The Virgin who Bewitched Lord Lymington

by Anna Bradley

  Helena said nothing, but Emma could see wasn’t convinced. Short of dragging Helena out of here kicking and screaming, there wasn’t a chance Emma could get her to leave the Pink Pearl tonight.

  “I’m sorry, Emma.” Helena gave her a pleading look. “I’m Caroline’s only friend here. I can’t simply abandon her. You can’t ask it of me—you, of all people, who are so protective of me.”

  “Not protective enough.” Emma’s jaw was tight. “If I were, I would have persuaded you to leave this place years ago.”

  “One more night, Emma, I swear it, and if anything goes wrong, I’ll alert Daniel at once.”

  Emma’s hands opened and closed at her sides, grasping at nothing. She’d never felt more helpless in her life, but there was little she could do. If she lingered any longer arguing with Helena, Madame Marchand would be sure to discover them. “Go, then. Quickly, before Madame Marchand misses you.”

  Helena rushed forward and pressed a kiss to Emma’s cheek. “One more night only, Emma. I promise it.”

  One more night.

  Emma hardly had time to draw a breath before Helena was gone, swallowed back into the depths of the Pink Pearl.

  One more night that would last a lifetime.

  * * * *

  “What a pleasure to see you again, Lord Lymington. Are you interested in female companionship this evening, or have you returned to the Pink Pearl to tease us once again?”

  Samuel had burst through the door of the Pink Pearl and started immediately for the library, scanning the entryway as he went. There was no sign of Helena Reeves, but the same redhead he’d offended last week was smiling up at him with pink, painted lips.

  “Neither,” he snapped, not bothering to hide his scowl. “I need to find Helena Reeves.”

  “Ah, so it’s Helena this time, is it? Have you finished with Caroline already? Inconstant man!” She giggled, tapping his chest with her fan.

  “Is Caroline here?” Samuel asked, ignoring her flirtation. “She’ll do just as well.”

  “I’m certain both Caroline and Helena will be overjoyed to find you consider them interchangeable, my lord. Alas, Caroline is not here this evening. Helena is, though I haven’t seen her for some time.”

  “Where did you see her last?” Samuel was trying to remain calm, but it had taken him ages to disentangle himself from the company at Lady Tremaine’s. Lady Emma had at least a half hour’s start on him, and God knew half an hour was more than enough time for her to wreak havoc.

  In short, he was ready to squeeze the redhead until useful words spilled from her lips.

  “Oh, here and there.” She smirked up at him, clearly enjoying her game. “First, she was in the music room, then I believe she was upstairs for a time with Lord Dimmock, then I saw her wandering down the hallway outside the library—”

  Samuel didn’t wait to hear more, but strode across the drawing room and down the adjacent hallway, his boots ringing against the marble floors with every step. He passed the music room, then threw open the library door, not at all sure what he’d find on the other side.

  What he did find was…nothing.

  No Helena Reeves, and no cloaked wraith drifting through the glass doors, but it was colder in here than it should be, as if the door had just been open, and—

  He paused as he caught a subtle shift in the light coming through the glass, the hint of a shadow drifting across the stone terrace and into the garden beyond.

  Lady Emma hadn’t yet made her escape.

  Samuel darted across the library, taking care to stay on the carpets so his footsteps would be muffled. The shadow had vanished by the time he reached the glass doors, but she couldn’t have gotten far.

  He pushed the door open, closing it behind him as he stepped onto the terrace. He was angry with Lady Emma when he found she’d slipped his grasp this evening, yet for reasons he didn’t care to examine, he didn’t choose to reveal her secret comings and goings to Madame Marchand.

  His labored breaths echoed in his ears as he crossed the garden, hoping he wasn’t so far behind her she’d disappear into the darkened streets of London before he could see which way she’d gone, but when he reached the corner, he glimpsed a slight figure hurrying down the street.

  No cloak this time, no deep hood to hide her face, but he would have known her anywhere, regardless. So graceful, her movements so fluid—he’d as soon forget the way Lady Emma moved as he would her scent, or the taste of her lips, or the unbearable eroticism of her low, sweet voice.

