Читать книгу If His Kiss Is Wicked - Jo Goodman - Страница 7

“You have a visitor.”

Restell Gardner made no response to this announcement. He remained as stone in his bed, refusing to surrender to a single twitch that would indicate that he was not deeply asleep.

“It is no good, sir,” Hobbes said as he poured water into the washbasin. “You have warned me of this very trick yourself and begged me not to be fooled by it. So we are at odds, you see, for I am armed with the knowledge of your pretense and must act accordingly, while you will continue to lie abed and favor me with an abrupt snore to put me off. When that does not have the desired effect, you will roll to your other side and compel me to hobble around the bed to address you directly. You will, of course, continue to ignore me, forcing me to take measures that may well relieve me of my employment. You will understand, sir, that such an outcome is hardly in keeping with your promise to treat me fairly.”

At his first opportunity to be heard, Restell offered a weary observation. “Is it your plan, Hobbes, to speak at length on this matter?”

“Yes, sir.”

Restell did not open an eye. “I don’t snore.”

“I can’t say that I know if you do or don’t, Mr. Gardner, only that you’d pretend to.”

“Where did I find you, Sergeant Hobbes?”

“In the mews, sir, just behind the Blue Ruination, drinking bad gin and bemoaning the loss of my leg.”

“I don’t suppose you miss the mews.”

“No, sir. Nor the gin. Still miss my leg, though this peg has its uses right enough.”

Restell rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes. When his hand fell away, he brought Hobbes into focus. The former regiment man was standing at his bedside—towering, really—with the water pitcher poised at a threatening angle. Restell waved him off. “You didn’t mention water torture. I’m thoroughly awake, thank you very much.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

“I was being sardonic.”

“So was I.”

Grinning, Restell pushed himself upright, stuffed a pillow under the small of his back, and leaned against the bed head. He ran one hand through his pale, sun-bleached helmet of hair, leaving it furrowed and in perfect disarray. “What was the hour when I returned?”

“Gone three. It was a late night for you, sir.”

Restell needed no reminder. It had been an age since he’d trolled the gaming hells. He could not recall that he had ever been made so weary by it. “And the hour now?”

“Not yet eight o’clock.”

“The hell you say. And I have a visitor?” He had to restrain himself from pulling the covers over his head. “God save me, it is not my mother, is it?”

“No, sir. Nor any other of your family.” Hobbes skirted the bed and went to the washbasin, his limp hardly noticeable this morning. “I understand she is female, though.”

“That alone does not account for the hour of her visit. Who is she?”

“She wouldn’t say. Mr. Nelson asked her for her card, but she declined to give one.”

“Curious.”

Hobbes nodded. “I thought the very same.” He set towels to warm at the fireplace, then began whipping lather in a cup for his employer’s morning shave and ablutions. “Do you wish to bathe?”

“Above everything. I reek of the gaming hells.”

Hobbes made no comment about this last, though it was true enough. “I’ll see to it.” He set the lathering cup down and crossed the room to ring for assistance. “Will you break your fast here or in the morning room?”

“Here.” Restell swept back the covers and threw his legs over the side of the bed. He sat there for several moments, head in his hands as though to steady it, then kicked his slippers aside in favor of padding barefoot across the cold floor to the dressing room. “Do you think she’ll wait?” he called to Hobbes.

“I couldn’t say, sir.” He picked up the warm towels and carried them to Restell. “Does it matter?”

“She is an inconvenient female. I should like the opportunity to tell her so.”

“Do you think she doesn’t know? They frequently do, sir.”

“Then they should try harder to resist their nature,” Restell said sourly. “Have you a headache powder, Hobbes? Satan’s minions are doing a gleeful dance inside my skull.”

Hobbes made sympathetic noises. “Right away.”

Restell felt marginally better after he bathed and shaved. He was returned to human form by the time Hobbes tied his stock, brushed his jacket, and the headache powder began to work. Following a leisurely breakfast and perusal of the morning paper, he pronounced himself prepared well enough to receive his visitor in the library.

He had only just begun to seat himself in the wing chair by the fireplace when Nelson announced her. It was all rather awkwardly done—the announcement because Nelson had no name for their visitor, and Restell’s rise from the chair because he unfolded in a manner reminiscent of a jack-in-the-box. Restell noted that the butler quickly exited the room, but not so fast that he missed Nelson’s lips begin to twitch.

There was no reaction from his visitor, at least none that Restell could observe. Her features were obscured by a gauzy veil secured to the brim of a leghorn bonnet. He wondered at the affectation. Clearly she was in high mourning, making it known by choosing black as the single color to drape her slim figure, but the veil was not at all in the usual mode. Did she wear it all the time? he wondered, or had she chosen it purposely for this morning call?

