by Deb Marlowe
Nothing riled Emily Spencer more than watching a person in possession of a treasure willfully toss it aside.
She stuffed the linen into a pocket as she left the scene. It was still in good shape. She could pick out the initials and use it again—if she could stiffen her backbone enough to try something like this again.
“She’s a stone-cold ‘un, ain’t she?” The boy, several years younger than she, melted out of the darkness to walk at Emily’s side.
“Yes. Be sure to steer clear of her. I don’t want her to catch a glimpse of you and figure out that you had a hand in watching her.”
Jasper shrugged. “I talked to Finch. He’ll open early and said for ye to come to the back door.”
“Thank you.”
“They looked real sparkly in the street lights,” he said eagerly. “Will we get the month’s rent out of it, d’ye think?”
“First thing, we must give the modiste her share for that gown. It’s only fair, even if she doesn’t know how or where the money came from. But we should cover this month, and next month too, as long as long as Miss Paxton has not played her family as false as she played her betrothed.”
“No fancy mort could be that wicked,” Jasper said cheerfully. “We’ll be on easy street for the next few weeks, Em!”
“I hope so, Jasper.” She thought of her mother’s fingers, lying still in her lap while she rested her head against a window frame. “I hope so.”
“Paste!” Mr. Finch announced with a shake of his head. “What is the world coming to when the young ladies wear paste to the theatre?”
Emily’s heart sank. “I should have known,” she groaned. “It’s what I get for allowing myself to sink to her level.”
The fence gave an apologetic shrug. “I can take it apart, make something new and fake out of it—but I can only give you a few shillings.”
“I’ll take what I can get, I suppose.” Emily fought back a surge of despair. She wouldn’t have pulled such a trick had she not been desperate. But her mother was growing thinner and more tired by the day. She’d given up full-scale sewing several months ago, leaving Emily to fill those few orders they could get from busy modistes. Emily had convinced her mother to restrict herself to the fancy ribbon embroidery she was so skilled at—and that was still popular with both the modistes and the high-end milliners.
But her mother’s fingers moved slower these days. She didn’t walk out to take the air like she used to, but stayed at the window, working longer hours—and producing fewer finished pieces. Emily knew she wasn’t eating well. Their meals were meager enough, and still her mother slipped some of her share to Jasper, or tried to push it on her daughter.
They couldn’t go on like this. Emily wouldn’t allow it. Her mother was the sweetest, gentlest soul that ever lived and Emily would not allow her to fade away—even if she had to get up to a bit of wickedness to prevent it.
An image flashed in her head—of her near encounter in the park the other day. She sighed. No, not even if she had to swallow her pride.
But, oh, what a bitter pill it would be, going down.
She took the meager payment from Mr. Finch and set out. She had deliveries to make today. As did Jasper, who made money acting as an errand and delivery boy for several milliners and modistes, and even a tailor in Saville Row. She met him at the corner, near Bond Street. Her heart sank again as she met his hopeful gaze with a shake of her head.
“Who would have thought it?” he asked mournfully after she’d delivered the bad news. “Miss Paxton wearing fake jewels—and her from one of the highest families in the land?” He sniffed. “Though Mr. Waters has griped that her papa is none too quick at paying his shot, either.”
“I should have come up with a different scheme,” Emily sighed, taking a few of his burdens from him.
“I’ll keep my ear out for more gossip,” Jasper offered. “We might yet try again.”
“Perhaps.”
They walked in silence for a moment. “Are you for Madame Lalbert’s?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m to deliver a ball gown to Mayfair.”
“She sent word to Mama yesterday that she has some ribbons she wishes enhanced. I’m to pick them up. I hope I can talk her into at least an over-slip as well.”
“Well, keep your blinkers peeled,” Jasper warned. “I notice the new head wrap. It looks dowdy enough. Had any further sign of the old gentleman?”
“No, not since I spotted him roving up and down Bond Street.” She shook her head. ‘He must have tracked down that jarvey that caught me hitching a ride. Can you imagine the money and manpower he must have expended, to find that driver?”
It sent shivers down her spine. The Duke of Danby. Why should he spend so much time and effort trying to find her? “What on earth do you think he wants?”
Jasper glowered. “Nothing good. Not his sort.”
“You should have seen him, Jasper. He must be twice Mama’s age, and yet you would think them contemporaries.”
“It’s what a lifetime of country air, good food and plenty o’ blunt will do for ye,” the boy said sagely.
“Yes, and an absence of cares and worries. And if he can offer Mama any of that, then perhaps we should let him?”
Jasper scoffed. “That old toff ain’t here to do ye any favors, Em, and ye know it. More like he means to run ye right out o’ Town.” They ducked down the alley that would take them to the back entrance to the modiste’s shop. “It’s exactly why Molly Standon left. The family came fer the Season and wanted no chance that the younger generation would catch a glimpse of her, waltzing about London looking fer all the world the very image of their father.”
“You might be right. But I don’t look overly like him, nor does mama. So he might have a kinder purpose in mind.”
