Читать книгу Engaging the Earl - Mandy Goff - Страница 8

Emma was going to be fired.

She never should have given in to her parents’ entreaties to lie down and rest awhile after supper before she returned to her employers’ house. But Emma had been so tired that a chance for a nap had been too tempting to resist. Opportunities for rest at the Roth residence were scarce—her young charges saw to that. But Emma had assumed her parents would wake her before the hour grew too late. It appeared that in this case, as in so many others, they hadn’t employed simple common sense.

Emma bid a hasty farewell to her parents, both of whose eyes were bleary with sleep and surprise after she barged into their bedroom. The clock in the hall struck midnight—which had been the alarm to rouse Emma from her slumber—and was still chiming as she closed the front door and stepped out onto the street.

At this hour, there was little to no chance of finding a hackney cab on her parents’ quiet, shabby street. Her best opportunity at hiring a hack to take her back to the Roths meant going a few streets over where there was more traffic—and rather more danger, as well.

Even this late, that part of the city still bustled with activity. Light, laughter and the smell of gin poured out from a pub she passed. Emma wrinkled her nose in disgust. She was leery enough passing through this area while visiting her parents during the day, and now with night bearing down on her, she was frightened.

Minutes into her walk, the feeling of something creeping along the back of her neck made Emma stop in her path and turn around. Other than some ruffians many paces behind, however, no one was there. Chiding herself for being paranoid, Emma pulled her pelisse tighter around her and quickened her step.

Footsteps on the stone walk behind her made Emma tense again. This time, however, she kept walking without turning to see what was behind her. She didn’t have time for any foolishness. Her employers had been expecting her return four hours earlier. If Emma didn’t find a hack soon, she would have to walk, which would add another hour or so to her journey.

And Lady Roth didn’t brook such tardiness.

Possibly it was nothing but a trick of the mind, but Emma felt like when she sped up, the steps behind her sped up, as well.

Something coming from the left caught Emma’s attention, and when she looked, an attractive gentleman was approaching her with all possible haste. The glint of determination in his eyes made her step falter. For a moment, all Emma could do was stand stupidly on the sidewalk, watching the man come closer.

I’m about to be robbed. Or murdered.

Emma’s hesitation gave the stranger enough time to come abreast of her.

“Darling,” he said, taking ahold of her arm and propelling her forward, “where have you been?”

Emma stared at him, her mouth agape. In her surprise, the stranger was able to drag her forward several steps.

“Get away from me,” she said after a second’s pause as she dug her heels into the sidewalk to slow the onward progression. But the command lacked any heat or force … no doubt because she was too shocked to be authoritative.

Clearly her lack of forcefulness was amusing, because the gentleman laughed, loudly … as though he was playacting for an audience. “Don’t play your games, my love. Someone might think I’m trying to abduct you.”

Did he just nudge her?

No matter how hard she pulled or twisted, Emma couldn’t break herself free of his hold. “That’s exactly what you’re trying to do,” she hissed back. Screaming wouldn’t have been much help because thus far no one had paid their little tableau any attention. No doubt such interchanges were commonplace in this area and hardly worth notice or intervention.

“No,” her assailant murmured in a voice solely for her ears. “I’m trying to protect you.”

The statement was so ludicrous, Emma couldn’t even respond. Clearly the only person she needed protecting from was him.

“A man’s been following you,” he whispered.

Abandoning her attempts to free her arm, Emma swiveled to look behind them. That would explain the chills along the back of her neck. And the footsteps. But she hadn’t seen anyone. So far, the only person to accost her was the man pinned to her side.

“Just let me go … please,” Emma pleaded, “I’ll be fine.”

He huffed. He actually huffed. “Could you be quiet? I’m trying to think.”

Think about where you’re going to dispose of my body?

The man might be nicely dressed—much too nicely for this part of town—and Emma might have thought that his expression, when he smiled, was most pleasant. But just because the stranger was handsome didn’t mean he wouldn’t murder her and dump her body in an alleyway.

So this time, she yanked against his hold.

Hard.