“Have you been offered refreshment?” he asked. Although he had yet to hear her speak, he had it in his mind that she was a woman of no more than middling years. There was no discernible hesitation in her step, and her carriage was correct but not rigid. She was not compensating for some frailty. “Tea, perhaps?”

She shook her head. The veil rippled with the movement but remained in place. She held her reticule in front of her, at the level of her waist, and made no move to set it aside.

Restell understood why Nelson had not refused her entry, even at the inopportune timing of her arrival. She was preternaturally calm, possessed of a resigned bearing and purpose that made one suppose she would not be easily turned from it.

“Will you be seated?” asked Restell.

“I have not decided.”

“You have not decided if you will sit?”

“I have not decided if I will stay.”

Restell shrugged. “Then you will not object if I attend to my correspondence. You may stand or sit, stay or go, as the mood is upon you.” He gave her no further attention but walked to his desk and began examining the post that had arrived the previous day. He chose a letter with the recognizable seal of the Earl of Ferrin and hitched one hip on the edge of the desk as he opened it. He was peripherally aware of his visitor’s study, but he ignored it in favor of the missive from his stepbrother.

He read through the greeting and far enough beyond to be assured of the good health of everyone in Ferrin’s household before the visitor interrupted him.

“I did not think you would be so young,” she said.

“I am six and twenty. That is not the age you had in mind, I collect.”

She did not answer this directly. “You cannot have the breadth of experience I am seeking.”

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Restell said. He let Ferrin’s letter dangle between his fingers rather than set it aside. It was a subtle signal that he would remain engaged only as long as she did. “I know nothing at all about what experience you require. Perhaps if you would begin with how you came to be here.”

She hesitated, then asked, “You don’t want to know my name?”

“Would it mean anything to me?”

“No.”

“Then it’s not important. You know mine. That seems to be the salient point.”

“I learned about you from my physician.”

Restell folded Ferrin’s correspondence as he considered this information. He tapped one corner of the letter against his knee. “Might I know his name?”

“Bettany. Dr. William Bettany.”

Restell did not reveal whether or not he was acquainted with the doctor. “And what did Dr. Bettany tell you about me?”

“Precious little.” Making her decision, she backed into the chair behind her and sat down abruptly. The reticule remained clutched in her gloved hands. “That is, he was not speaking of you to me. I overheard some of what he told my…what he told someone else.”

“Might I know that name?” Her pause let him know she suspected he might have some familiarity with that person. He let it pass and went to the heart of the matter. “What manner of things did you overhear?”

“The doctor seemed to think that you had certain peculiar talents that might be helpful to someone in my situation.”

“Peculiar talents,” Restell repeated. “It’s an intriguing description. What do you suppose he meant by it?”

“He was speaking of protection. It’s a service you offer, I believe.”

“Are you quite sure that you comprehended the context. At the risk of offending you, you should know that when a gentleman places a woman under his protection it generally means—”

“He is setting up a mistress. Yes, I understand that. At the risk of offending you, that is not the sort of protection I am seeking from you. I do not believe I mistook the doctor’s meaning. He was speaking of protection from harm. That is why I have come to you.”

Restell folded his arms across his chest and regarded his visitor frankly. He did not try to penetrate her veil but took in the whole of her figure: the braced shoulders and narrow back, the quality and cut of her clothing, the stillness of her hands on the reticule. There was no glimpse of her hair and her feet were tucked modestly under the chair and hidden by her gown. She could be fair or dark or possess the olive complexion that suggested a Mediterranean heritage. She spoke in accents that were similar to his own and were influenced by years in London, attention to education, but nonetheless hinted at origins far north of the city. He could not deny that he was intrigued. He accepted that as fact. It did not necessarily follow that he was favorably disposed to taking up this matter of her protection.

“Is it shelter that you require?” he asked.

“No, not shelter. I have a home.”

“Then you are not seeking to escape it.” He saw her shoulders jerk and the brim of her bonnet lift as her chin came up. She was clearly shocked by the import of his words.

“No, of course not. I am content there.”

Restell thought it a peculiar expression of sentiment, but he did not comment on it. “You will have to tell me more. It would be a good beginning to tell me why you need protection.”

“I’m not sure that I do. That is a matter for you to determine. I thought I heard Dr. Bettany say that you make discreet inquiries. I am as interested in securing your services toward that end as I am in protection.”

Was it too early for a drink? Restell wondered. He glanced past his visitor’s shoulder to the drinks cabinet and actually considered removing the stopper from the decanter of whiskey and taking his fill. “Did you not just say you weren’t certain you needed protection?”

“I’m not certain I need it for myself,” she said. “I believe perhaps my cousin is the one who requires it.”

