Moondrops (Love Letters)

by Sarita Leone

  “I do, Mother.” She turned to face Elise, who still clutched the single page. Raising one perfectly arched brow, she added, “I’m shocked you haven’t figured it out for yourself, to tell the truth. I would think one as wise as you would know what to do in this situation. Besides, the letter says that all will be revealed, doesn’t it? So, go to London and see what comes to light!”

  Chapter 2

  Polished black Hessian boots made his footsteps as loud as gunshots against the oak floorboards bordering the shiny brass fireplace bumper. The stride was a long one, and the distance short, so the cadence being trod sounded more staccato than a lively composition played in a drawing room musicale.

  Even an average woman’s patience has a limit and she was no average woman.

  Flinging the gold-and-white needlepoint pillow cover she labored over down onto her lap, she caught his gaze as he passed her chair. “For goodness sake, stop that already. You are giving me a headache right behind my eyes, one of those that linger for days once they have begun. I can hardly afford to take to my sickbed now, so desist. I insist upon it!”

  No one else could have stopped him in his tracks as effectively as the middle-aged woman sharing the fireside could. He stood directly before her, the angle of his neck bringing his strong jaw to rest on his chest due to his height coupled with the lowness of her chair.

  Her head craned back as she gazed up at him, the black ribbon laced beneath her fashionable upsweep tickling the soft spot between her shoulder blades. Another woman would have twitched to alleviate the itchy sensation but not her. She had weathered many more prickly sensations and would not show her discomfort now—not even to the only man left in the world who held a piece of her heart in the palm of his hand. No, not even for him.

  He saw the scratchy dilemma, as well as the flash of annoyance as she waged her internal war but did not show his hand.

  “I cannot believe you would blame the state of your head on my feet.”

  He grinned good-naturedly, bringing the cleft on his chin more prominently into view. With dark brown eyes, thick black curls and what some might call a regal nose, he had thoroughbred good looks and a charming personality, both of which made him a very eligible bachelor.

  Refusing to be manipulated by his twinkling eyes, she pursed her lips disapprovingly. Then she snorted, a most unladylike noise but they were in private so who would be the wiser?

  “I am old, not cork-brained. Do not try to maneuver your way into my good graces when I am on the verge of a full-blown brain ache.” Her insistence was a farce they both recognized but she held her ground—and her seat.

  He bent at the waist, brought his gaze level with hers and stared into her unblinking eyes for a long moment. Finally, he straightened, chuckling.

  “You are neither old nor addled, and you are not coming down with an ache of any kind. You are just out of sorts because you aren’t in control of the current situation.” When she opened her mouth to object, he held up a hand. “Anyone who knows you as I do—and you must admit, my dear Emmaline, that I do know you far better than most—realizes you like to have the upper hand on everything you touch. No, let me rephrase that.” He paused, cleared his throat and flashed a small grin. “You don’t just like to be in charge; no, you need to be in control. Without that position, I fear you begin to imagine all sorts of ailments. Including, but not limited to, headaches.”

  He knew her well better than most. Certainly his knowledge of her habits, heart and personality was far superior to any living soul, save her own.

  With a resigned sigh, she gathered up the pillow cover, tapestry floss and scissor. A basket, so studded with frippery as to be almost a work of art in its own right, sat beside her chair. After making certain her tapestry needle was secure in a corner of the work, she dumped the lot into the basket and slammed its lid closed.

  A pointed look toward the side table, where rows of decanters nestled on a large sterling silver tray beside rows of sparkling stemware, preceded her words.

  “I could use a drop of sherry, if you don’t mind.” When he did not move, she made a quick decision. “On second thought, sherry won’t do. I much prefer a glass of whiskey.”

  His boot steps did not warrant comment as he walked to the table, unstoppered a cut-crystal decanter and began to pour its contents into a squat tumbler. It had been hidden behind the row of fancy stemmed goblets, this rather plain cup he now used.