Instead of freeing herself, though, she caused them both to stumble. Emma’s shoe caught on the hem of her dress, and there was a suspended moment when she lost her balance. Instinctively, her grip on the gentleman’s arm tightened, probably to the point where she was digging her nails into his skin. And when she flailed her free arm at the same time that he leaned forward to offer assistance, Emma’s elbow connected with something hard.

And if his muffled “oomph” were any indication, the something hard was probably his face.

That further startled her … to the point that she wobbled even more wildly. Emma would have fallen face-forward if the man hadn’t hauled her upward and against his chest.

Her first thought was that his embrace felt unexpectedly nice.

Of course he had to spoil the effect when he opened his mouth.

“Enough,” he snapped. “I’m only trying to help you.” His annoyance was impossible to miss.

Emma was supremely agitated herself. Both because of his interference and the fact that she couldn’t seem to push herself away from him … maybe a little more so about the latter. An interlude with a possibly deranged stranger—albeit a handsome one—wouldn’t have been welcome at the best of times, but this was really not a good day. Lady Roth was probably watching the clock, ticking off each passing minute with a mean-spirited glee. The viscountess didn’t much care for Emma. Which was fair—Emma didn’t much care for her, either, or the very spoiled Roth children. But she needed to keep this job. Her parents were almost entirely dependent on her income.

“No one’s around now,” she said to her self-proclaimed rescuer, casting a look about them. “So while I thank you for your help, I must be on my way.”

He opened his mouth, probably to argue, but Emma didn’t give him a chance.

“Let. Me. Go,” she said forcefully.

And apparently loudly enough to arouse the curiosity of a passing constable.

The short, stocky officer retraced his steps, walking back toward them. Emma could have cried with relief.

“What’s the trouble here?” the lawman asked.

I’m being harassed by a bedlamite, Emma wanted to shout.

She didn’t have a chance to utter the first syllable, however, because the man, who smoothly released her from his hold, was already chatting with the officer.

“How are you, Constable Hilliard?” the stranger asked, tipping back the brim of his hat and making his face more visible.

The law won’t care how attractive you are, you’re still going to Newgate, she thought when she got a better view of his face.

It was admittedly very attractive. Dark eyes. High cheek-bones … a nose that would have been the model of perfection if not for the small, almost unnoticeable bump from where it had likely been broken. And his lips, which were curved in a strained smile, most certainly weren’t unpleasant to look at. Her eyes traveled back up his face, locking momentarily with his. Emma wanted to shiver at the depth of them.

In the few minutes that had passed, however, his eye was getting increasingly swollen. For a brief moment, Emma felt a pang of guilt for elbowing him, but had he only let her go, she wouldn’t have—accidentally, of course—given him what would likely become a black eye. And he was clearly crazy … possibly homicidal. She needed to keep reminding herself of that before she softened or allowed herself to feel too badly.

When the constable saw the gentleman’s face, he floundered for a moment. Then, after several seconds of righting his uniform, seemingly making sure no crease was misaligned, he executed a smart little bow. “My l—I mean, Mr. Fairfax, I didn’t recognize you at first. How are you doing, sir?”

“Fine, Hilliard, fine.” The man now identified as Mr. Fairfax indicated Emma with his free hand, “I’m just seeing this lovely lady home safely. There are some ruffians about tonight.”

The lawman, who seemed eager to please, bobbed his head in agreement. “There certainly are”

“Haven’t had any trouble out here tonight, have you?” Mr. Fairfax asked.

“Not too much,” Constable Hilliard answered automatically. But then he looked at Mr. Fairfax closer. “Though it looks as if you might have met your share of trouble.”

Mr. Fairfax’s hand went up to touch his swollen and bruised eye. “Oh, this,” he said. “Only a bit of an unexpected tussle.”

“Something you’d like me to take care of for you?” the constable asked, eager and ready to please the man on Emma’s arm. Apparently he was someone of importance—or at least of more importance than this neighborhood usually boasted.

And with that thought came the sudden fear that Mr. Fairfax might try to have the constable apprehend her. Emma felt faint.

But when the moment came that Mr. Fairfax could have exposed Emma for her unintentional crime, the strange man waved off the constable’s question. “It’s of no concern,” Mr. Fairfax dismissed.

“Well,” Constable Hilliard said, for the first time addressing Emma, “it’s a good thing Mr. Fairfax found you. He’ll get you wherever you’re going safely.”