“Your cousin. I don’t suppose I might know her name.”

“In time, I think. You can understand that I must be certain that engaging you is the right course of action.”

One corner of Restell’s mouth lifted slightly, hinting at both mockery and amusement. “I understand you think the decision is entirely yours.”

“Isn’t it?”

Restell did not respond immediately. Unfolding his arms, he picked up the letter opener on the tray at his side and lightly tapped the end of it against the palm of his other hand.

“No, in fact it ultimately rests with me,” he said at last. It was just a fancy on his part, but he imagined that behind her veil she was frowning deeply. “I do not accept everyone who applies to me as my client. Conversely, I might choose to offer my services to someone who does not formally engage me. Once you announced your intention at the door to have this interview and stubbornly waited when I gave you sufficient time to think better of it, you surrendered your prerogative to decide the outcome. Whether you like it or not, I will determine how we go from here.”

“But you don’t even know who I am. If I do not hire you, you will never know it. You cannot offer your services to someone whose name you don’t know.”

“God’s truth, you cannot be so foolish as to believe I will not discover it. If my peculiar talents do not extend so far as that, then why would you entertain any notion of engaging my services? It defies any sort of common sense. Have you so much in the way of cotton wool between your ears?”

Restell replaced the letter opener and stood. “Are you taking exception to my words? I hope so. If you are completely cowed, then there is no hope for it but that I will have to show you the door.”

“I know where the door is,” she said. “And sense enough about me still to get there on my own.”

Restell permitted himself a small smile as he turned his back on her and skirted the desk. He dropped into the leather chair behind it and set his long legs before him at an angle. “How did you find me?” He did not miss the way she subtly shifted in her seat. The question surprised her.

“But I have already told you. Dr. Bettany.”

“That is how you heard of me. I inquired as to how you found me.”

“You are not the only one who can make discreet inquiries. I had it from a member of your family that you were temporarily using your brother’s London residence.”

“I sincerely doubt that someone in my own family characterized my stay here as temporary. All of them know I am quite satisfied with the arrangement; indeed, that I enjoy the distinct benefits of making this establishment my home. I will not be easily dislodged, even if Ferrin should raise some objection. The earl is my stepbrother, by the way, although we do not make too fine a point of it. I merely mention it so you will know that he possesses a generous nature that I frequently admire and regularly take advantage of but do not necessarily share.”

“You are the poor relation, then.”

The half smile that frequently lifted one corner of Restell’s mouth now became a fulsome one, engaging his clear blue eyes and deepening the creases of twin dimples on either side of his lips. “Some would say so, yes.”

“You do not seem to mind.”

“I hadn’t realized that I should.” He shrugged, dismissing this line of inquiry. “So you had it from some member of my family that I could be found here. Dr. Bettany wouldn’t necessarily know that, you see, which is what made me curious. I was yet living on Kingston Street when I made the acquaintance of the good doctor.” Restell laced his fingers together and tapped his thumbs as he considered his visitor and all that she had not told him. “Are you yet prepared to share the whole of why you’re here? I’ve had little enough sleep these three nights past and find I am weary of wondering. In truth, I am all for crawling back into my warm bed.”

Restell had learned that silence was often the key to confession. When she did not respond immediately, he waited her out. He continued to study her as though he had long ago penetrated her veil and knew the nuances of her every expression, and when he had the urge to break the silence, he cautioned himself to wait that bit much longer.

In the end, he was rewarded for his patience.

She lifted the veil.

Restell had seen men leave the boxing ring after three rounds of rough sparring with fewer bruises than this woman had. The evidence of her beating had faded, to be sure, but there was color enough remaining to determine where the blows had landed. Beneath both eyes she sported deep violet shadows, proof that her nose had been broken if not completely smashed. Her complexion was suffused with the yellow hue associated with jaundice. In her case it was further confirmation of the fists she had endured. Her left cheek looked to be more tender than her right one; faint swelling was still visible across the arch. A thin cut on her lower lip had not healed, most likely because when she spoke it was laid open again. He could make out the faint line of bruising along one side of her neck. The high collar of her walking gown obscured what had been done to her throat, but Restell imagined mottled thumbprints at the hollow between her collarbones as testament that she had been choked, probably within a single breath of her life.

Restell took in the whole of her countenance in a single glance, then sought to see beneath it. The contusions obscured her features almost as well as the veil. Restell had to peel back every distended layer of bruising to find the true shape of her face.

She had a fine bone structure: a pared nose that had been set straight by a firm and skillful hand, a high arch to her cheeks that was made more prominent by the hollow beneath, a slender jaw held firmly—perhaps painfully—in place. Her eyes had a vaguely exotic slant to them that Restell supposed she could use to great effect if she lowered her lashes even a fraction. What she did, however, was hold his stare directly and give no quarter. The consequence of such forthrightness was that Restell only noted the color of her eyes upon his second appraisal.