  Samuel went after her, drawing closer, then closer still. He expected her to turn and see him at every moment, alerted by the sound of his footsteps, but she kept on with single-minded purpose, never glancing back.

  It wasn’t until she was nearly on top of it that Samuel noticed the carriage. It was waiting halfway down a narrow lane, several blocks east of the Pink Pearl, and beside it stood a hulking figure Samuel recognized at once as Lady Crosby’s coachman.

  The man was strangely menacing for a coachman, and not the sort one wanted to tangle with on a dark London street, but the threat of him didn’t deter Samuel. He crept forward, hidden in the shadows of a tall hedge, but just as he drew close enough to hear the low murmur of their voices, he went still.

  Lady Emma was standing at the open carriage door, her hand resting on the edge of it as she spoke earnestly to the coachman. A faint glimmer of moonlight fell across the side of her face and over her hands, and—

  Samuel stared, his breath catching with a painful hitch in his throat.

  A complex web of thin, silvery scars covered her knuckles and crisscrossed in a crazed pattern over her fingers and the back of her hands. They were long since healed now, remnants of wounds that must once have been ugly indeed, to have left such deeply etched scars in that fine, white skin.

  Those scars…how could he not have noticed them before, how could he—

  She keeps them hidden.

  He’d never once seen her bare hands. She kept that secret, marred flesh concealed under layers of silk or fine white kid, as if it were something shameful, a terrible thing she’d done, rather than a violence that had been done to her.

  Samuel raised his gaze to her face, her profile limned in the muted glow, then lowered it again to her hands, a strange, hollow ache tugging at his heart for his dainty wraith, with her pale, ruined hands.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Caroline Francis is missing.”

  Emma was standing in front of the pier glass in the drawing room attempting to smooth a wayward curl before she and Lady Crosby left for the theater, but her fingers stilled at Daniel’s words.

  Her eyes met his in the glass. “Missing?”

  “Aye, lass.” Daniel paused in front of Lady Crosby’s elegant marble fireplace, his massive shoulders dwarfing the dainty mantel. “She never came back to the Pink Pearl last night.”

  “Oh, dear.” Lady Crosby looked from Emma to Daniel, the color draining from her cheeks. “But what could have become of the poor girl?”

  “Nothing good.” Daniel’s voice was hard.

  Emma turned from the glass to face him, her heart crowding into her throat. “Are you certain, Daniel? Is there a chance you might have missed her, or—”

  “No, lass. I waited all night for ’er, and spent most of today searching. No one’s seen or heard a word from the girl since she left the Pink Pearl the day before yesterday. She’s gone.”

  Gone. Disappeared, just like Amy and Kitty—seemingly dissolved into thin air without a trace, as if they’d never been there at all.

  “But…how can she be gone?” Emma asked dumbly. This was London, not a country village in Kent. People didn’t vanish without a single person having seen a thing. “Someone must have seen something.”

  “Of course, they must have, dear.” Lady Crosby said, but she looked uncertain. “Someone
must have some idea of where she’s gone, mustn’t they, Daniel?”

  “No one who’s willing to talk.” Daniel’s somber eyes met Emma’s. “No one could tell me anything other than the lass went off in a black carriage, and never came back to the Pink Pearl.”

  “Perhaps she went with him willingly?” Lady Crosby asked hopefully. “Perhaps there’s nothing so sinister in it, after all.”

  “Perhaps.” But Emma’s throat had gone tight with dread.

  “I can’t speak to that.” Daniel’s voice was grim. “All we know is ’e sent a carriage to fetch her, she got inside, and no one knows another cursed thing about him.”

  Emma’s hand shook as it crept to her throat. “What of Helena, Daniel? Where is she?”

  As soon as Emma saw the expression on Daniel’s face, she knew she wasn’t going to like the answer. She reached out to grip the back of the settee, bracing herself.

  “She’s at the Pink Pearl still. I couldn’t get a message to her because I couldn’t find that little kitchen lad.”

