Always the Mistress (Never the Bride Book 11)

by Emily E K Murdoch

  The two sisters were now glaring at each other, and Emma wondered whether she could simply slip away and leave them to their debate.

  It was on the tip of her tongue, and she was careful not to allow the words to fall, that they were not really that different. She sold herself for money, and Miss Isabella Lymington sold herself for matrimony––but at least Emma was being honest about it!

  On another day, in another life perhaps, she would have spoken. But not today. Not with the heavy reminder that her entire wealth was secured over a twice-stolen item.

  “You must excuse me, Miss Lymington, Miss Olivia,” she said quietly instead, and stepping off the pavement and around them, continued on her walk home.

  As Emma reached her rooms, she felt a sense of relief rarely encountered in her mediocre lodgings. At least she could hide there. After stepping into the hallway, she noticed paper had been pinned to her door. Emma stepped forward to examine it, and her heart stopped.

  The landlord of number –, North Buildings, Gracechurch Street, gives notice to the occupant of the downstairs rooms, Miss E. Tilbury, that due to her wanton and disgraceful behavior she is no longer welcome here. Two weeks’ notice are hereby given, and any possessions left in said rooms will be disposed of.

  It was signed with the building manager’s scrawl.

  Emma swallowed, attempting to keep calm. It appeared that, finally, Mr. Jenkins had discovered her past––and he could not have made it more clear that she was no longer welcome.

  … due to her wanton and disgraceful behavior…

  Pulling the paper down with one hand, she turned the handle with the other, stepped inside, closed the door, and leaned against it with a sigh.

  New rooms to rent, and in London, at the beginning of the Season. It was going to be difficult. She had been fortunate to secure these, and now she would have to explain why she was leaving.

  If she could find somewhere within two weeks.

  Why did life have to be so hard? The hand she had been dealt had hardly been a fair one, and from the very beginning, she had been forced to fight for survival, for the opportunities simply handed to others.

  Well, there was nothing Emma could do about it. Dropping her reticule upon the bed, she pulled one of her trunks from underneath to begin packing her few belongings.

  The movement allowed a note, hitherto unnoticed, to drop down to the floor.

  Emma’s breathing stopped, and she had to remind herself to take another breath. She knew that hand intimately; the number of times she had read that note, attempted to find new meanings, to understand the writer…

  Emma,

  I cannot wait––but I must. You promised to give your answer as soon as you could, and I have tried to be patient. I love you. Please inform me the moment you have made a decision about whether I can make you happy. Whether you will be my wife.

  Until then, and after then, I will remain your affectionate,

  Fitz

  Emma sat on the edge of the bed and tried not to cry.

  Fitz. She loved him. She had been unsure until she watched his heart break when she had spoken so harshly to him. But she had to. She had no choice. She had to protect him, and though it pained her to be apart, she could not return to him.

  She could not give him children, nor the respectability he deserved. All that was left for her was to find some rooms somewhere, quiet, and live out the rest of her life.

  A knock on the door roused a wild thought––it was Fitz, she knew it was! Somehow her longing for him had reached him, and he was right there behind––

  Emma’s face fell as she opened the door and saw standing there…the Duke of Larnwick?

  Was it…was it possible that he had reconsidered her approach all those weeks ago, at the card party of Mrs. Marnion? Did he wish to…well. Engage her services?

  “Not today,” said the duke wryly with a smile, as though able to read her thoughts. “And probably not ever. I have just discovered I am, technically, your landlord.”

  Emma blinked. Only when he tapped the doorframe did comprehension dawn. “You––you own North Buildings?”

  Larnwick nodded. “And in that capacity, I have come to apologize. My manager should not have tried to evict you. It was badly done.”

  Emma smiled sadly. “He is not the only one who wishes me gone. It seems to be…well, a common theme of my life at the moment.”

  She would not think of him. Fitz was not going to enter her mind.

  Larnwick raised an eyebrow. “Really? How interesting. That is not what I have heard.”