“I had not imagined you would be so young,” he said, echoing her earlier observation. “I am generally a better judge.”

“Ah, yes, but you can see for yourself that I have recently garnered considerable life experience.”

“Yes,” he said, dipping his head in acknowledgment. “Yes, you have.” Restell sat forward in his chair. “This was not done by someone you know?”

“No.”

“Are you quite certain? Your father? Brother? Someone you do not want to reveal just yet. A lover, mayhap?”

“Why do you persist in thinking it is someone I know? I would tell you if that were the case, else why would I come?”

“Precisely. But many women do not tell it all, at least not at the outset. Fear, I suspect is the reason for it. Some are afraid of their tormentor; others are afraid to hope that anything can be done. Even when I explain that it is better that I know the whole of it at the first interview, the truth seems to reveal itself over time.”

“A consequence of learning to trust you, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“You may well be right. Perhaps I expect too much.” He shrugged and leaned back again, crossing his legs at the ankle. “Why hasn’t anyone approached me on your behalf? You said you overheard Bettany discussing my talents with someone. Why hasn’t that person followed where the good doctor pointed?”

“I can’t be sure. I didn’t ask.”

“You must have wondered. What are your thoughts?”

She pressed her lips together, frowning slightly, then released her reticule long enough to press the back of her fingers against her mouth. She examined her glove for evidence of blood. Before she could find her handkerchief, Restell was standing before her, offering his own.

“Thank you.” She dabbed her lower lip with the linen. “It will never heal if I persist on worrying it. I cannot seem to break myself of the habit.” She withdrew the handkerchief, saw that she had stemmed the bleeding, and began folding the linen into a neat square.

“You may keep it,” Restell said, returning to his chair. “I will not be put off my questioning and will give you cause to have need of it again. Now, tell me why you think no one save you has applied to me.” He watched her take a steadying breath while he held his own and waited to see what she would do.

“I think it is because it’s believed the danger is past, or rather that the danger existed only because I presented opportunity for it.”

“You will have to explain the last.”

“I mean that if I had not been just where I was no ill would have befallen me. I have thought a great deal about that.”

“I see. So you are at fault for what happened.”

“At fault?” Her eyebrows lifted in tandem. “No, I do not accept that. I am responsible for being where I was and that is all.”

“So the thinking of your family is that this assault was random, one of opportunity rather than deliberate design.”

“I have supposed that is their thinking. As I mentioned, I didn’t ask.”

“I do not recall reading an account of any assault such as you experienced in the Gazette. Did it happen here in London?”

“It began here. It ended in Walthamstow. Are you familiar?”

“I know where it is. Waltham Abbey is not far from there, I believe.”

“Yes.”

“Are you telling me you were abducted in London and taken to Walthamstow?”

“Walthamstow is where I was able to get away. I cannot say how long they meant to remain there.”

“They?”

“There were two men, though sometimes it seems to me there was a third.”

Restell kept his gaze steady, taking in this information as if it did not twist his gut. If she was willing to tell him, the very least he could do was honor her courage. “Your bruises look more than a week old. How long ago did this happen?”

“A bit less than three weeks. I am told I made my escape only days after I was assaulted behind Madame Chabrier’s establishment. I cannot account for the time myself as it seemed to take no longer than the blink of an eye, yet was simultaneously only a few moments shy of forever. Because of the kindness of the village’s innkeeper and his wife, I was able to send word to my family and was reunited soon after.”

It was clearer to Restell why he’d heard no account of the abduction or her maltreatment. A family of some means and reputation would go to great lengths to keep such a matter quiet. Whether or not she bore any responsibility for events, whether or not she was sorely abused, it would be society’s judgment that she was ruined. Restell thought that perhaps it was a judgment shared by her family.

“You were alone at the time of the abduction?” he asked.

She nodded. “I had not even my maid with me. It seems foolish now, but I cannot regret it as I think she might have been killed if she’d accompanied me.”

Restell considered her attire again. “You are not in mourning.”

She was silent for a moment, her expression grave. “Only as it applies to me,” she said with quiet dignity. “I mourn the loss of self, of that part of me that enjoyed freedom of movement and freedom from fear. I might have been here days earlier if I could have left my home. I had opportunity but could not will myself to step outside. Twice I dressed and approached the door. Twice I retreated to my room. Today I took two spoonfuls of laudanum and depended upon their soporific consequences to help me find a balm for my terror. Do not suppose that I am muddleheaded because of my actions. The long wait in your drawing room did much to remove that effect.”

