would those troopers who battled the French for your village have released you out of ‘honor,’ had not my husband’s sword insisted? No, the safety your ‘great lord’ buys us carries a price. He will extract repayment—perhaps not now. Perhaps not soon. But eventually he must….”
The thought that logically followed so dismayed her that she jumped to her feet. “Merciful heavens, ’twould be much worse were he to wait a year—or two or three!”
“Tsh, sit, querida.” Gently Francesca pushed Emily back in her chair and moved behind her, beginning to massage her neck. “Perhaps, as he vows, he wants only your safety.” When Emily made a scornful noise, she shrugged. “Of a certainty he wants more. But ’tis beautiful he is, querida. Would yielding to him be so terrible? And safer to do so now, eh?”
Emily could not deny that truth. Her earlier visit to her father-in-law’s town house confirmed that for the moment he was unlikely to discover them, despite the notoriety a liaison with such a wealthy, prominent man might engender. But how long would the man’s absence continue?
She knew he would lose no time wresting his grandson from her unworthy care should he find them back in England. And though for Drew to return to his rightful place in society, she must eventually turn him over, she intended to treasure every moment before inescapable duty forced her to give him up.
A man’s lust was generally short-lived. If she gratified Lord Cheverley’s now, the affair should end long before it could threaten her with exposure. If she delayed, his lordship—and his whims—would keep control of the whole dangerous business.
After years of evading her father-in-law’s agents, she’d had more than enough of being at the mercy of a rich man’s schemes.
No, far better to take the initiative now. She might never have a more opportune moment to cancel her obligation for good and all.
Francesca had been watching her face. “Whatever the tall lord wishes, you should grant. He is beautiful, but kind as well. That man outside, who keeps away the filthy pig Harding, he sent him, yes? He will be good to us, mistress. This I know, here.” She tapped on her chest above her heart.
A Scandalous Proposal Page 3