  His words seemed perfectly designed to intrigue her. Both he and Fitz were friends with Marnmouth, after all. Was it possible…?

  “Who have you heard that from?”

  “Ah, I could not possibly say,” said Larnwick easily. “All I can say is that you have made a mistake, Miss Tilbury, in my opinion. Yes, a mistake.”

  “Please, tell me,” said Emma hastily. “You must––”

  “You must know who I speak of,” the duke said. He leaned against the doorframe and shook his head. “You do not need me to tell you. If you wish to change your mind, I suggest you speak with him directly.”

  Emma took a deep breath to settle her nerves. Why did all the gentlemen in London seek to plague her?

  “That is all I came to say––nay, more than I intended,” said Larnwick, straightening and placing a top hat upon his head. “I must go, I have business I cannot, despite wishing it, avoid. Good day to you, Miss Tilbury.”

  He was gone, and Emma closed the door behind him but did not move.

  Mistakes. She had certainly made a few of those in her life, but of all of them, only one stood out.

  Losing Fitz.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Braedon had never noticed it before. Framed in a quiet corner of the study in his London townhouse, he had always walked past it without noticing.

  Until today. The slow wintery sunlight had caught the frame at a strange angle, dazzling him as he sat at his desk, and he had been unable to ignore it.

  A family tree. Carefully illustrated with names, dates, and a broad oak tree linking them together. It was a beautiful piece of art, slightly faded, in an old ornate frame.

  Braedon traced the line with his finger. There were the names he had grown up with: his mother and father. The names he vaguely remembered: his grandfather, an uncle who had come to a bad end, though for the life of him, he could not recall how.

  Aunts, great-uncles, a great-great-grandfather also called Abraham. And there, at the top. Him. His name, and space for a wife and little leaves for their supposed children.

  Braedon sighed. His name, the family name of Braedon, was not that honorable beyond the viscountcy which had apparently been purchased generations ago. They had gained no notability on the battlefield, or parliament, or the sciences, or the church.

  They were just a quiet family who got on with life. Raising sons and passing on the name, one after another, all the way down to him.

  He could not remember anyone in the family who had aspired to greatness, and they were not impressive.

  Braedon. It was his, and he liked it, he supposed. The idea of the Braedon name ending with him was simply not the end of the world. He couldn’t see the harm in it. There were plenty of other excellent names, excellent men.

  The world would not fall apart without him in it.

  He had never been able to articulate this, even as these rapid thoughts passed through his mind, and he had done an even worse job in his attempt to explain it to Emma.

  “Fitz––Braedon…I am barren. I have known it for a long time, and while that has been a blessing as a mistress, it would be terrible as a bride! I cannot give you any children. Let alone sons to carry on the family name. If…if we married, then you would be the last Viscount Braedon.”

  “I do not care.”

  Braedon’s hand dropped to his side as he sighed. Dust floated up from the frame. How he wished he had been
able to explain it better, give her an understanding of just how much he cared for her––but she had been just as sure of her own opinion.

  A smile drifted over his face. Emma. She was such a strong woman. She was bolder than he was, braver. She matched him perfectly. Yet they were apart.

  Braedon stood, unable to move, thoughts tangled. Two days ago, he had almost gone to her rooms. His desire to see her, his determination to ask her to stay in the country, even if she did not wish to stay with him, had almost overwhelmed him.

  He had been strong. He had not gone that day.

  He had gone the day after. Yesterday he had battled rain and gray, heavy skies, arguing with himself silently with every step he had taken.

  It had felt imposing, rude, even, turning up at her rooms and expecting her to listen, to acquiesce to his request. Somehow it felt a violation of her trust to just turn up outside her home. She deserved a place of safety, where she could feel protected.

  Braedon had needed to see her, dragged closer by an invisible string he simply could not ignore. And so he had gone to her rooms.

  It had been no use. Braedon closed his eyes as he stood in his study, the pain of what he had found there too great.