And that would be helpful, she thought, if he could somehow manage to get me there four hours ago. As it stands, I’m growing later by the minute, and this additional delay is hardly helping. She smiled tightly at the constable in response.

As if he sensed her frustration, Mr. Fairfax swiftly drew the exchange to a close. “Good night, Constable Hilliard.” Then he wasted no time pulling her away and down the sidewalk. “My carriage is not far. I’ll take you home,” he said to Emma.

Emma let herself be pulled along, while trying to decide exactly what she should do.

It was hardly ideal to accept an escort from a man she had not properly met. If she saw anyone who knew her, the resulting scandal would be sensational. But who were they likely to encounter at this hour? And the constable had seemed entirely convinced that Mr. Fairfax was respectable. The most compelling reason of all to go along with him was that she wouldn’t have to walk back to the Roths, costing herself even more precious time in the process.

So Emma allowed him to guide her past the puddles of indefinable liquid on the street, away from the leers and jeers of men congregating in their path. And it was actually rather nice not to feel exposed and in danger.

Mr. Fairfax’s carriage appeared in the distance. Within minutes, she was safely ensconced in the luxurious coach and had given Mr. Fairfax the Roths’ address, which he conveyed to the driver.

“I appreciate your assistance,” Emma said rather grudgingly once the gentleman took a seat across from her.

The man had helped her a great deal. Emma had not spotted a single hack during her exchange with Mr. Fairfax and then the constable. Were it not for Mr. Fairfax’s offer of his escort, she would be facing the unpleasant prospect of a long walk through some rather unsafe streets.

Not that a carriage ride would save her from being fired.

“Why so pensive?” Mr. Fairfax asked quietly.

“I’m wondering what my employer will say about my tardiness.” She didn’t know what possessed her to share that; her plan had been to enjoy the ride in stony silence, not wanting to converse with Mr. Fairfax any more than necessary.

“Employer?” he repeated. “You’re going to work at this hour? What do you do?”

“I’m a governess.”

“Ah,” he said.

It was on the tip of Emma’s tongue to ask him what that meant, but she bit the question back.

Mr. Fairfax stretched out his long legs, and because of the close confines of the carriage, Emma felt even more crowded. She resisted the urge to shy away from him.

“What were you doing in this part of town so late?” he asked.

Emma had no intention of answering that question.

“That’s personal.” The words came out more snappish than she’d intended.

Mr. Fairfax frowned. “This isn’t a safe place for a gently bred lady to be.”

“I hardly think that would concern you at all.” Emma bristled at his tone.

Mr. Fairfax didn’t back down. “You need to think carefully about where you travel, especially at night.” Along with the I-know-better-than-you attitude came a strong note of disapproval.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Fairfax. I think I can manage without your pearls of wisdom—” A phrase she decided on instead of her first choice, which had been “overbearing dictates.”

His nostrils flared. “Had I not troubled myself this evening, you would have found yourself robbed … or worse,” he said ominously.

“So you say,” Emma said stubbornly. She didn’t want to concede the smallest point to her new adversary. “I never saw anyone behind me anyway.”

“I came to your assistance before he had a chance to accost you,” Mr. Fairfax argued.

The battle over who could be the most intractable continued until the carriage rumbled up to the Roths’ townhome. Emma made a move toward the coach’s door, but Mr. Fairfax was faster. Swinging the door open, he jumped down to the street and reached out his hand to help her descend.

“Thank you for your unnecessary assistance,” she grumbled, dropping her hold on his hand once both of her feet were on the ground.

“My pleasure.” He bit out the words.

When Emma began walking toward the back of the house, Mr. Fairfax followed her.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed, reaching around, grabbing his arm and pulling him into the shadows.

“Walking you to the door,” he said, as though he were a typical gentleman escorting a young lady home after a leisurely stroll.

Their situation was anything but typical.

“Are you mad? What if someone sees you?”

“Who do you expect to be awake at this time of night?” he asked with a lift of his eyebrow.

Emma didn’t bother mentioning that Lady Roth was undoubtedly waiting for her. “You can’t very well tell me you expect a band of ruffians or thieves to be hiding behind the bushes, waiting to accost me,” Emma said instead.