“And are you fearful now?”

“Sick with it.”

“Yet you sit so composed.”

“I cannot move.” She smiled slightly, sipping air as though through a straw. “I can barely breathe.”

Her courage left him humbled. Some day he would tell her so, but not just now, not when a kind word might very well sabotage her resolve. “What do you suppose I can do for you?”

She did not answer this directly. That didn’t entirely surprise him as she seemed more comfortable coming at a thing sideways.

“I am Emmalyn Hathaway,” she said after a long moment. “Miss Emmalyn Hathaway.”

As he’d suspected, her name meant nothing to him. “It is a very real honor to meet you, Miss Hathaway.” She gave no indication that she reciprocated the sentiment or even that she believed him.

“My parents were Elliot and Teresa Hathaway, late of Peterborough.”

Restell realized he hadn’t been wrong about her accent. Peterborough was in Northhamptonshire.

“And later still,” she continued, “of the fair ship Emily Pepper that was lost with all hands and passengers somewhere south of Ceylon.”

“I know of the Emily Pepper,” he said. In addition to apparently carrying Miss Hathaway’s parents, the ship had been carrying a king’s ransom worth of silks and teas. He had contemplated investing in the ship, but as he researched its prospects and, more importantly, its master, he had advised himself and others against it. The demise of the Emily Pepper and the loss of her crew, passengers, and cargo had spelled something of a reversal in his own fortunes.

People began to take him seriously.

Restell did not share this with Miss Hathaway. It would be difficult for anyone to reconcile the death of one’s parents with the pivotal juncture it had been in his life, even more so because he was so ambivalent about the change it had wrought.

He realized the anniversary of the Emily Pepper’s sinking was almost upon them. “Three years next week,” he said, and didn’t realize he had spoken aloud until she stared at him. Her eyes were more green than blue, the color of water rushing toward the sea, not coming up from it, the color he had always imagined aquamarine should be and wasn’t. “Three years,” he said again, softly. “But then you know that.”

She nodded. “Indeed.”

“You are not alone, though. I believe you mentioned family. Brothers? Sisters?”

“Neither. I live with my uncle and cousin. Uncle Arthur is my mother’s brother. My aunt died many years ago and he never remarried. Marisol is also their only child.”

“She is of an age with you?”

“There are four years between us. She is eighteen.”

Restell realized that Miss Hathaway was even younger than his second estimation of her age, and he was not successful in keeping this revelation to himself. The tiniest lift of his left eyebrow gave him away.

“You are surprised,” she said. “When you remarked that I was so young, where did you place my age?”

Recovering his misstep, Restell said, “I do not think it would be politic to answer that.”

Her slight smile communicated an appreciation for his response and that no offense had been taken. “You thought I was still older than you, I’d wager.”

“You won’t wheedle it out of me.”

“It is a common enough error. I am judged by most people to be an ape-leader, a term generally assigned to a woman some seven to ten years my senior with no prospects for marriage. I mention it lest you think that it is my recent experience that has aged me. I assure you, that is not the case. I have always been accounted to be older than my years.” She shrugged lightly. “A consequence of a serious temperament, I suppose, and an application of one’s mind to study.”

“No ape-leader, then, but a bluestocking.”

“If I were a man, you would call me a scholar.”

For all that her rebuke was softly spoken, Restell felt its sting sharply. “You are quite right. It was a fatuous comment and wholly undeserved. I beg your pardon.”

“You needn’t fall on your sword, Mr. Gardner. You have not scarred me.”

Restell felt the tug of an appreciative smile and gave into it. “You are a singular piece of work, Miss Hathaway.”

“Am I to take that as a compliment?”

“I certainly meant it as one; how you take it is entirely up to you.” When she offered no rejoinder or gave an indication of the bent of her mind, Restell continued his questioning. “Your Uncle Arthur is well set up?”

“You are referring to his finances.”

“Yes.”

“He lives quite comfortably. Is it important? You are concerned about your fee, no doubt.”

“We will discuss the matter of my fee if I decide to accept you as my client. It has no bearing on my question. I was wondering if your abductors could have had reasonable expectation of a ransom.”

“A ransom? For me?”

“Your uncle would not have paid for your safe return?”

“Yes…yes, of course he would…it’s just that…”

“Yes?”

“There is much I don’t remember about what happened.”

Restell watched her suck in her lower lip and worry it until she bit the tender spot. He almost winced on her behalf. She made a moue of apology and pressed his handkerchief against her lip. “Is there some question in your mind that there might have been a demand of ransom?” he asked.

“There’s never been any hint of it, at least to me. Neither my uncle nor Marisol have indicated that they knew of such.”

