by Anna Bradley
Emma took a cautious sip. Port, and it didn’t taste poisoned.
She sat quietly, sipping her port and waiting for a barrage of accusations to flood from his lips. It was some moments before she realized he was waiting for her to speak.
But she didn’t know where to start. It was all so complicated, and confusing, and—
“I really am fond of Reynolds’s military portraits,” she blurted, then blinked.
Well, that was one way to begin.
“But they aren’t the reason you went to the Royal Academy that day.” Samuel’s face was expressionless, as if he’d never seen her before.
“No,” she admitted.
Nothing. Not a word from him, or even a twitch.
“Does everyone at Lymington House know the truth about me?” It wasn’t a question likely to endear her to Samuel, but Emma needed to know her situation if she was going to make any progress.
“No. Only my mother, and Lovell. That is, they know what I know. That you’re not Lady Emma Crosby, that you work with Lady Amanda Clifford, and that you were attempting to prove Lovell is a murderer.” Samuel shot her a dark look. “None of us know the whole truth. We don’t even know your real name.”
“My real name is Emma Downing. I’m not the Earl of Crosby’s daughter, or Lady Crosby’s granddaughter. I’m not a lady at all.” Emma took a desperate gulp of her port and coughed a little, though she couldn’t have said whether it was the wine or her words choking her.
Dear God, how she’d dreaded this moment, even before she’d fallen in love with Samuel. It took every bit of resolve she had to meet his gaze, but Emma forced herself to meet it, and hold it.
“Helena Reeves was never my lady’s maid. I know Helena and Madame Marchand because I spent a year at the Pink Pearl, as a courtesan. I was a courtesan.” Emma wasn’t sure why she felt the need to repeat it a second time, except once you decided to tell the truth, you told all of it, without flinching.
She was done pretending to be someone she wasn’t.
“I was born in Essex, near Chelmsford. I don’t remember either of my parents. I only ever had my grandmother. When she died, I went off to London to find work, as so many other young girls do. I’d been in the city for less than an hour when Madame Marchand plucked me up. She offered me accommodations, and pretty clothes, and made dozens of empty promises. I thought she did it out of kindness.” Emma gave a bitter laugh. “I soon found out otherwise. I was fourteen years old.”
Emma had dreaded speaking those words, but now they were out she found herself strangely tempted to tell him everything—she, who never talked about that time she’d spent pinned like a broken butterfly under Madame Marchand’s thumb. Not even to Helena.
But he didn’t care about her story. He wanted to know how Lord Lovell fit into this business, nothing more. “I left the Pink Pearl five years ago, and went to live with Lady Clifford.”
Samuel remained silent, but he tensed at mention of Lady Clifford. That was generally how people reacted when they heard her name. Not many people in London knew what Lady Clifford actually did, but most of them had heard of her.
“The other day, you asked me why Lady Clifford suspected Lord Lovell was responsible for your missing housemaids. I couldn’t tell you why at that time without implicating another person, a person I’d sworn to protect, but that…no longer matters.”
Emma thought of Caroline Francis, dying alone in a dark alley, and her stomach lurched. For all the lies Caroline had told, she hadn’t deserved such a fate. “We suspected Lord Lovell because Caroline Francis told Helena he seduced her, ruined her, and then abandoned her, and she accused him of nefarious behavior with Amy and Kitty as well.”
Samuel stared at her in astonishment. “What?”
“Here.” Emma reached into the pocket of her skirts, and pulled out the letter she’d asked Caroline to write. “It’s all there.”
He looked at the paper as if it were a viper about to strike, but he took the folded sheets, and leaned closer to the light of the fire to read them.
Emma waited, watching the expressions play over his face. Confusion, incredulity, and, by the time he’d read the last word, righteous fury. “These are lies. Every last word of it.”
“I know that now. I won’t pretend I didn’t believe Caroline’s accusations at first. I did. I had no reason to suspect she was lying, and this past year Lord Lovell has earned himself a reputation as a rake.”