  They had been empty. The door had been open, and he had stepped inside. The room was bare. A little furniture, old and in need of repair. The small bed had been made, and not a single thing had been left there.

  She had gone. It was almost like she had never been there at all.

  Emma had been as good as her word and gone to the Continent.

  Braedon had leaned against the door frame, physical pain in his heart making it impossible for him to move. It was too late.

  Before he could do anything to make her reconsider, she had disappeared, and he had no idea where. The building’s manager had no idea. The other residents had looked disapproving, evidently of the opinion that gentlemen should not be asking questions about young ladies.

  Braedon blinked, the family tree swimming back into focus. The family tree would never be extended. If he had married Emma, they would have had no children.

  Now he could not have her, and he would never marry.

  The gong echoed below.

  “Luncheon is served,” came the voice of his butler.

  Braedon blinked. Luncheon? But he had not even had breakfast yet. Was it really that late?

  A glance at his pocket watch told him it was precisely one o’clock. Fisher was on time, but Braedon could not remember the last time he had eaten. His stomach growled.

  When he stepped into the dining room, he had to blink to ensure what he was seeing was really there. The table was almost groaning with the sheer amount of food––the spread consisted of all his favorites and even a few dishes that he had never tried before.

  He could not help but smile. How many days had it been since his new cook had joined him––three? Four? Her attempts to impress were growing with each successive day, enough to force guilt into his heart as he sat down.

  He had neglected his duties. Emma had utterly absorbed his every waking moment, but he was the master of several servants, and he could no longer ignore his duties to them.

  Braedon started piling up his plate, his stomach demanding he take a little of everything. He should have welcomed her. Instead, he had just left his butler to do it.

  He needed, in Marnmouth’s own words a few months ago, to get a grip.

  “Fisher,” he said quietly.

  The servant appeared at his side. “My lord?”

  “Please, would you ask the cook, Mrs.…what is her name?”

  “Sibley, your lordship,” said the butler.

  “Yes, Mrs. Sibley,” Braedon continued. “Please would you ask the cook, Mrs. Sibley, to come up and see me?”

  There was silence, and as Braedon looked at the butler, he saw a raised eyebrow and quizzical expression. “Now? Here?”

  Braedon took a bite of the cold chicken and ham pie and closed his eyes. “Yes. Now. Immediately.”

  “In the dining room?”

  It was not often Braedon affixed his butler with a stern look. “I think I was perfectly clear, Fisher.”

  It was a few minutes later that the cook was ushered into the room by a footman, and Braedon had already cleared his plate and started to pile it up again.

  Mrs. Sibley looked terrified. Braedon realized with a sudden rush of guilt that his rather unorthodox request had not only confused his butler but given his new cook the impression she was about to be let go from her place.

  “Mrs. Sibley,” he said hastily.

  “Y’lordship,” Mrs. Sibley said, dropping into a curtsey, her eyes downcast.

  At last, he could put a little joy into someone’s life today. “I wanted to ask you to come, Mrs. Sibley, to thank you for such a good job you are doing. This food is delicious, and I am very grateful for your services.”

  Instant relief poured down her face. “Wh-I beg your pardon?”

  Braedon nodded. “You have cooked some very difficult meals, and they have all been splendid, and I have been very impressed with your luncheons. As you are new here to the Braedon household, I wanted to ensure you received my thanks.”

  It was a little formal, true, but he felt she deserved the praise, and so why not give it? He was not a harsh master; at least he did not consider himself so.

  Mrs. Sibley had flushed cheeks and a slightly dazed expression. “Thank––thank you so much, y’lordship! I am too grateful to be here, you never know with a new kitchen what it’ll be like, and I was worried because I had never cooked for a titled gentleman like yourself…”

  Her voice continued, and Braedon allowed it to wash over him. It was pleasant to make someone smile, at any rate. He was not going to be happy, not today. But Mrs. Sibley could be.

