by Ella Edon
“No,” she said, shaking her head. She looked sad, but determined. She had a sweet chin, and she thrust it forward now. “No,” she said again. “That’s just the trouble.”
“What is?” He stared at her. “What trouble? I can remedy it— I’m sure I can!”
“No, you can’t,” she said softly. “If I let you go, the Duke of Elsmoor will hear of my plan, and then he’ll run. I can’t afford to let you out.”
“No!” Luke said instantly. “I promise, no! I would never tell anyone. I’d keep quiet about it, never mention it…I’ll just pretend I was at the club all afternoon, that I was asleep…”
“No,” she said, standing and getting to her feet. As he watched, horrified, she walked across the room to the door. “No. If I let you go, you’ll tell. You can promise as much as you wish to…why should I believe it’s true?”
“No!” Luke called, desperately. “Emilia! No!”
But she was already gone, slamming the door behind her.
Luke sat down on the settle across from the fire. He closed his eyes. He had told her who he was, and after some time, she had finally come around to believing him. But what could he do now?
He was still stuck here, and he still had no chance of getting out.
Standing up, he went to the fire and stared into it. The flames twined and twisted, making him think of some intricate scroll of Chinese letters. He had seen such, in the home of Lord Cawley, who had a collection even His Highness was intrigued by. He wondered, fleetingly, if Emilia liked such things.
“Bah,” he sighed, poking at the ashes with the brass poker. He shouldn’t care what she felt, or what she thought. He should be breaking out through the window by now, yelling his head off, making somebody let him out of here.
Why wasn’t he?
He sat down on the seat beside the fire, with a strange mix of emotions stirring within him. He should hate her, by rights – she had tricked him, imprisoned him, jeopardized the very reason he was here in London! But, oddly, he didn’t.
Poor girl.
She was mad, perhaps, but he couldn’t doubt her heart. She clearly believed in whatever she was trying to do. If she was mad, she was also far from foolish. She was right—she had no reason to trust him. For all she knew, he would renounce her, and her father, in the House of Lords tomorrow. If he were a captor, he wouldn’t have risked it.
He had only one choice, then – he had to make her trust him. But how?
“What would make somebody like her, trust someone like me?” he asked himself.
He had no idea, but he was going to try and find out.
He heard footsteps at the door, and tensed. Just another servant, on some business? Maybe Emilia, coming back to finish him off? Or her father?
The key jangled in the lock, making his heart soar. The door opened.
“Mistress Emilia said I should fetch the tea,” the maid said. “And to ask you if you like sea bass.”
“Sea bass?” Luke stared at her. “Um, yes. I do,” he added, deciding that, if his situation was irredeemable, he might as well have a nice supper.
“Very good, sir,” the maid said. An idea struck him.
“Um, June…?” he began, relieved that he recalled her name. Names always helped, or so Uncle Ranvier always recommended, making people trust you in business deals.
The woman stared at him. She looked almost frightened, but she nodded. “Yes, sir?”
“The mistress,” he said quickly. “Have you worked for her long? Since she was a girl?”
“Um, about six years, sir,” she said, frowning at him. “I’ve known her since she was seventeen.”
“I see,” he nodded swiftly. “And, um, she’s a nice employer? Kind? Fair?”
“She’s the sweetest and best employer I could imagine,” the woman said staunchly. She lifted the tray and walked towards the door, still talking. “Fair, and kind, and considerate. I wouldn’t betray her, or change my employ, not for anything or anybody.” She glared at him.
“Fine, fine,” Luke said desperately. “Listen…I’m in a difficult situation. What do you think would make her let me out of here? I’ll try anything,” he added.
The maid looked at him stonily. “That’s between you and the mistress.”
Then she opened the door and pushed the trolley through.
“Wait!” Luke called.
For the second time that day, the door slammed in his face. He stood where he was, facing the white-painted carvings. He felt, for the first time, utter defeat.
“Maybe she’ll find my uncle,” he said slowly. “At least she knows who I am. That’s better.”
It was a start, at least, and all he could do, now, was to hope.
He sat down on the hearth-rug and watched the twisting strands of flame, wondering, briefly, where Emilia was, and what she was doing right now.
Chapter Four
Gathering the Pieces
“June?” Emilia asked, sitting at her dressing-table. June had come in with tea on a tray, ready to help her dress for the evening’s party. She felt distracted and troubled. What had she done? If she’d captured the wrong man, what was she going to do?
How am I ever going to know what’s going on?
“Milady?” June frowned.
“How is the duke?”
“Mighty talkative,” June said, sounding disapproving. “He were asking questions.”
“Questions?” Emilia felt her tummy twist with a mix of surprise and interest. She fought it down crossly. She shouldn’t care whether or not he was interested in her. “What sort of questions?”
“Just questions,” June replied evasively.
