Be My Lover

by Cecily French

  Greg’s eyes narrowed. “I thought they were in Paris.”

  “So did I.” Anthony scanned the page and checked his sigh of impatience.

  “Then how in blazes did they get to Calais? Surely they didn’t travel by themselves?”

  Anthony resisted the urge to crumple the sheet and toss it into the fireplace. “It seems my very resourceful aunt convinced a French family traveling to Calais from Paris to share a carriage. They left a week ago and according to this—” he held up the sheet, “have no one to bring them back to London. They’re staying at the Duke of Wellington Inn. If they’ve left Paris that can only mean the new wardrobes they insisted on having made—the ones I’m helping to pay for—are finished.”

  “But why the sudden rush to return?” Brandon asked from his place against the sideboard, cup in hand. “The Season is more than halfway finished and your sisters aren’t out yet.”

  Anthony scowled. “Because somehow word has reached my aunt of my impending engagement to Miss Stanhope and she wants to be here when it’s officially announced.”

  His friends’ bursts of laughter did not improve his mood. “Have you set the date for the banns to be announced?” Greg chortled.

  “A special license for our friend, the Duke of Bradford,” Brandon corrected between gasps. “Of course they’ll have the ceremony at St. George’s.”

  “Shut up, both of you,” Anthony ordered. “I’ll speak to Chesterfield when the time is right.”

  “Which according to your aunt, is when? Next Tuesday?” Brandon asked and he and Greg laughed again.

  The door swung open and a grim-faced Amos Quigley joined them. Tossing his hat onto an empty chair, he glared at the company. “What did I miss?”

  “Nothing,” Anthony said tersely, folding his letter and putting inside his coat. “Good morning, Amos.”

  “Not so good.” Amos sank onto a sofa. “Mallory was beaten to a bloody pulp last night and left for dead in an alley in Seven Dials. A passing prostitute happened upon them and her screams sent the bastard who did it running. Mallory’s face looks like a punching bag. After splinting his leg and arms, the doctor dosed him with laudanum to help him sleep.”

  His words brought Anthony to his feet. “Had Mallory learned anything new about my father?”

  “Yes.” Amos rubbed his forehead. “Before he lost consciousness, Mallory muttered something about someone secretly bringing your father something the night he died.”

  “The killer?”

  “Mallory thinks not, and it wasn’t the first time such a delivery was made.”

  “Damnation,” Anthony began to pace the room. “And my household staff didn’t know about this?”

  “Apparently not,” Amos said. “And that was according to your father’s wishes. It’s only a matter of time now, Anthony. The killer must suspect someone has uncovered something, and it’s making him desperate enough to do whatever it takes to stop you from finding him. Brandon, I’ll take some of that coffee if you don’t mind.”

  Anthony stopped and waited until Brandon had filled a cup and carried it to their friend. Some of the weariness faded from Amos’ face as he drank. When he had put the cup aside, Anthony asked, “You’re going to try to flush out the killer, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Amos said, the fury returning to his eyes. “But until Mallory can tell us more, I can’t move ahead. It might be days…even a week before he can tell us anything.”

  “Just enough time for you to get to Calais and back,” Brandon said and told Amos about the impending arrival of Anthony’s family. “Where is Mallory now?”

  “Another of my agents has him under guard at Madam Terez’s House of Pleasure. I’m paying her girls three times what they would normally make to take good care of him. No patrons are to be allowed in or out. Terez will see to that.”

  “Isn’t that the brothel where Phillip met Franny?” Brandon asked.

  “Yes,” Anthony said. “Do you really think the killer is going to get careless after all this time?”

  Amos nodded. “I’m certain of it. Your return to London has him worried, Anthony. Everyone knows you’ve always planned to prove your father’s death was not suicide. If the killer is stupid or careless enough to have my agent attacked, then he’s scared. Go to Calais and bring back your family. By then we should know something. “

  “Very well. I’ll leave now.” Anthony headed for the door, but then stopped. “Will you have someone watch Emily’s house while I’m gone, Amos? And Miss Stanhope’s as well?”