  “Charles is missing, too?” Emma dropped down onto the settee, stunned.

  “We don’t know that, lass. All I can tell ye is I couldn’t find him.”

  Emma pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to think, but her head was spinning with something Helena had said last night, like a frenzied flock of birds beating their wings against her skull.

  I’m Caroline’s only friend here…

  If the scoundrel discovered Caroline had stolen his pendant, he’d suspect at once that she’d given it to Helena. Helena was the only one at the Pink Pearl who was in Caroline’s confidence, the only person Caroline might have trusted with her secrets.

  Dear God. She had to get Helena away from the Pink Pearl, and it had to be soon.

  But how? Madame Marchand wasn’t simply going to hand Helena over to Daniel, nor could Helena simply stroll out the front door. She might be able to sneak out the library doors, but Helena was terrified of Madame Marchand, and would never risk it without Emma there.

  Lady Clifford could get Helena out, but if Madame Marchand proved difficult—and she would—it could take time, and that was something Helena didn’t have.

  There had to be another way. There had to be someone who could—

  Emma’s head came up.

  There was.

  But it would mean she’d have to trust Lord Lymington.

  Emma trusted very few people, and there wasn’t a single marquess among them. She’d learned her lesson about noblemen five years ago, and it wasn’t one she’d ever forget.

  But what choice did she have? Caroline was missing, and Helena could be next.

  It seemed a cruel twist of fate, that after all her tricks and dodges, her cunning and guile honed over five years of practice, that she should end up having to rely on a churlish marquess.

  But then Emma recalled the warmth in Lord Lymington’s voice yesterday in the rose garden, when he’d spoken about Flora and Lord Lovell, the gentle pressure of his hand on Emma’s neck, the tenderness with which he’d kissed her.…

  She turned to Lady Crosby with her mind made up. “I’m going to leave the theatre early tonight. I’ll tell Flora I have a headache, and that I’m going to have Daniel take me home. When I beg you to stay to watch the rest of the play, you must do as I ask, all right?”

  Lady Crosby looked troubled, but she nodded. “Yes, I will, dear.”

  “Thank you.” Emma squeezed Lady Crosby’s hand. “Shall we go?”

  By the time they reached Drury Lane and Emma and Lady Crosby had made their way to their box, they were quite late. Lady Silvester and Lady Flora were already waiting for them, and the opening scene of Vortigern and Rowena was well underway, with Vortigern striding from one end of the stage to the other, plotting King Constantius’s murder.

  “Emma!” Flora let out a joyous little squeal, grabbed Emma’s hand, and tugged her down into the seat beside her. “Lord Lovell is here,” she whispered, tilting her head to the left. “Do you suppose he’ll come speak to us?”

  Emma glanced toward the box Flora indicated, and saw Lady Lymington and Lady Lovell seated in the first row. Lady Lovell was surveying the company through a gilt opera glass, and Mr. Humphries was on her right, dozing.

  Behind them sat Lord Lovell, breathtakingly handsome in his impeccable evening clothes. He was looking right at them, a warm smile on his lips, but it wasn’t Lovell who caught and held Emma’s gaze.

  It had never been Lovell, because that would have been far too easy, wouldn’t it?

  Emma tried to avoid meeting Lord Lymington’s gaze, but it was a pitiful attempt, especially for a lady who’d never before hesitated to confront her fate.

  But then, her fate had never before led her to Lord Lymington. Again and again, she seemed to find herself coming up against him, as if fate, in a fit of mischief, had tied them together and then stood back to see what they would do.

  Kiss each other, as it turned out.

  That is, he’d kissed her. Yes, that was more accurate. She’d done nothing at all but…

  Kiss him back.

  Unconsciously, Emma raised a hand to her tingling lips, as if mere moments had passed since his lips had touched hers, and then her head was turning toward him of its own accord, her gaze bypassing every other face, as if she were magnetically drawn to him, and no other face, no other gentleman in all of Drury Lane mattered at all.

  He was seated next to Lovell, his gloved hands folded on top of the walking stick between his knees, and his gaze was fixed on Emma with such dark intensity she was amazed their box didn’t burst into flames.