Emilia frowned up at her. June was standing with her boxwood hairbrush, ready to start combing Emilia’s hair. She looked uncomfortable.
“June…You can tell me,” Emilia said grimly. “If he thinks I’m stark insane, I can bear it.”
“Mad?” June looked shocked. “No, milady. He could never think that. An’ if he did? I’d box his ears, I would!”
Emilia grinned. “I’m very lucky to have you, June.”
June went pink, her narrow face lighting with the praise. “Oh, milady.”
“It’s true,” Emilia insisted. “Now, I propose to forget all about our prisoner for a while. I am going to a whist-party with my cousins. Do you think the white dress? Or the patterned?”
“The pattern is very fine,” June said, frowning. “But white is also very becoming, with your hair.”
“Thank you,” Emilia nodded. “Well, then, I shall take your advice – the white silk. And I’ll wear the pearls with it, I think? If you can take them out for me?”
“Yes, milady…”
June was already in the boudoir, finding the dress and casket where she kept her precious accessories.
In the ensuing silence, Emilia found herself starting to panic. If she’d made a mistake of the sort of magnitude she thought she had, what was she going to do? How would she live down the disgrace, if she’d captured the wrong man! Her father would be so upset!
Worse, if word got out about what she’d done, she’d be the disgrace of society! And if people knew how desperately they’d acted, the duke – the right one – would either skip out of town or use the whole thing as an excuse to never pay.
Why did I do this? She wanted to shout out. Why did I think to take matters into my own hands? What am I going to do to fix it?
“Stop it, Emilia,” she whispered crossly. “You are the daughter of Barton Herston. You are a strong woman.”
Emilia frowned as she studied her own face in the mirror. She was a little damp-eyed still, a result of the earlier tears. She dabbed at them crossly with a kerchief. She shouldn’t care about Lord Preston, or whatever his name was! It was bad enough that her father was suffering, without having him to make her cry!
“The dress and pearls, milady,” June said, reappearing at the door. “And your hair?”
“I thought I’d try something like Lady Em
ming’s hair was last party,” Emilia said, frowning – she was glad to be able to escape into the meaningless complexities of fashion for a while. “She had ringlets, up to here, and then the front part was drawn back, in a sort of bun…”
When June had finished dressing her, Emilia slipped quickly upstairs. She had to tell her father what had happened! He could help! If he just went upstairs and had a look at their captive – he wouldn’t have to do anything, just peer through the keyhole – he could confirm whether or not this was all an elaborate evasion.
She stood at the door of his bedroom. It was half open, the butler having just slipped quietly out. She looked down at her father, where he lay in bed.
Asleep, the sheets drawn up to his chin, the earl was breathing deeply, and looked so defenseless, that Emilia felt her heart almost stop.
“Papa?” she whispered.
He sighed and rolled onto one side. Emilia held her breath. His face was ash-pale. She didn’t want to risk waking him up.
She watched him for a while, her heart filled with a mixture of tenderness and sorrow. How was it that such a fearsome, ruthless man could seem so utterly helpless? Asleep, he looked as gentle as she knew him to be.
“You’re not a bad man, Father.”
She felt her throat tighten up. Her father was the best person she knew! He was always gentle and understanding with her, and never pushed her into anything. He was kind and thoughtful and generous to everyone. He always threw a ball for the servants at the beginning of the Season, rewarded their service – especially at Christmastide – and donated to the poor. He was good.
“And yet, you’re mixed up in all sorts of murky measures.”
She sighed. She had never wanted to know details of her father’s business life. Their accountant, Mr. Medford, was in charge of that. She’d heard enough, on chance occasions when she’d walked past the drawing-room late at night, to know that he and his friends supported smuggled whiskey, tobacco, and cotton.
Her father groaned and shifted in his bed, his face scrunching in pain. Emilia tensed. She really should wake him up and tell him what had happened, to come clean about what she’d done.
How can I? If he gets any shock, it might kill him, she thought.
The doctor had already been quite firm about it.
“No,” she whispered to herself.
She wasn’t going to risk it. She was going to attend the do, then she was going to come home and set Luke free.
All I need is something awful to threaten him with, should he ever dare to tell, she reasoned.
Blackmail wasn’t something she wanted to start doing, but what choice did she have?
Feeling herself tense with resolve, she walked down the hallway, to the front door.
The coach was waiting outside to take her to Hartfield Park, the holiday residence of her cousin, Hestony, and her family. Aunt Melior – Hestony’s mama – was Emilia’s mother’s cousin, not actually an aunt, but she was the closest living relative of Mama’s left alive.
“If anybody can help me, it’s Hestony,” she assured herself.
Emilia watched the London streets fly past as the coach rattled over the cobbles. They went around the newly opened park, and she stared out the window, watching the finely-dressed ladies and elegantly-clad men walking in the dusky evening.