  Mid-pour he stopped, turned and asked, “A small one? Or—”

  “The full measure, if you please.” She watched him bring the amber liquid up to the halfway point in the glass, nodded her satisfaction and said, “That will do.”

  She wasted no time taking a first, then a second sip from the glass as soon as he handed it to her. Then she settled back in her seat, nodded to the leather chair on the other side of the hearth and watched as he, with his own glass of whiskey, folded his long legs and sat.

  “You’re right, you know,” she allowed, taking another sip. This time, the measure was smaller and the movement more controlled.

  “I know. You are as nervous as I have ever seen you. I can’t fathom why this has you so discombobulated. It is a rather commonplace dilemma, especially by comparison to others that have graced this mansion. Oh, if these walls could talk…”

  “Stop right there, Hugh. I won’t have you stirring up old scandals now, not when I’m already at sixes and sevens. Besides, I don’t believe the goings-on here can be regarded as any more, ah, less decorous than countless others in similar surroundings.”

  His eyebrows rose of their own accord as he choked on his whiskey. “Oh, no? You don’t think the event with the two—no, three—barons, harpist and her ah, dance troupe would set tongues afire if ever the story circulated amongst the peerage?”

  “That was an isolated incident,” she insisted stubbornly.

  Not willing to be put off, particularly since their verbal jousting—or the very strong libation—seemed to calm her nerves, he pushed on. Another example, this one more shocking in memory than it had been in actuality, came instantly to mind.

  “Well then, how about the time the solicitor found himself nose to nose—and cheek to cheek—with his client’s—”

  “Enough! You have proven your point, although I cannot imagine what those, ah, escapades have to do with this particular set of circumstances. Tell me, honestly, do you think she will come?”

  The once-flawless alabaster skin had its share of wrinkles but she was still undeniably a beautiful woman. Even in the black gown, so uncharacteristically modest with its ivory fichu and lack of pleats, ruffles or bows, couldn’t hide Emmaline Byrd’s svelte figure. Had she been willing to walk down any of the fashionable London sidewalks she would have turned heads, both male and female. She was that pretty, even at a point where most women had lost the bloom of their youth.

  Trepidation was as out of character for the woman’s nature as the austere dress. Its presence made him want to scoop her up and soothe her as he would one of his young nieces. After all she had been through, he hated seeing her unduly distressed.

  “You should not worry so, Emmaline.” Intentionally he kept his tone soothing, hoping to gentle her nerves the way he did with the edgy mares in his stable. “She will come. I’d wager every Sovereign in my possession that she won’t disappoint.”

  A long, steadying breath sent a wave of whiskey fumes across the small space between them. Too many more of those and she wouldn’t give a fig what came of her letter!

  “Are you sure?” Emmaline looked at the liquid in her glass before she took a sip. About a finger’s worth remained. “Absolutely certain she will come?”

  He finished his drink, set the glass down on a side table with a thump and nodded. “I have no doubt whatsoever that she will come.”

  “How do you know for certain?”

  He shrugged. It seemed obvious but he explained anyhow. “She is a woman. You sent a message stating you have information for her.
That is enough to get any woman interested. She will come. She will not be able to resist. I am sure of it. I promise you, she will show up here in short order or my name isn’t—”

  A brisk wave of a hand whose fingers were heavy with rings. Firelight caught the cut of a large ruby and sent a spray of red lines arcing over the ceiling. “Yes, yes, I know your name. What I don’t understand is how you can be so certain. She could disregard the letter, you know. She might toss it on the grate and forget it ever came her way.”

  Preposterous! Women didn’t have that kind of stamina. They could not withstand the possibility of finding something new or better than what they already had. He knew for a fact that there wasn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t trade her circumstances—and whomever was involved—for something she thought might bring her higher on the social scale. He’d enough proof of that in his lifetime to set his views in granite.

  “You will never convince me that a woman won’t jump at the chance to find more secure footing for herself. Your letter opens that door, even if it does so in a maddeningly mysterious manner. No, she will come.” He shot her an openly curious look. Then he cocked one eyebrow and asked, “The question is: What shall you do with her once you have her here?”