  He wasn’t smiling. Watching him now, it occurred to Emma he rarely smiled, as if he were allotted only a finite number of them, and didn’t wish to squander any.

  She tore her gaze away from him, goosebumps tickling her neck. She didn’t want to think of Lord Lymington just yet, of his smiles or his frowns or the gray eyes that seemed to penetrate her every defense, to see her every secret, her every lie.

  Instead, she let her restless gaze wander over the crowd in search of a distraction, and it fell to the chaos in the pit below.

  The noise from that quarter was deafening, the rabble jeering and heckling the players from one side of their mouths while pouring prodigious quantities of cider into the other. It was a performance that rivaled the one on the stage, and Emma found her gaze moving from the ragged mob below to the private boxes where aristocrats lounged in luxury, their jewels flashing.

  London had always been divided thus, but nowhere were the two separate worlds more evident than at the theater, with the unruly mob below, and their betters arrayed in their private boxes above, watching the masses writhe with amused scorn.

  Then there were those who were suspended somewhere between them, those like Helena, or Emma herself, dangling over the abyss—

  “Emma? Did you hear me?”

  Emma forced a smile to her lips. “I beg your pardon, Flora. What did you say?”

  “I asked if you thought Lord Lovell would come to our box this evening.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m certain he will. He can’t take his eyes off you, Flora.”

  “Is he looking now?”

  Emma cast a reluctant glance toward their box again, cursing herself. “He is, indeed.”

  Lovell politely inclined his head, but Lord Lymington remained motionless, still watching her, his eyes still burning into her. This time, it was harder for Emma to drag her gaze from his. His dark eyes held her frozen until at last she tore free with a wrench, a flutter in the deepest pit of her stomach. Her eyes darted this way and that, searching for something else to focus on, someone else.…

  But it was no use. Her gaze was drawn back to Lord Lymington, as if he’d commanded it with an imperious snap of his fingers. And once she looked—once she gave into his command—s
he couldn’t look away.

  A strange feeling swept over Emma as their gazes held, because somehow in that moment she knew, without a word exchanged between them, that he was thinking of their kiss in the garden, just as she was.

  He wouldn’t let her escape him tonight.

  They shifted at the same time—Lord Lymington to murmur in Lady Lymington’s ear, and Emma, who leaned over Flora to say to Lady Crosby, “I find myself more fatigued than I expected tonight, grandmother.”

  “You do look a trifle peaked. You’re worn out, you poor child. Come along, then, and we’ll go home. We can see the play another time.”

  Emma shook her head, hiding a smile. Lady Crosby really was a magnificent actress. “No, I don’t want you to miss the play. I’ll just slip out, and have Daniel take me home.”

  “All right, dear, if you’re sure.” Lady Crosby patted her hand.

  “Quite sure.” Emma turned to Flora with an apologetic smile. “I beg your pardon for abandoning you, Flora, but I don’t feel up to the theater this evening.”

  Flora studied Emma’s face, and her brows drew together in concern. “Oh, dear. You don’t look well. Are you ill?”

  “No, it’s just fatigue, but I don’t like to aggravate it with all the noise and light. I need a bit of rest, and I’ll be back to rights tomorrow.”

  “Shall I come with you?”

  Lady Flora started to rise, but Emma urged her back into her chair with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “No, I’m perfectly well, and you can’t leave now. Lord Lovell is sure to come to see you at the break.”

  That was all it took to coax Flora back into her chair. Emma whispered a quick goodbye to Lady Crosby, then hurried from their box into the hallway beyond.

  * * * *

  Samuel had nearly convinced himself she wasn’t going to come tonight.

  He hadn’t seen her since their kiss in Lady Tremaine’s rose garden. In that time, Samuel had gone walking in Hyde Park, escorted his mother and aunt on a shopping excursion in Bond Street, and spent a tedious two hours with Lovell at Tattersall’s, along with every other nobleman in London, all of them crowded shoulder to shoulder in the subscription rooms.