Restell marked the hesitation in her speech as signifying she was mulling over some aspect of her answer even as she gave it. “There is something more,” he said, “something you are perhaps only now considering. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Pulled abruptly to the present, she blinked widely as her chin came up. “It is just that I should have wondered about a demand for money myself. It fits with what has occupied my thinking of late, so I am disappointed that it didn’t occur to me.”

Sighing, Restell picked up the letter opener again and beat an absent tattoo against the edge of his desk. He felt rather like his childhood tutor who marked time with a ruler while he waited for a proper answer to his question. Glancing sideways at the letter opener, he wondered if it was as threatening as the ruler had been. He supposed that depended on whether Miss Hathaway thought he could be moved to rap it sharply across her knuckles.

“That is rather less information than I expect from a scholarly mind, Miss Hathaway. The whole of it, please.”

“I am coming to that, Mr. Gardner, only you must stop banging the desk. The sound is like a timpani inside my head.”

Restell hit it once more before stopping. He kept the letter opener in his hand, suggestive of a warning, then used it as a conductor might use a baton to encourage her to begin again. Her perfectly splendid eyes narrowed slightly, and Restell counted it as a good thing that she was not easily managed.

“I have had the suspicion for some time that the attack against me was not one of impulse and opportunity. I believe that Marisol may have been the intended victim.”

“Your cousin?”

“Yes. Miss Marisol Vega.”

“Your uncle is Arthur Vega? Pardon me, I believe he is now Sir Arthur.”

“Yes. He is greatly honored by the crown’s recognition. Have you met?”

“I have been privileged to view several of his paintings, but we are not acquainted. If I am not mistaken, my mother recently purchased one of his recent works.” It reminded him that he must needs pay more attention to Lady Gardner when she rattled on about her views concerning art, fashion, and the theatre. It was too depressing for words.

“You’re frowning,” she said. “You don’t find my uncle’s work to your taste?”

“What I have seen I like well enough. I have not called upon Lady Gardner this past fortnight, so I cannot render an opinion about her latest acquisition. Although I generally take the time to form a well-reasoned position regarding matters of style, color, and brushstrokes, it is of no account to anyone but me. The sad fact of it is that I am a philistine, Miss Hathaway.”

“You are kind to warn me.”

Restell slid the letter opener aside. “Your uncle is comfortably set then.”

“I believe I have already said so. His paintings command a goodly sum.”

He waited to see if she would say that her uncle was also an inveterate gamer. Restell had had occasion to see his distinctive signature in the gaming books—and recently. One did not necessarily have to meet a man to know something about him, especially in the circle of the ton where gossip was the currency of exchange.

“Do you have any doubt that he would have met a ransom demand for his daughter?”

“Not one. Marisol is everything to him.”

“Even if the demand was more than he could properly afford?”

“There is no such amount. He would have found the means to do so. She is beloved.”

“Do you believe there would have been a demand for money if she had been taken?”

“It seems possible, though that supposes she was indeed marked for the abduction.”

“It’s your contention that she was,” he reminded her. “Tell me why.”

“I went to Madame Chabrier’s in her place. I borrowed her bonnet and her favorite pelisse. Marisol and I are not so dissimilar in height or frame or coloring, and I have heard it said that there is a passing resemblance between us.”

“You don’t believe that?”

“I would be flattering myself too much to agree that an abiding likeness exists. Marisol is acknowledged to be a beauty. At a glance, however, especially if one did not know us well or had only a description to identify us, a mistake might be made.”

“I see.”

“And I was wearing her outerwear. I should not have, of course, but Marisol can be insistent and I saw nothing to be gained by arguing.”

“Frequently nothing is, but in this instance one does wonder.”

“It was all in aid of meeting Mr. Kincaid.”

“I thought you were going to Madame Chabrier’s. She’s a milliner, is she not?” Restell watched her eyebrows climb. “I have four sisters, Miss Hathaway. I may be a philistine about the style of a woman’s bonnet, but I know all too well who is judged to make the finest. Who is Mr. Kincaid and what purpose did he have at the milliner’s?”

“You must promise that you will keep what I shall tell you in the strictest confidence.”

“A tryst, then,” he said in bored accents. “That is frequently the way of it. Why did she ask you to go in her place?”

“To end it, of course. Marisol is engaged, you see.”

“And when was that done exactly? Before or after she agreed to an assignation with Mr. Kincaid?”

“Before.”

“You will have to speak up, Miss Hathaway. Your reluctance to speak ill of your cousin is telling of your character but deuced annoying. Now, I believe you said before. Is that correct?”

“Yes. She was betrothed before she arranged to meet Mr. Kincaid.”