  Before she could reply, a butler appeared in the open doorway.

  “Pardon, but you have a caller. A young lady says she has come about a letter. Shall I bring her in?”

  Emmaline downed the contents of her glass as Hugh stood. He glanced at her, and then nodded to the waiting man.

  “By all means, Henry. Please, see the woman in. Then, bring a tea tray. It may be quite a visit. We should fortify ourselves, I think.”

  ****

  Since she had no expectations about what might greet her when she arrived at her destination, Elise was neither overjoyed nor dismayed by the façade of the Coventry Garden address. A tall, redbrick building with black shutters and a flat slate roof, it blended into the rest of the houses that lined the cobblestone lane. Had it not been for the wrought iron numbers affixed to the brickwork beside the front door, she would not have recognized it as the place she had traveled so far to see. Number 247 did not stand out or draw attention to itself in any manner, something she took as a good omen.

  Before she rapped the black doorknocker, Elise pulled her best white linen handkerchief from her reticule. It was, in fact, her one linen handkerchief and she had only come by it because the scrap of linen, a cutting remaining from a dress they had fashioned for the vicar’s daughter, was too small to be turned into a full-sized hanky. Had it been bigger, the scrap would have been embroidered and sold in her mother’s shop—to the vicar’s greedy daughter, probably. However, it had not been large and now, as her brow glistened, Elise was grateful to have it. Even the smallest bit of tidying up was better than nothing.

  Walking the four blocks from the carriage stop had not dusted her hem too badly. Or so she hoped. Even if it had, there was no help for it.

  She didn’t plan to remain in London, not even overnight. Of course she had the barest necessities with her in the event she couldn’t learn the details of the letter before the day was lost but she hoped uncovering whatever she was meant to find out would take no longer than an hour. Perhaps two, at most. The cost of lodging at an inn was something she wished to avoid, even if it meant jostling back to Essex in a night coach.

  She gave her skirt a brisk swish to shake out the worst of its wrinkles. Then, she knocked.

  It took but a moment for a uniformed butler to appear. If it wasn’t such an outlandish notion she would have guessed he stood, ready and waiting, on the other side of the door for just such a knock to sound.

  “Yes? May I help you, miss?” If he was startled by her sudden appearance, he gave no hint, as if travel-worn young women showed up on the stoop all day long.

  “I…” Now that she was here, she was not sure how to begin. There had been adequate time to consider the task in the coach but she had not formulated a plan. Yet. And with the butler staring askance at her, she was tongue-tied.

  “Yes?” A gentle prod, but a prod, nonetheless.

  “A letter. I, ah, received a letter from this address. It said to come—here, that is.” Every word she spoke sounded like an idiot’s ramblings, even to her own ears. Imagine what the butler must think! Straightening her shoulders, Elise took a deep breath and forced a reasonable tone into her words. “I am here to see whoever lives here, if you please. I am the recipient of a missive which indicated I was to visit this address—” She glanced at the numbers beside the doorframe once more, just to be sure she wasn’t explaining to the wrong butler. She wasn’t. “Right. I was told, in the letter, to present myself here. So, if you would announce my presence.”

  “Certainly, miss. Please, come inside and wait right here while I tell Ma—ahem, while I announce you.”

  The foyer was grander than Elise expected. A thick Oriental rug muffled the man’s footsteps and hers as well as she followed him inside. A discreet nod indicated where she should sit, so Elise took a spot on a low maroon velvet settee placed against the wall beside the door. It was comfortable, so she smiled her appreciation. Seemingly satisfied she was settled, the man nodded, turned on a highly polished black heel and strode down a long hallway. Again, he was as silent as the wind.

  Only a moment passed before his return. “They are waiting in the parlor. May I take your coat? Your hat?” He waited while she removed her outer traveling garments, then took them and hung them on a tree stand behind the front door. Elise barely had time to pat her curls into place before he said, “This way, please.”