  “If you wish,” his friend said. “But I don’t think either of them is in any danger from the killer. Miss Stanhope is surrounded by all those brothers and Mrs. Martin wasn’t even in London when your father died.”

  “That may be,” Anthony grabbed his coat from the standing rack in the corner and put it on. “But the entire ton knows of my association with both those women and I’ll send the killer to hell myself if he even thinks of harming either one of them. I’ll see you gentlemen in a few days.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Why not speak to Miss Stanhope’s father before you go to Calais? The Earl of Chesterfield is surely aware by now of your interest in her.” Emily watched Anthony impatiently fiddle with the buttons of his great coat.

  The weather had turned chilly and a bank of immense, dark clouds stretched across the sky, gathering strength. In the distance, the faint rumble of thunder promised the coming of rain. She should be accustomed to his unexpected arrivals after all this time. After all, they were friends as well as lovers. There was no need of formality between them.

  But as always, his striding into her morning room as if he lived here made her heart lurch with gladness. He looked so at home, so at ease, as if he belonged here.

  And knowing that would soon end was breaking her heart. Better to end things cleanly and quickly and have done with it. “Why not?” she asked again.

  He frowned. “Number one, I still haven’t completely made up my mind about Miss Stanhope. Number two, if I did speak to Chesterfield before I leave, Aunt Dorcas would read my mind and I’d be forced to listen to her and my sisters pummel me with questions all the way back from Calais and I refuse to do that. Besides, if the weather doesn’t turn bad, I should be back in six days. Two days to Dover, two days to cross the Channel to Calais and back, and two days home.”

  “But why are you waiting?” Emily persisted. “The Season will be over soon and wasn’t that one of your intentions? To find a suitable bride? Miss Stanhope is a diamond, Anthony. You don’t want someone to beat you to the punch. “

  Her words deepened his frown. “You seem very eager to see me married,” he said.

  She shrugged. “Wasn’t that part of our arrangement? I would help you decide on a bride and from what I have seen there is no one to compare to Miss Stanhope. Just think, by this time next year you could be holding a son in your arms like Phillip Danbury. I seem to remember you saying years ago that you wanted a nursery full of children.”

  “What about the pleasure we’ve shared?” A perplexed expression drove the frown from Anthony’s face and sadness entered Emily’s heart. “The fun? There was more to what we shared than an arrangement.”

  Emily forced herself to smile. “It’s been lovely, Anthony. Lovely and wonderful. Every pleasure I’ve ever dreamed of you’ve given me. But I can’t continue to be your mistress with your sisters and aunt returning. And certainly not if you’re considering offering for Miss Stanhope. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “Then this is…goodbye? Last night was our last time together?”

  “Since you’re leaving for Calais can you think of a better time?”

  Six days without seeing you will break my heart, but since I must start the forever without you sometime, I might as well start now.

  “Well,” he said, slowly rising from his usual chair, holding his hat. “If that is what you wish.”

  “It’s for the best.” Emily forced a gentle firmness into her v
oice as she stood. “Perhaps when you return, I shall have the pleasure of meeting your sisters and aunt.”

  “If you wish,” he repeated. His fingers slid around the brim of the hat. “I’ll send word when I return.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Have a safe journey, Anthony.”

  “Goodbye, Emily.”

  He gave her one last thoughtful look before leaving, his footsteps echoing back as he crossed the tiled foyer. There was a murmur of conversation with Joseph and then the front door clicked in farewell. Somehow, Emily managed to get to the parlor door and close it before giving herself up to her tears.

  * * * * *

  God’s Death! The killer stared at the pages, his hands gripping the sides of the book. If the information exists, that’s where the old duke hid the papers! It would appeal to his sense of the absurd. Now how do I get into his house?

  Word at the clubs said Dyson left for Calais last week to bring his sisters and aunt home. Depending on the roads, weather and horses, he could be gone as long as six days. Dyson would never put a good horse at risk unless his need was urgent, and fetching back his family shouldn’t prompt him to rush.