“A rake, yes.” Samuel voice was icy. “Not a murderer.”
“Not a murderer, no. From the start your cousin didn’t appear to me to be a violent man.” Emma didn’t say she’d had enough experience with violent men to know one when she saw one. “But it was Flora who made me suspect Caroline was lying about Lord Lovell, though she didn’t know it.”
“Flora? How?”
“She told me Lord Lovell wasn’t sent down from Oxford until September of last year. Caroline claimed he returned to Lymington House in August, just before Amy Townshend went missing. Both things couldn’t be true, and Flora had no reason to lie.”
Samuel scanned the letter again, nodding slowly.
“Lord Lovell couldn’t be responsible for Amy’s disappearance if he wasn’t at Lymington House when she went missing, and I couldn’t quite credit the idea that Lymington House was cursed with two murderous scoundrels. Then I found out about Lord Lovell’s duel.”
“From Lady Flora?”
“Yes, on the day of Lady Tremaine’s picnic, when Flora and I were alone together in the parlor. After I learned of the duel, I suspected Lord Lovell was innocent, but I had to be sure. That was why I rushed off to the Pink Pearl that evening, to see Caroline, and ask her—”
“Ask her about the dates.”
“Yes. Whoever tried to implicate Lord Lovell for the crimes didn’t know about the duel, or else they would have known his prolonged recovery made it impossible for him to seduce Caroline, as she claimed he did. Caroline must not have known of the duel, either.”
“What of the second girl, Kitty Yardley?”
“It looks as though Lord Lovell was at Lymington House when Kitty disappeared, but there’s no reason to suspect he had anything to do with it, aside from Caroline Francis’s word, which has proved to be untrustworthy.”
“It sounds as if someone went to a great deal of trouble to make Lovell look guilty.”
“Yes, they did. My own belief is the villain murdered Amy Townshend in a fit of passion, then panicked, and started looking about for someone to blame.”
Samuel frowned. “Why should you think that?”
“Because Amy’s disappearance was so sudden. That implies it was an accident, rather than the result of careful planning.”
He considered this, and nodded.
“Then there’s the issue of the dates. The culprit must have known someone would realize Lord Lovell wasn’t at Lymington House when Amy disappeared, but he went ahead anyway, because he had to pin the blame on someone. I haven’t quite worked out why he thought he could get away pinning it on Lord Lovell, given the discrepancy in the dates, but your cousin had a reputation for wild, unpredictable behavior, so he was the ideal choice for a villain looking for a scapegoat.”
“I…hadn’t thought of it that way,” Samuel admitted reluctantly.
“No, you wouldn’t have, because you didn’t know your cousin had been implicated in the crimes at all. I believe Kitty Yardley was taken to reinforce the appearance of Lovell’s guilt. Caroline Francis as well, though something must have gone wrong there, or Caroline never would have turned up at the Pink Pearl.”
Samuel was quiet for some time, his gaze on the fire, then, “You…how did you put it? You took an interest in Lovell so you might get close to him, and thus prove his guilt?”
“His guilt, or his innocence, but yes, that was how it started.”
; Samuel kept his gaze on the fire. “Once you found out his heart belonged to Lady Flora, you transferred your false affections to me.”
Underneath the anger, Emma heard the uncertainty, the hurt in his voice, and she couldn’t bear it. “Do you remember the day we first kissed, in Lady Tremaine’s rose garden?”
Samuel let out a harsh laugh. “I remember. How could I forget it? Bravo, Miss Downing. It never even occurred to me you were pretending.”
“I wasn’t pretending. That kiss happened after I suspected Lord Lovell was innocent, Samuel.”
It wasn’t much, taken against the other lies she’d told. She didn’t expect Samuel to ever forgive her for them, but if only she could make him see she hadn’t been feigning her regard for him, hadn’t used him, perhaps it would help heal his heart.
“Are you trying to persuade me you kissed me because you wanted me?”