  Besides, if she kept cooking like this, perhaps he could eat away the pain.

  “––get by, my sister and I, hard work always gets you by,” Mrs. Sibley continued, “but with Dorothy being so unwell, she’s had to take in a lodger, which is no small commitment as I am sure y’lordship can understand––but Miss Tilbury paid her rent ahead of time which is good of her, so I said to Dorothy––”

  Braedon looked up sharply. “Wait––Miss Tilbury?”

  The cook had no idea of the importance of what she had said. His heart was quickening, fluttering painfully, and he dropped his knife and fork to the table with a clatter.

  Mrs. Sibley was nodding. “Oh, yes, she’s a real lady, and having her as a lodger has made a real difference to me and my sister. I suppose not every lodger would…”

  While her tongue continued, Braedon tried to take in this advantageous information.

  Emma was lodging with…with his cook’s sister?

  It was madness, beyond coincidence––but London only had so many rooms to rent. Evidently, she had looked for somewhere clean, with a lady present, somewhere she could disappear…

  But this made no sense!

  “B-But I was––I was told…” Braedon swallowed. It would not do for him to utterly lose the power of speech before his own cook! “I was under the impression that Miss Tilbury had gone to the Continent!”

  “Yes, y’lordhsip, I think that was her intention, but I think she did not quite have the funds to do so, if you catch my drift. Instead, she’s living quietly with us.”

  Braedon did not realize he had risen to his feet until his napkin fell to the floor. “Your sister’s address, Mrs. Sibley.”

  The cook stared in utter confusion. “My lord! You don’t mean to say you wish to visit my sister?”

  “The address!”

  Braedon could see she was starting to have second thoughts after all.

  “But…well, if that is what you want, though I do not know what Dorothy will think, having a viscount visit her!” spluttered Mrs. Sibley. “Number fourteen, Fenchurch Street, but—”

  Braedon stormed out of the room with only one thought on his mind.

  Emma. She was no
t hundreds of miles away, on the Continent, in a country where he could not find her––she was only a few streets away!

  Fenchurch Street––he knew that street.

  He had no idea what he would say, but he had to see her.

  Braedon did not take a coat as he rushed out of his front door, despite the chilly wind. He was warmed instead by the certain knowledge Emma was close. Every step took him closer. Faces blurred as he rushed past them. There was not a single person that he wanted to see, except Emma.

  “Braedon!”

  A hand caught him, and Braedon looked angrily at the person who had delayed him from his happiness. But it was not one gentleman. Chester and Mercia were grinning, but Chester’s face fell as he saw Braedon’s expression.

  “Dear God, man, what has happened?”

  Braedon was not even sure whether he could explain. “I need to––I have to go to…she is waiting for me!”

  Chester smiled and gave him a gentle nod. “Well then, man, go to her!”

  Braedon nodded and tore off. He was just one street away––just a few doors. What number had Mrs. Sibley said?

  He almost fell against the door of number fourteen in his exertion, and only when he had taken a few deep, calming breaths did he knock.

  “Dorothy!” he shouted, unable to recall whether Mrs. Sibley had mentioned her sister’s surname. “Dorothy, are you there!”

  Braedon almost fell into the house when the door was opened by a woman who was, besides a few additional silver hairs, the spitting image of his cook.

  “Lord bless me, what is it?” she said, clearly shocked. “Is it Martha? Has something happened to Martha?”

  Braedon blinked. Martha? Who in God’s name was––Mrs. Sibley probably had a first name. “Miss Tilbury,” he gasped. “I must speak with Miss Tilbury.”

  Dorothy frowned. “I do not allow gentleman callers.”

  Braedon almost laughed. It was all too ridiculous! “I am Viscount Braedon, your sister’s master, and I must see Miss Tilbury at once!”

  Perhaps due to the commotion he was making, a figure appeared in the hallway.

  “What is all the fuss about, Miss…” Emma Tilbury stared at Braedon.