Mr. Fairfax obviously thought answering her wasn’t necessary, because he only held out his arm, indicating she should lead and he would follow. Throwing her hands up in disgust, she resumed her walk to the house and didn’t bother to look back to see if he was following.

But of course he was.

When they reached the servants’ entrance, Emma motioned for Mr. Fairfax to step back into the shadows. Surprisingly, he complied without comment, and she blew out a heavy breath of relief.

“I suppose I should thank you for the escort,” Emma said, hesitating on opening the back door.

“But you’re not going to?” Mr. Fairfax asked with a smirk. The shadows obscured most of his expression, including his injured eye. Emma briefly noticed the effect was actually quite dashing.

“Thank you,” she replied, working to push the errant observation out of her mind. Her words of gratitude sounded rather grudging, however. Very grudging.

“I’ll wait here until you’re inside,” he told her.

Emma didn’t argue. Even with only their brief acquaintance as a guide, she knew it would have been pointless. But she did steal one last look at the handsome man standing in the shadows before she pulled the door shut behind her and stepped into the darkened kitchen.

Back in the carriage, Marcus Fairfax, the Earl of Westin, relaxed with a sigh as the driver turned toward home. His evening had run on longer than he’d expected—and the conclusion of it had been rather more exciting than anticipated, too. He prodded gently at his injured eye and winced at the sting. The fiery little governess had gotten in quite a good blow. He wouldn’t be able to see his face in the glass without remembering her for a few days at least.

Not that he was likely to forget her anytime soon—injury or not.

In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had so thoroughly engaged his attention—despite the fact that many had tried to spark his interest over the years. Marcus’s title was old, his name was well respected and his fortune was considerable. Not to mention he still had his health, his wits and all of his teeth. Even half so many attributes would be enough to draw the notice of matchmaking mamas and their ambitious daughters. But none had caught and held his eye like the young woman who had seemed so very determined to escape his company.

He was still musing on the fire in her eyes when the carriage pulled up in front of his town house. Before Marcus could open the front door, however, someone pulled it open from the inside. The earl was mystified to find Gibbons standing on the other side. The butler looked remarkably alert, considering the late—or rather, early—hour.

“Gibbons?” Marcus asked, blinking in surprise. The servant actually doing his job during daylight hours was notable. This was flabbergasting.

His butler looked just as surprised to see him. The eye, Marcus supposed.

“Were you waylaid by a band of ruffians, my lord?” the older man asked.

“No, Gibbons.” Marcus sighed.

“Attacked by a throng of marriageable young misses?”

Closer to the truth, Marcus reasoned, but still, he shook his head in denial.

“Trip over your feet?”

“Leave it, Gibbons,” Marcus ground out. Gibbons was an old family retainer and, as such, had the liberating knowledge that his position was secure. However, for some reasons mystifying even to him, Marcus was too fond of his butler to dismiss him. Although the notion was occasionally tempting.

Gibbons quirked a smile but then sobered suddenly. “Though I’m curious to know who accosted you, we’ve no time for game-playing, my lord,” he said as though the persistent questions were somehow Marcus’s fault.

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Marcus said, stepping into the house. His eyes—well, the one that wasn’t swollen shut, at least—were tired, and his tongue felt thick and unwieldy. He’d been up now for nearly twenty-four hours, and fatigue weighed heavily on him.

“I’m going to bed now, Gibbons,” Marcus said, pulling off his greatcoat and passing it to the butler.

“I think you might want to go to the blue salon instead,” Gibbons suggested.

“Has my bed been moved there?” Marcus quipped.

“I don’t believe you left explicit instructions for us to do so in your absence.”

“Then I can visit the blue salon tomorrow. Right now, I’m going to sleep.” Thinking was becoming a struggle. If Marcus didn’t move quickly, he might end up sleeping in Gibbons’s chair because he couldn’t make it any farther.

“Shall I tell your estate manager to rest while he awaits your leisure?”

Marcus stopped in his path to the stairs. He turned to face Gibbons, trying to ignore the knot forming in the pit of his stomach. But Gibbons wasn’t smiling, smirking or doing anything that suggested he was joking.