Emma closed her eyes. How could she make him understand she’d never pretended with him? With every other man, yes, but not with him. She’d lied because she hadn’t had any other choice, but their kiss in the garden, the moments of tenderness and passion that had followed—that had all been real. “I did want you. I still do.”
Samuel thrust the letter back into Emma’s hands. “I don’t believe you.”
Emma had known he wouldn’t, but she’d had to say it. She’d sworn to herself she would tell him the truth, no matter how much it hurt when he didn’t believe her.
And now she’d said what she needed to say. She’d failed, just as she’d known she would, but she was here, at Lymington House, and that meant there was still a chance she could find justice for Amy, Kitty, and Caroline.
She could do that much.
Emma set her glass down on a table, and rose to her feet. “Caroline Francis was murdered in London last night, my lord. Someone strangled her.”
Samuel went unnaturally still.
Emma walked to the door, but paused before leaving, her back to him. “I know you don’t want me here, but there’s a murderer running loose, and he’s somehow connected to Lymington House. I’m here to find out who he is. Once I do, I’ll go, and you’ll never have to see me again.”
“We don’t want your help, Miss Downing. I don’t see how any of this has anything to do with you anymore.”
Emma almost turned to face him again, but it was easier this way—easier not to look. “I have something of his, and he wants it back. Once he realizes that, he’ll make himself known. It’s only a matter of time.”
Silence. Emma waited, but when Samuel didn’t speak, she opened the library door and slipped out, closing it quietly behind her.
There was nothing more to say.
Chapter Nineteen
“You look like an angry bear this morning, Lymington.”
Samuel stopped in the doorway of the breakfast parlor, his bleary gaze falling on his cousin. “What the devil are you doing downstairs, Lovell? It’s not even noon yet.”
“And a good morning to you, too, cousin.” Lovell looked Samuel up and down, his brow furrowed. “Not a satisfactory hibernation last night, I take it?”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea what you’re talking about.” Samuel strode over to the sideboard, filled a plate, then joined Lovell at the table. He stared gloomily down at his eggs, then shoved them away. He snatched up his coffee instead, but before he could take a sip, he noticed Lovell staring at him from across the table. “What?”
“Nothing, just, ah…what’s happened there?” Lovell waved a hand at Samuel’s head.
Samuel raised a hand to his hair with a frown. “What do you mean? Nothing’s happened.”
“Oh, something’s happened, I assure you. Did Fletcher abandon you this morning?”
Samuel winced at mention of his valet. “No, I sent him away.” The last thing he’d wanted after a night spent tossing in his bed was to endure Fletcher’s fussing, but he could have dismissed the man with a bit more cordiality. It wasn’t his poor valet’s fault he hadn’t slept a wink last night.
Or any night, really, since he’d first laid eyes on Emma Downing.
“Well, that explains it.” Lovell took up his teacup, but instead of drinking from it he continued to stare at Samuel over the rim with a perplexed expression.
“For God’s sake, Lovell.” Samuel slammed his own cup down with more force than he’d intended. “Just say it, whatever it is, and get it over with, so we can move on.”
“Very well, then. Your hair is a trifle, er…disheveled.”
“Well, what of it?” Samuel grumbled. “What does it matter what my hair looks like?”
“I suppose it doesn’t matter, if you don’t mind that it looks like a small animal has been burrowing in it. And where’s your cravat?”
“My cravat? It’s right…” Samuel fumbled at his neck, but his fingertips met only bare skin. “Oh. I thought I’d…I suppose I forgot it.”
Lovell’s face softened. “Never mind. As you said, it hardly matters. I’ve an idea, Lymington. Let’s have a ride together this morning. A nice, long one. We haven’t ridden together in ages.”
“What about your leg?” Lovell had only been able to sit a horse for short distances since his injury.
“Better and better every day, and we can always return if it begins to ache. Come, Lymington, no one will wonder about your hair if you’ve been riding all day.”
Samuel returned Lovell’s cheeky smile with a half-hearted one of his own. He didn’t care for the idea of moping about Lymington House all day, wondering where Emma was, but he didn’t fancy a ride, either. He didn’t fancy anything. “I don’t think I’m up to it today, Lovell.”