  But now, for the killer, time was running out. He had to find a way to break into the old duke’s house and search for the incriminating papers that surely must exist. Easy enough to use a glasscutter on the library’s French doors and enter. And if his guess was right, it would only take minutes to gather the information and depart, no one the wiser.

  He would have to be careful. Half of the old duke’s staff might now be working for Mrs. Emily Martin, but there were still servants in the house. Now if only the damn rain would stop, he should be able to break in, find what he needed and leave. The weather would surely slow Bradford’s progress to Calais and his return to London. That fact lifted the killer’s mouth into a satisfied grin. By the time Dyson got back, the incriminating papers would be long gone, burned to ash.

  But he still had to find that ragged youth who saw him at the brothel. The same who saw him through the old duke’s window that fateful night a year ago. None of the men he hired to search for the witness had uncovered anything so he had redoubled his search. Sooner or later, the youth would be found and silenced for good, but not before enduring a punishment that would make Mallory’s beating seem like a gentle roughing up.

  But what about Mrs. Emily Martin? How many of his speculations had Anthony shared with her? Had he mentioned names? Had he indulged in sharing his suspicions after rolling her through the sheets?

  Perhaps after Anthony married the Stanhope chit, he would approach Mrs. Martin with his own offer of protection. He wasn’t so old he didn’t know how to pleasure a woman.

  Unless he had to kill her too.

  * * * * *

  “You’ve got to make it right, Freddie.” His mother’s shaking hand gripped his arm. “Swear to me you will.” The kerosene lamp on the nightstand hissed, its acrid odor piercing the stale air and damp bedclothes. “You gotta talk to that duke.”

  “But Ma—”

  Her slap burned his cheek. “Once you make it right, ye can go off to America or Canada or anywhere ye like, but this is my last wish. I’ll not die easy knowin’ you’re still holding back the truth of what you saw and what you know. Bad enough it’s made you hide like a hunted animal all this time!” A rasping cough broke through her words.

  “Awright,” Freddie choked back his tears. No point in telling Ma the duke was out of town. Ever since coming face to face with the killer, Freddie had gone deeper into hiding in the East End with Henry as his only contact, bringing him news along with food.

  “They’re saying the duke’s gonna get married soon as ‘e gets back,” Henry had told him. “’E’s giving up that pretty Mrs. Martin for some earl’s daughter. But I guess he’s still wantin’ her ’cause I heard at Victoria’s that Mr. Quigley, one them Rogues, is watchin’ out for Mrs. Martin while the duke is gone.”

  That was it! Freddie would talk to Mrs. Martin about what he saw that night. If she and the duke were sharing a bed, she could tell him who killed his father. It was perfect. The duke would know the truth at last and Freddie’s ma could die in peace.

  And then he would get the hell out of London and as far as his meager savings would take him.

  * * * * *

  “What shall we do first when we get to London, brother?”

  “We’ll go home, Tabitha,” Anthony told her. “We should be there by dark.”

  He turned his gaze out the carriage window. Tucked in a corner bedside him, Aunt Dorcas snored gently. Damn, he was glad the rains had finally stopped. Given the sorry conditions of the roads, not to mention the violent storm in the Channel for two days, traveling to Calais and back in Noah’s ark would have been faster. He should have been home three days ago. No word from Amos had come and Anthony’s anxiety kept his stomach in a perpetual knot.

  When waiting, no news is good news, his father used to say. He was usually right about such things. No news meant the search for his father’s killer was continuing and Mallory was—must be—on the mend.

  But then you didn’t expect to be murdered in your own home either, did you, Papa?

  And Anthony’s sleeping without Emily beside him had made for more than one restless night. He missed the way she managed to steal the covers, her murmuring conversations with herself and the way she spooned against him in the middle of the night, never breaking her slumber.