“If he did, why wait until now?” Jasper shook his head and held open the door for her. “I’m telling ye, that toff’s up to no good, should ye ask me.”
“Which toff is that?” Madame Lalbert asked. She stood at a table in her backroom, tying a decorative bow around a large dress box.
Jasper eyed the girl cutting into a jonquil silk at the next table and shrugged.
Madame Lalbert shifted her gaze from him, to Emily and back. “Josephine,” she said thoughtfully, “will you run up to the storage room and bring down that white Brussels lace we bought last week? I’m thinking it will look well with that promenade dress.”
The seamstress rose and left the room and Madame crossed her arms over her formidable bosom. “Let’s hear it.”
Jasper explained while Emily fidgeted. “Do you think there’s a chance that he means well?” she asked when her friend had finished.
The modiste sighed. “That one? I don’t know. The old duke is notorious for being picky about his family. He runs riot over the lot of them, it’s said, bullying and manipulating until he’s got them married off to his satisfaction.”
“Well, he can’t want to marry Mama off, nor me. Why would he interfere in our lives, after all of this time?”
Before he died, her papa had asked her to be gentle, if the topic of her mama’s real parents ever came up. “She never got over thinking they might come and enquire after her,” he’d said. It had explained finally, just what her mother was longing for, when she grew quiet and that dreamy, hungry look came over her. It had explained the hopeful tone with which she’d always greeted new customers in their storefront, and the tiny wrinkle of disappointment that always creased her brow, as if she was continually waiting for someone who never came.
Madame shook her head. “I’m sure I could not guess, but the man has such a reputation for being crotchety and insistent on his own way, I would be careful, were I you.”
Emily nodded, her protective instincts surging. That was not the sort of man whom her mother dreamed of, she felt sure. “I will be careful. Mama is fragile enough, without having her heart broken, too.” She sighed. “But I cannot very well stay inside all day. We need the work.”
Emily bargained a moment, managing to convince the modiste that she’d need a trim to go with a matching spencer or pelisse, as well, and then she and Jasper set out again. They would have to split ways soon enough, and were making plans to meet up again in the afternoon, when a pair of boys tumbled out of a shop right in front of them.
“ Three Fingered Jack!” one cried, holding his flat, wrapped package high.
The other thrust a victorious fist in the air, “The Terror of Jamaica!”
Emily laughed, then quickly stepped around them when a little girl and a young woman emerged to join them.
Jasper elbowed her as they moved on. “Ain’t that the one in the park? The one we seen Miss Paxton snub?”
“Yes, poor thing. She looked devastated, too.” She’d seen the incident and felt sorry for the girl. “Miss Paxton only cut her because of her unfortunate gown,” she whispered.
Jasper was looking back over his shoulder. “It didn’t learn her nuthin’. She’s dressed no better today.”
Emily had seen. “Miss Carmichael, I think, is her name.” Again, she looked a fright in a walking dress too large, too out of date and covered with too many questionable frills and furbelows.
It was too bad. She seemed amiable and kind. Looking back, Emily watched her usher her brothers and sister along with patience and smiles. Lord Ardman would have done better to choose a girl like this over a cat like Miss Paxton. But the vainglorious gentlemen of the ton would always flock to a fashion plate over a quiz, would they not?
Poor girl. She was likely the victim of an unskilled, untutored village seamstress with a collection of old fashion magazines. She only needed someone knowing to take her in hand and she’d strike a far better note with the young bucks.
She stopped suddenly. Now, was that not a thought?
“Are ye comin’?” Jasper asked.
“No. I think I’m going back to discuss something with Madame Lalbert.”
“Suit yerself.” Jasper lifted his chin. “See you tonight!”
Emily nodded and started back the way they’d come. Perhaps, just perhaps, she’d hit upon a scheme that would let her turn things around without selling her soul or sacrificing her pride.
Chapter 2
Cole Herrington, the Earl of Hartford, accepted the coat his footman held out. “Tell them not to wait dinner on me, Williams. The lecture is all the way out at Hampstead. I’ll be late getting back.”
“A moment, before you leave, my lord?”
Hart’s head was full of weights, bushels, and triple yield barley. Most of his fellow peers would be bored witless at the thought of attending a session on the development of disease-resistant, higher-yield grain, but Hart was eager to implement new strains and practices. Impatient, he paused. “Yes? What is it?”
“Ah, well . . .” Williams cleared his throat. “A young person has been dawdling outside, just up the street. I thought you might wish to ah, take precautions.”
“I understand.” Damn it all! He’d scarcely been in Town but a few days. Was last Season’s circus to start up again, and so soon? “Very well, Williams,” he said curtly. “Alert my mother, if you please. And you come out with me to the street. It will be just as we practiced.”
“Yes, sir.” Williams gestured for a maid to run for the countess, then he put his hand on the door latch and took a deep breath. “Ready, sir?”
“No. But open it anyway.”
Hart went out, feeling the footman’s presence right on his heel. He spotted the young lady. She’d stepped out smartly when the door opened. She began to fumble with her reticule, but Hart saw her glance up once, and again, gauging her steps.