“This was not the first time she agreed to it. You said she meant to break it off. From that I can infer that there were previous appointments with the man. She kept those, I presume.”

“Yes.”

“Your cousin’s definition of what it means to be betrothed is rather different from what I understand is acceptable in society.”

“She is very young.”

“Is she not eighteen? Bloody hell, Miss Hathaway, if she doesn’t understand the meaning of engagement, she’s a foolish chit for agreeing to one. What sort of man is her fiancé? An ogre? Someone ready to turn up his toes? A widower with seven children of his own?”

“He is none of those things. Mr. Neven Charters is altogether an accomplished gentleman, and there are those who say he is handsome as well. He has had some business dealings with my uncle and has since become a patron. That is how he came to know us. Once he met Marisol…well, I think it is fair to say that he is besotted with her.”

Restell was silent a moment, taking into account what he believed she wasn’t saying. He didn’t fail to notice that she was worrying her lip again. “And your cousin? Is she similarly addled?”

“Her behavior to the contrary, it appears to be a love match. I believe it is the prospect of marriage that frightens her—and what comes afterward.”

Restell did not think his visitor’s mottled complexion could make allowance for another hue, so it surprised him to see a hint of pink rise above the high collar at her throat and slip under her swollen jaw and bruised cheeks. The violet stains under her eyes deepened to indigo, and then the color took the path upward past her temples and spread across her forehead until it finally disappeared into her hairline and under her bonnet.

“Afterward?” Restell said, because he could not help himself. Goading females was the prerogative of someone with four sisters, at least he had always thought so.

“Children, Mr. Gardner. My aunt died in childbirth when Marisol was not yet five. She remembers it well enough.”

Restell promised himself that he would not forget that when Miss Hathaway was pushed, she pushed back, almost always in unexpected ways. “Then you believe her flirtations are innocent?”

“Most assuredly. She is silly at times—some would say foolish—but she is not unintelligent. She realized what she was risking, thought better of it, and determined she must stop seeing Mr. Kincaid.”

“Have there been other flirtations?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Do you say that because you hope she’s shown that much sense?”

“I say it because Marisol does not regularly confide in me.”

“How did you learn about Kincaid? Did she tell you?”

“We attended a party at the Newbolts together. In January, I think it was. I observed the overtures made by Mr. Kincaid and saw that Marisol did not rebuff them.”

“Others must have observed the same.”

“They were rather more discreet than I have made them seem. Mr. Charters was not present, so Marisol was partnered in the sets by many different gentlemen.”

Restell considered this for some time before he rose from his chair and crossed in front of the desk to the fireplace. He poked at the small fire that had been laid there. The morning had begun unusually chilly and the temperature had not improved greatly. In deference to his visitor’s comfort, he added a small log and pushed it over the embers until it was captured by tongues of fire.

When he turned around it was to find Miss Hathaway perched on the edge of her chair like some fledgling bird anxious to take flight. It occurred to him that if he had given her more time, she would have seized the opportunity to escape.

“Have you changed your mind?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

“You look as though you wish yourself anywhere but here, Miss Hathaway. I wondered if you’ve thought better of your decision. Mayhap you’d like to leave.”

“I’m not…no…that is…”

Restell required a coherent sentence to follow the bent of her mind. Waiting for her to gather her thoughts, he absently tapped the tip of the poker against the marble apron. Her response to the sound was nothing short of galvanic. Her head jerked back as if struck and her hands finally released the reticule as she raised them defensively, protecting her face as though from another blow. Restell dropped the poker. She was already turning away from him by the time it clattered to the floor. She burrowed into the armchair, drawing her legs up under her skirt so her feet rested on the leather seat, hunching her shoulders, and pulling in her elbows, all of it in aid of making her as small a target as was possible.

Restell quelled his urge to cross the room and go to her. It seemed self-serving to attempt to offer reassurance when his very presence at her side was likely to provoke further agitation. He might derive some comfort from trying to assist her, but she was unlikely to find any relief from it.

“Miss Hathaway?” He held his ground and kept his arms loosely at his side, palms outward, showing her he had no weapons, that even his hands were not to be feared. He maintained this posture even when she did not look in his direction, knowing that she would eventually risk a glance at him. “I mean you no harm,” he said calmly. “Was it the poker that startled you? Were you struck with such a thing?”

Except for a shudder, she made no response.

“Will you not look at me, Miss Hathaway? Assure yourself that I will not lift a hand against you.”

He watched her lower her gloved hands a fraction, but she did not turn her head toward him. “I admit to profound inadequacy in this situation,” he said. “And I do not thank you for making me say so.” He thought her hands lowered again, but it might have been a tremble in them that made it seem so. “I cannot decide what will give you the greatest ease. Should I offer refreshment? Perhaps you would like time alone to compose yourself and make your escape if that is your desire. Would cajolery work or should I remain silent?” For a long minute he did just that. He could observe that it made no appreciable change in the way she held herself. “I am going to step outside,” he told her at last. “There is a matter I must attend to. You are free to remain or go as you will.”