Lovell’s smile vanished. He opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it again, hesitating.
Samuel sighed. “Go on.”
“This business with Lady Emma, Samuel. I think perhaps you should—”
“She’d not Lady Emma, Lovell. Just Emma, or rather, Miss Emma Downing.”
“Emma Downing is her real name?”
“Yes. At least, she says so.”
Lovell fiddled with the handle of his cup, a troubled look on his face. “Do you believe her?”
Yes. His answer was instant, surprising Samuel, but doubt followed right on its heels. “I don’t know what I believe anymore, Lovell. She’s lied to us all, over and over again—”
“Good morning, Lord Lymington, and Lord Lovell.”
Samuel’s head jerked to the door of the breakfast room. Lady Crosby was standing there, her lips tight with outrage, and beside her stood Emma, her face white.
It was clear they’d overheard every word.
Lovell shot to his feet, his cheeks flushing. “Lady Crosby, and Lady Em—that is, good morning to you both. May I help you each to a plate?”
Lady Crosby gave him an offended sniff. “No, thank you, Lord Lovell. We’re perfectly able to help ourselves. Come along, Emma.”
Emma trailed after Lady Crosby without a word. Samuel struggled not to follow her with his eyes, but it was no use. No matter how much he might wish it wasn’t so, when she was in the room, nothing else existed for him.
But she looked different this morning, unlike herself.
Her hair wasn’t disheveled, as his was, nor was a single item of her clothing missing. There was no indication at all she’d spent the night tossing in her bed as Samuel had, but she didn’t look anything like the London belle, the lovely, elegant creature who’d set the ton atwitter with her triumphant debut at Almack’s.
She was lovely still. She could never be anything but lovely to Samuel, despite his resentment toward her, but something had changed, something so subtle no one who hadn’t spent hours looking at her face would even notice it.
Samuel had spent hours looking at her face, but even he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. Her eyes were as bewitching a blu
e as they’d always been, her hair the same silky gold, her lips their usual tempting red, but her practiced charm and coquettish glances, that teasing quirk at the corners of her lips were all gone. It was as if her features had been scrubbed clean, or—
Yes, that was exactly it.
The truth struck Samuel like a blow to the chest. The hard, glittering masque meant to charm, entice, distract had been torn away.
She wasn’t Lady Emma Crosby anymore. She was his Emma.
That is, not his Emma, but…Emma Downing. Emma Downing was the lady who’d kissed him in Lady Tremaine’s rose garden. It had been Emma Downing who’d marched bravely into the Pink Pearl to save Helena Reeves, and Emma Downing who bore the evidence of a past tragedy etched into her hands.
Without realizing he did it, Samuel rose slowly to his feet. Every head turned in his direction, and a hush fell over the room. Samuel gathered his breath and opened his mouth to say…something, some words that would sooth this gnawing ache in his chest, that would miraculously put everything to rights again—
“Good morning!” Lady Flora burst into the breakfast room, looking like a sunbeam in her yellow gown, her face wreathed in smiles, but they vanished when she saw them all standing about like statues, glowering at each other.
“Flora, my dear girl, don’t stand in front of the…oh.” Lady Silvester came to an abrupt stop behind her granddaughter, peered around her shoulder and took in the scene with wide eyes. “Oh, dear. What’s happened? Have we run out of chocolate?”
Lady Lymington followed after Lady Silvester. “My goodness, is everyone up already, even Lord Lovell? How wonder…” She trailed off when she noticed the expressions on the assembled faces, and turned to her son. “Samuel?”
Another tortuous moment passed with the entire party frozen, but then Lovell managed to gather his wits. He rose to his feet, clearing his throat. “Good morning, Aunt, Lady Silvester, and Lady Flora.”
Lady Lymington hurried toward him. “Lancelot. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, yes, perfectly fine.” Lovell gave her a pained smile. “Lymington and I were just about to go for a ride—”