“Grimshaw is here?” he asked.

Gibbons nodded. “He arrived twenty minutes ago.”

What could his estate manager want? Marcus knew that whatever had happened, Grimshaw’s coming to see him in the middle of the night was an ill omen. Anxiety momentarily banished his fatigue, and the earl nearly sprinted to the salon.

“Grimshaw? What are you doing here?” Marcus asked as he entered the room. Any thought of exchanging pleasantries faded at the sight of his employee’s haggard expression.

“My lord,” the older man said, rising from the chair. He took a step forward as though to shake Lord Westin’s hand but then quickly stepped backward. “I’m sorry to have woken you.”

Marcus could have corrected him, but he didn’t bother to. “I’m only surprised to find you here so early,” he said instead.

Grimshaw nodded. “Forgive me, my lord. I wouldn’t have intruded were it not of the utmost importance. But once I received the news, I left immediately for London.”

“What news?” Countless possibilities paraded through his mind, each one more dire than the one before.

“You made an investment with Lord Rutherford for some American timber,” Grimshaw said slowly.

Marcus nodded. He only vaguely remembered the investment itself—Grimshaw handled those details—but he did recall the estate manager mentioning it to him several months ago. The investment seemed sound, and Marcus had authorized the man to deal with it accordingly.

“What about it?” Marcus prompted when Grimshaw hesitated.

“The ship transporting the goods has been in a storm. We can’t say for certain, but I’ve received some information that the ship and the merchandise …” Grimshaw trailed off, obviously unable—or afraid—to say anything else.

“The ship and the merchandise, what?” Marcus pressed.

“Well … they might have … it’s not certain, you understand … really, we won’t know anything further until more information surfaces …” Yet Grimshaw still didn’t get to the crux of the matter.

“Grimshaw, it’s much too early in the morning to be playing guessing games.”

“The ship has most likely sunk,” the estate manager blurted.

Marcus thought through the ramifications for a few moments before he said anything.

“It’s certainly a tragedy if that’s the case, Grimshaw. But I’m more concerned about the crew and any other people who might have been aboard the ship. We can only pray that the reports are untrue.”

“But the merchandise, my lord?”

Marcus waved the concern away with a negligent slash of his hand. “Undoubtedly, it would be unfortunate. But it’s hardly worth traveling across the country before dawn. I appreciate your diligence in keeping me informed, but I don’t see that this is a matter of any urgency. Surely nothing can be done until the reports have been confirmed.” He made a move toward the door to call Gibbons to ready a room. “Stay here tonight and get some sleep before you return to Westin Park.”

“You don’t understand, my lord …”

Marcus sighed and paused in his trek. “I’m not pleased to have possibly lost the funds. But that is paltry in light of the other concerns if the ship has indeed sunk. That’s why I’ve never gambled much money in schemes. They all have the potential to fail.”

At this, Grimshaw lowered his gaze to the floor.

Marcus noticed the change in his demeanor. “What is it, Grimshaw?”

“You’ve trusted me for years with your estates and with your investments, have you not, my lord?”

Marcus nodded. Nothing about the shift in conversation inspired confidence in him.

Grimshaw nodded almost reflexively. But he still wouldn’t meet Marcus’s eyes. “And you’ve given me the liberty to handle the funding as I saw fit, for the most part.”

“Yes?” More a question than an answer.

“I might have funded the investment from the Americas with a larger than usual portion of your ready funds.”

The knot of worry in Marcus’s gut grew and twisted his insides until they felt like mush. “How much?” he managed.

“In hindsight, more than I should have,” Grimshaw hedged.

“What does that mean?”

“Bad news … if the ship has sunk … which of course we don’t know for sure …” Grimshaw added hastily.

Marcus didn’t want to ask this next question, but he had to. “If it has sunk, what does that mean?”

The time it took his estate manager to answer was grossly exaggerated by the fear gripping Marcus. “It means you’ve lost most of your fortune.”

Even though Marcus had been bracing himself, the news still hit him hard. He raised a hand to rub his weary eyes and flinched when he pressed on the growing bruise. It was almost laughable—earlier that evening, he had fancied himself a heroic rescuer, sweeping in to save the fair maiden.

But who was going to ride to his rescue?