Restell reached the door by a route that maintained the most distance between himself and Miss Hathaway. He did not look back once he crossed the threshold but closed the paneled door quietly behind him.

Emma unfolded herself slowly, finding that she had become remarkably stiff during the time she’d spent curled so tightly in the chair. She touched one hand to her cheek where embarrassment had made her face go hot. She would have liked to indulge in a bout of tears but that release was denied her. There had been no tears since she’d escaped her abductors, nor many that she recalled while they held her. She’d been afraid to cry then and even more afraid since. She dreamed of drowning in tears or sometimes imagined being scarred by them, her face etched permanently as if by acid. Tears meant exposing that part of herself that she kept inviolate, that private, secret self where she still pretended that what had happened had in fact happened to someone else.

Uncle Arthur looked at her differently these days. She glimpsed disappointment in his sideways glance, even faint disapproval, as though because of her failure to protect herself she had failed him. Her inability to fend off her attackers reminded him that she was no stalwart son but a woman after all, with every one of a woman’s vulnerabilities.

Marisol, in contrast, looked at her often. Her cousin was at once curious and repelled by what she saw and wholly unable to suppress that play of feeling in her features. In the first days of returning home, Emma had been helpless to keep Marisol from attending her. At first she believed it was guilt that brought Marisol so often to her side, but she now suspected that she had given her cousin credit for more tender sensibilities than she in truth possessed. The expression of relief on Marisol’s fine features was perhaps a more accurate reflection of what she was thinking: relief that she had not been the victim here.

Emma could not find it in herself to blame her. Had their positions been reversed she might very well feel the same, and there had not yet come a moment when she wished their positions had been reversed. Emma could not imagine wishing what she had endured to be the experience of another person.

Hadn’t she come here to avoid just that end?

Restell Gardner was not at all what she expected and the very least of it was his age. At first glance one could be forgiven for thinking they were in the presence of a god. His pale hair, so light that it might have been gilt with sunshine made Apollo come immediately to mind. Sitting or standing, he had a careless, casual way of holding himself that lent him an air of supreme indifference. That impression faded when one was held still by his eyes. If he willed it so, he could hold a glance for an interminable length and never blink. The intensity of feeling that was not expressed in his loose and lean frame was captured in eyes that could be as warm and clear a blue as a halcyon sky or as opaque and cold as frost on a pond in winter.

His patience, not his Viking warrior looks, made him a force to be reckoned with. Although she had been made to wait in his drawing room for what seemed an unbearably long time, she had not been able to use that opportunity to formulate any sense of what she meant to tell him. Snippets of thought simply tumbled through her mind so that no coherent whole was possible, yet he had been able to draw almost the sum of it all from her.

She never once felt pitied or pitiable, even when she raised her veil and showed him what had become of her face. He had regarded her openly, without revulsion, and made it impossible for her to duck her head or retreat behind the gauzy black curtain of lace. In that moment she became stronger because he expected her strength, as if he knew how to tap more deeply into the well of her resolve even as she would have sworn there never existed such a well.

So she had remained strong…up until the moment he began tapping the poker. If the banging of the letter opener against his desk had given rise to a timpani in her head, the sharp staccato of the poker against the marble apron was like a pair of cymbals crashing together on either side of her skull.

Her reaction—to curl hedgehog-like into the relative safety of the leather armchair—had been accomplished without any conscious thought. She’d just done it. There’d been no help for it and that terrified her. What if Mr. Gardner suspected she was a candidate for an asylum? Would he agree to help someone on so short a tether? He might very well suggest confining her to a madhouse, and how could she trust that her uncle would not approve of such a measure? There existed evidence that he could be convinced it was in her best interest, and if she failed to make herself useful, certainly he could be convinced that it was in his.

Emma stood abruptly. Her legs were steadier than she would have credited. Opening her reticule, she withdrew the cheque she had drawn on her quarterly allowance and savings and made out to Mr. Restell Gardner. She placed it on the blotter on his desk and laid the letter opener over it to serve as a paperweight, then she tugged on her veil and started toward the door.

Several sharp raps from the other side stopped Emma in her tracks. She opened her mouth to say something, to say anything, but discovered she had no voice to call out. The insistent knocking came again, harder this time, more urgent, as though someone thought she’d missed it the first time.

Emma couldn’t say how long she stood there, only that she never saw the door opening. The darkness encroaching on the periphery of her vision had engulfed her by then.