“I don’t see why this evening shouldn’t be like any other,” she told herself firmly.
So far, nobody knew about her dilemma. With some planning, they never would.
“The person I need is Merrill,” she mused, hoping that she, too, would be in attendance that evening.
As luck would have it, Hestony was seated at a card-table with her when Emilia came in. She stared, feeling her heart flutter with a mix of anticipation and nervousness. Hestony, her honey-blonde hair tied back from her face with a silk riband, ran to her.
“Emilia!” she said, clasping her hands and kissing her cousin’s cheek, fondly. “Well! This is a pleasure.”
“It’s good to see you, cousin,” Emilia said truly. She squeezed her hands, breathing the sweet scent of Hestony’s perfume. It was always the same, an essence of irises and daffodil, and it was reassuring in this moment to find that some things, at least, hadn’t changed.
“We are having quite a diverting evening!” Hestony began warmly. “I do wish Uncle Barton was here, though…I need his advice: he’s such a grand one for cards.”
Yes, he is, Emilia thought grimly. It was a pity her father wasn’t always as lucky as he thought he would be. He had a real talent for cards, but never knew when to stop. The thought made her feel uneasy.
“He’s not feeling well,” she admitted.
“Oh! I am sorry to hear that. If we can be of any help…? Please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you,” Emilia said in a small voice. “I shall.”
She drew out her seat – a silk one with a carved back and soft cushions, located directly across from her cousin. That put her beside the person she’d been hoping to see.
Merrill Harlan, daughter of the Baron Lewes, was a fine-looking woman with masses of spice-red hair. She was also one of the biggest tale-tellers in all of London. She beamed at Emilia, showing dimples and red lips. She was bold, brash, competitive. She also made it a point to know everyone’s business, intimately.
“Emmie!” she said, using a nickname Emilia didn’t like. Emilia ignored it stoically. “Here you are! Look what a fine hand I was dealt! I declare, I shall beat Hestony this night.”
Hestony just smiled. Merrill was terribly competitive. Emilia regarded the cards, mentally adding up the points. Merrill was, unfortunately, correct.
She will crow terribly when she wins.
“I declare. I’m already properly cornered,” Hestony sighed. She looked through her cards, flipping one of little value onto the pile. Her silky dress – white muslin, elegantly fitted and sewn with little silvery threads – caught the candles and shimmered in the light of the chandelier.
Merrill grinned toothily and dropped an ace onto the pile.
“I think you might as well give up,” she said meaningfully.
“Defeat, defeat!” Hestony said, throwing down her cards dramatically, though she still laughed. She smiled at Emilia. “You see?” she said. “I told you.” Then, always an impeccable host, she stood.
“Since you just got here, this is your turn, cousin,” she said to Emilia. “I will go and see what Mama is doing.”
Emilia couldn’t believe her luck. Her cousin walked across the room to join her mother, leaving her alone with Merrill.
“Merrill,” she asked, as the other girl dealt the cards. “Do you know Luke Preston?”
“I reckon I do. Why? Set your cap at him?” She beamed, raising her brow wickedly.
“No,” Emilia said, shocked. How could she ask that, so baldly?
“I see,” Merrill said, turning back to her cards. “What do you want to know about him?” Her voice was low, conspiratorial.
“Well, I didn’t even know he was available.”
“Oh, yes,” Merrill said, leaning forward over the table. “Most eligible. And strangely aloof from everybody.” She grinned. “I’ve heard that…”
Here we go, Emilia thought. She almost felt sorry. Gossip was the last thing she countenanced. But she had to find out something! If she was going to blackmail Luke – and she really had no idea how to start – Merrill would be in possession of exactly the information she needed.
“What do you know?” she asked softly.
“Plenty!” Merrill chuckled. “Now, should we play while we talk? I have a mind to beat you, too. I think I’m onto a good thing, looking at this hand.”
“As you wish,” Emilia shrugged. She put down a card randomly. She’d always disliked cards.
Probably because of watching Father when I was a girl.
Merrill grinned, breaking in on her thoughts. “Did you really want to do that?” she asked.
Emilia just shrugged. “
Tell me what you know.”
“I hear,” Merrill whispered, looking round the room to make sure they weren’t under surveillance, “that he’s so aloof because his uncle rules him.”
“His uncle?” Emilia frowned. He had mentioned an uncle.
“Yes. Ranvier Ellington, Baron Carrisbrooke,” she said. Her eyes darted round the tables behind them again. “Some people think that his uncle holds the purse strings…that he’s blackmailing him into doing his illicit dealings – something about slaves. Why else would such an eligible man spend so long at the estate of his aging uncle, pray tell me...? Unless he’s overly friendly with one of his uncle’s own servants, that is.”