As she’d obviously planned, they reached the pavement in front of Herrington House at the same time. As he’d suspected, her arms flew up, right on cue. She stumbled toward him—
And he stepped back and aside even as Williams slid into his place and caught the girl as she fell.
“Oh!” she cried as the servant lowered her to the ground. “My ankle!” She cast a distressed gaze up—and looked blatantly surprised to find herself in the arms of the footman. “Oh.”
The front door flew open. Hart looked over and beckoned his mother. “Do you see?” he demanded, pointing at the girl.
“Oh, I can feel my ankle swelling,” she moaned. “If someone could just help me up . . .?”
No one answered her.
“Oh, dear.” Hart’s mother bit her lip. “I did hope you were wrong, darling.”
“As did I,” he said grimly. “But clearly I am not to be given a moment’s peace.”
“Excuse me?” The girl was getting frustrated now. Clearly she’d expected a more receptive audience. “My ankle?”
“Yes, yes. We’ll get you taken care of in a moment.” His mother turned back to him. “You tried to fix the situation, but I don’t know what we can do, now that . . . it hasn’t worked out.”
“I know what we can do,” he said shortly. “Take her inside, Williams.”
“Oh, thank you, my lord.” The girl lifted a hand to him. “If you could just help me rise?”
He ignored her. “I’m going to put a stop to this before it gets out of hand.”
“I’ll see to her, but what about you, darling?” His mother sounded a little alarmed.
“Keep her. As long as you like. Nurse her, call her family, but warn them to leave the special license at home. I won’t be back. Not until I have this matter in hand.”
Not quite an hour later Hart strode up to the house on Craven Street. The famous half moon and stars, carved out of the fanlight and replaced with crystal, sparkled as the door swung open.
The woman emerging must be Hestia Wright. Surely there were not two such stunning women running about London. He stepped up. “Miss Wright? Forgive my bad manners, but may I detain you for a moment?”
The beautiful blonde smiled up at him. “Only for a moment. And please, call me Hestia. Mr.—?”
He bowed. “Lord Hartford, at your service, ma’am.”
“My lord, I am ever so pleased to meet you, but I am in a bit of a hurry. If you would care to come back, or to step inside to make an appointment?”
“I do apologize. I am in a rush, myself.” Desperate, he raked his hand through his hair and looked down toward the Strand. “Look, allow me to get you a hackney, then perhaps we can talk on the way?”
“No need.” She gestured toward the coach ambling toward them. “Here is my carriage, but if you are in dire straits, then, of course, you may ride with me—as long as you promise not to interfere when I reach my destination.”
Startled, he promised, then saw her into the coach and climbed in after her. “Many thanks to you, ma’am—”
“Just Hestia, please.” She smiled at him and he lost a moment to the dazzle of it.
“Yes, of course. I’m afraid I must seem absurd to you, but I fear I’m in the midst of a situation that has descended to the level of a farce. I am indeed growing desperate.”
“Normally I’d scoff, hearing such drama from a man like you, but I do remember a bit of what happened to you last Season.” She regarded him steadily. “I take it you fear a repeat?”
“Yes, exactly!” He was relieved to find her so easy to talk with—and to find an air of understanding and steely competence under all of that ethereal beauty. He hoped like hell that she would put it to use for him.
“Tell me,” she said simply.
“Well, what went on last Season was a disgrace,” Hart said bitterly. “I never expected to inherit. My brother was the perfect heir. I was the perfect spare—little to be seen.”
She chuckled.
“It was such a blow, losing him so y
oung and so unexpectedly,” he continued. “We were all still in shock. My brother’s body was barely cold. I’d just been ceremoniously introduced into the House of Lords. I wasn’t going about in Society, which apparently frustrated the young ladies of the ton.”
“They can be an excitable lot,” Hestia murmured.
“So I’ve learned. I was still trying to catch my breath, recover from having all of my plans yanked out from under me, and I’d barely begun learning all that my brother had been in training for all of his life. The last thing I wished to consider was marriage.”
“Ah, but marriage is the only thing so many of these young ladies have to consider.”
“Yes,” he agreed darkly, “and apparently it caused a few of them to lose their minds.”
She laughed.
“It was no laughing matter, I assure you. It started innocently enough. I wasn’t attending parties or balls, so the young ladies tried to meet me in the street. They hung about my tailor’s shop. They gathered in the gallery to watch sessions in the House and lingered in the halls. They dropped handkerchiefs and poems and invitations.”
“And one, I recall, threw herself in front of your horse.”
“That was only the beginning. Another threw herself from her horse into my arms. And one dropped from a tree right in front of me.”
“Good heavens. How inventive.”
“I gave up and left Town for Hartsworth Park—before somebody got killed.”
“Yes, well.” Hestia looked at him with a frank expression. “You are certainly an attractive young man, my lord. And your family is respectable, your title old, and your bank accounts are reportedly healthy. And yet, with all of that to recommend you, I think you must realize that none of it was what excited such a level of frenzy.”