  This time, she followed him. He did not pause when he walked through a wide doorway into a small sitting room so she didn’t, either. Unfortunately, she followed so closely on his heels that when he stopped she nearly barreled into his back.

  Not the most polished way to make an entrance, she thought as her cheeks grew warm.

  “The young lady with the letter, Madam.” The butler gestured Elise further into the room, then turned and left.

  Her heart gave an unexpected thump in her chest when she saw the tall, handsome man crossing the room to greet her. The kind of man every woman dreams of but most rarely meet, he moved with fluidity and grace that reminded Elise of a jungle cat. A very large jungle cat. He stood a full head taller than she did, and she was forced to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.

  He inclined his head, reached an arm out and, without touching her, drew her into the room and over to the hearth. An older woman stood before a low chair close to a crackling fire. Elise noticed the sewing basket beside the chair and felt an instant connection to its owner.

  “You have come. I hoped you would, my dear.” The woman stretched out her arms, grabbed Elise close and gave her a fast squeeze. It all happened in the blink of an eye, far too quickly to avoid the embrace.

  Elise allowed it but straightened hurriedly.

  Was it her imagination, or did a whiff of alcohol waft off the woman? Elise sniffed, as delicately as she could, but the moment was gone. She wasn’t close enough now to detect the scent of anything besides wood smoke, candle wax and lamp oil.

  “You sent the letter?” Elise studied the woman. She looked to be about her mother’s age, but was far more primped and curled than Mother ever was. Clad entirely in black, her alabaster skin was luminous. A pair of violet eyes met her own inquisitive gaze.

  “Of course I did. It seemed the only thing to do.”

  The man came to life, his voice smooth and inviting. “We seem to have skipped a most important part of this meeting, haven’t we? We haven’t been properly introduced, and although we know who you are, Miss Fulbright, you probably don’t have the foggiest notion who we are. Do you?”

  Looking at him and speaking to him were two distinctly separate propositions. While he waited for what felt like an age but was really only a few moments, Elise fought to compose her thoughts. How could a man she hadn’t even met get her so tongue-tied?
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br />   “Ah, no, actually. I don’t know who you are,” she finally managed to say. The words were spoken more softly than she intended, which brought his head closer to hers as he attempted to show proper attention and, presumably, hear her. She swallowed, and then in a louder tone said, “I don’t have any idea who you are or why I have been invited here. I don’t wish to be rude but I do have a time constraint so if we could move this meeting along I would be very grateful for the courtesy.”

  A long moment of silence followed her request.

  The man cleared his throat and she had the impression that he wanted to laugh. It was just a feeling, but it was a strong one. Elise knew she gauged his reaction correctly—especially when he spoke and she heard the amusement in his voice.

  “Well, then, let’s not dither. I know it is not the epitome of propriety but since there is no one present better qualified to do so, let me introduce you to Emmaline Byrd. She is the owner of this building and the one who wrote the letter.”

  Elise nodded, murmured a fast “Pleased to meet you” and was greeted with the same.

  The second time Emmaline spoke, Elise’s suspicions were confirmed. The strong smell of alcohol accompanied the woman’s words.

  “Let me introduce you, in turn, to my dear friend.” The man opened his mouth but she ignored him. “This dashing rake is none other than—”

  He cut in, his voice louder than hers. “I am Hugh North. I am honored to finally meet you, Miss Fulbright.” When she would have nodded and exchanged a polite response, he reached out, took her right hand in his and, bending low, placed a kiss just above her knuckles.

  Through her white, albeit a bit travel worn, gloves Elise felt the warmth of his lips. His boldness sent a bolt, like summer lightning in its sudden intensity, of excitement up her spine. She trembled, oh-so faintly.

  She had never met a rake—at least she didn’t think she had—and the idea of being so close to one brought her natural curiosity to the surface. Questions swirled through her mind; ones she knew would never pass her lips. Still, she wondered how one with a reputation for drinking, gambling and, dear heavens, womanizing could appear so gentle and courteous?