  And most of all he missed making love with her. Not a day went by since they began their arrangement—how terribly businesslike that sounded now—they had not made love several times, sometimes falling asleep only to wake up and make love again.

  He missed her. He would go on missing her. He would miss her for the rest of his life.

  But duty to family, above all else. So his father had taught him.

  “Anthony? Will our house be all right?”

  He turned his attention away from the window and directed a gentle smile to Grace. “Of course, little one,” he said, patting her hand. “Timmons and the staff will have everything ready for us, just as they always do.”

  “Even Papa’s library?” Her voice trembled.

  Anthony bit the inside of his cheek. Timmons had assured him the room was in order, but per Anthony’s instructions—except to open the drapes and dust—the room had remained locked. “Even that, little one. Even that.”

  Tears shimmered in her eyes. “I still miss him, Anthony. Ever so much.”

  “As do I, my dear. As do I. Try not to fret.”

  Her expression brightened. “Do you suppose Mrs. Johnson will have made steak and kidney pie for our first supper at home tonight?”

  “I sent a messenger ahead with those very instructions,” he assured her. “Steak and kidney pie with roasted potatoes and your favorite chocolate cake for afterward.”

  “It will be good to be home, won’t it, Anthony?” Tabitha asked. “Everyone will be glad to see us, won’t they?”

  “Everyone,” he echoed. “Especially Zeus. He’s been staying with a friend for the past few weeks, but I’ll go fetch him as soon as I’ve dropped you off at the house.”

  And then I’ll tell Emily goodbye one last time.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Good Lord!

  The Mystery of Blackwood Hall fell from Emily’s shaking hands, hitting the carpet with a thud, and she stared down at the open pages. Could it be possible?

  She shifted her gaze to Zeus. The great bird sat swinging gently on his perch. She had always marveled at how large and thick the wooden rod was and had supposed it was to bear his weight. Could it possibly be a hiding place?

  You’re daft! You must be.

  Knees trembling, she picked up the book and put it on the table beside her chair before moving to stand in front of the birdcage and peer at the perch. One end was blocked with a large cork. So was the other. Cautiously, she stretched out her hand to open the cage door…

  “Mrs. Martin?”
<
br />   Emily snatched her hand back and turned, hoping her hasty smile did not reveal the skittering rhythm of her heart. “Yes, Timmons?”

  “The staff and I are leaving for His Grace’s home,” he said. “Are you sure you don’t want to go with us?”

  “I think His Grace and his family would enjoy spending time with just you,” Emily said. Amos had sent her a note this afternoon with news that Anthony and his family were returning this evening. “I insist you be there when he arrives.”

  “But I’m not sure His Grace would like us to leave you alone,” Timmons persisted.

  “Nonsense,” Emily said. “Jocelyn Rolfe will be here soon. I’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Timmons said. “But once I have made sure everything is in order for His Grace’s family, Joseph and I will return. We can’t leave you alone here at night. I’ve noticed you’ve not been yourself the past few days, especially regarding your appetite.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Emily repeated, fighting against the nausea churning in her stomach.

  “Very well, ma’am.” With a sigh, Timmons left, closing the door behind him.

  Emily waited, straining her ears to the rumble of carriage wheels on the street before returning to Zeus’ cage to open the door. The macaw clucked and danced on the perch, his eyes bright at the chance for extra attention.

  “Pretty boy. Zeus is a pretty boy,” Emily cooed, gently patting him until he hopped from the perch. She slowly filled her lungs, hoping it would slow the fear crawling over her skin while she slid the perch from its wire holder. The cork came out easily and her searching fingers touched paper. Cautiously, she pulled it out. The several thin sheets were covered with small, but perfectly clear writing. After putting the perch back in its place, she returned to her desk and spread the sheets over the top. Trying to ignore the roaring in her ears, Emily began to read.

  It was here. Everything. Everything proving Anthony’s father had not cheated others and his intent to reveal the man behind the investment scheme who had brought so much heartache to Anthony and his family. Emily’s head swam and the nausea rose in her throat as she read the name of the culprit.