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Outraged, she shoved at him with all her might, managing to push him back enough to prepare a stinging slap.
He caught her hand and held her motionless. His eyes gleamed brighter, his breathing quickened and he laughed, the sound low in his throat like a growl. “Sweetheart, ya don’t even know how.” Before she could think to struggle, with one burly fist he backhanded her across the mouth.
The blow spun her into the desk, smashing her hip against its oaken surface. A hot trickle dripped from her stinging lip. Frightened but furious, she groped with trembling hands for some sort of weapon. Seizing the heavy glass inkwell, she moved it behind her and straightened to face Harding.
Utterly nonchalant, he was walking away. After two steps, he paused to make her an exaggerated bow. “Ya think about them offers. Both of ’em. ’Cause I can promise ya, little lady, yer problems is just beginnin’.”
A man strode in, then halted. “Madame Emilie?”
Hand clenched on her weapon, she whirled toward the door. In that first instant she saw not one of Harding’s cohorts, but a figure whose fashionable attire proclaimed him a gentleman even as her mind registered the cultured tone of his speech. In the next moment, she recognized Lady Cheverley’s son. Relief coursed through her.
“Excuse me, I didn’t realize you had a customer,” he said, his dubious gaze fixed on Mr. Harding.
Averting the injured side of her face, she released the inkwell and tried to gather her composure. “N-not at all, Lord Cheverley. The man was just leaving.”
After subjecting the nobleman to a careful inspection, during which he must have noted his superior height and obvious strength, Harding defiantly curled one hand into a fist. “When I gets ready, little lady. When I gets ready.”
Cheverley glanced coldly from Harding’s hand to the man’s swarthy face. “I believe the lady asked you to depart. Immediately.”
For a moment, the two men’s gazes locked. Then Harding shrugged, letting his fingers fall open. “Makes no matter. Just remember, when all the fancy toffs be gone, Josh Harding’ll be here.” He sauntered to the doorway and tipped his hat mockingly. “Ya got my word on it, little lady.”
“Was the ruffian disturbing you?” Lord Cheverley walked toward her as the shop door closed behind Harding. Two paces away, he must have caught sight of her bleeding lip, for he stopped short. “That villain struck you? By God, I’ll cut him down!” He spun on his heel.
Emily grabbed his sleeve. “Please, my lord, ’tis not your concern. Let him go.”
Lord Cheverley paused. Emily could feel the tension in the coiled muscles beneath her fingers. The scent of shaving soap and warm male filled her nostrils. She had a sudden, dizzying perception of the leashed power within the body towering over her, and for an instant she felt almost—safe. Like with Andrew.
Bitter memory flooded her, and her grip on his sleeve slackened. Giving her head a shake, she pushed the surging emotions back and fumbled for some rational comment. “Y-you wished something else? Did the bonnet not suit?”
“You must allow me to pursue him!” Cheverley pulled away from her hand. “I cannot permit the blackguard to get away with such an insult.”
“He was only delivering a message—rather crudely, I admit—from his employer. But my trivial affairs cannot concern you. With what can I assist you, my lord?”
“Should I not rather ask you that?”
Emily opened her lips to explain, then closed them. She had carried her own burdens for so long, ’twas vastly tempting to pour out her troubles to this seemingly strong, intelligent and interested stranger. But he is a stranger, she reminded herself. He is not Andrew.
“Is the man’s employer threatening you over some matter of business?”
Emily hesitated. The Earl of Cheverley could have no real interest in her…except, she thought, as she remembered the blatant admiration on his face earlier, of the same sort Harding had so crudely expressed. She pushed the degrading notion aside. Then again, his lordship might well serve as magistrate for his county. Perhaps she might chance requesting legal advice. She looked up to find him smiling.
“Come, after so distressing an encounter, you must sit.” Tentatively, he took her arm. With a sigh she let him lead her to the chair.
“Now, please allow me to help.” There being no other perch in the tiny office, he indicated a cleared space on the desktop. “May I?”
At his continued solicitude, her scruples collapsed. Nodding acquiescence, she let him seat himself, and briefly recited the facts of her encounter with Mr. Harding.
“I cannot be sure he really spoke for his employer. It could be that he works this game on his own, to augment his income, and Mr. Harrington would be shocked and disapproving should I inform him of it.”
“Perhaps.” Lord Cheverley frowned thoughtfully. “He’d probably express outrage in any event. But if this Harrington is indeed in collusion, confronting him might bring down immediate harm of the sort you’ve just suffered. You must not risk that.”
“I shall have to risk it. I cannot pay, and I certainly don’t wish to—well, I shall have to settle it sometime. Better sooner than later.”
“Have you no family, preferably broad of muscle and deep of pocket, to take care of this matter?”
In her rattled state, that simple question shredded the ragged bonds restraining memory. A tide of hurt, betrayal, pain and grief flooded forth. She struggled to stem it, for a moment unable to utter a word. Despite her efforts, one tear escaped. “No one,” she managed to whisper.
“Dear lady, you mustn’t distress yourself!” Cheverley leaned forward, his forehead puckered in concern. “I shall look into this personally. My solicitor will check out the gentlemen, and I’ll have him round up some off-duty runners to keep an eye on your shop. I doubt that ham-fisted coward would dare make a move if he sees able-bodied men on guard.”
When she started to protest, he waved her to silence. “No disagreement. We cannot have brigands going about menacing honest citizens. Besides, my mother would insist, for she holds you in the highest regard. As do I.”
“But you barely know me.”
“Everything I needed to know, I learned the moment I looked into your eyes.”
His low voice vibrated with emotion. Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, she turned away. “Don’t misunderstand, I don’t wish to appear ungrateful, but I…” She flushed. “I simply cannot afford to pay your solicitor, much less hire runners. As Mr. Harding well knows.”
Cheverley made a dismissive gesture. “Don’t trouble yourself. I shall take care of it.”
“Oh, but you don’t understand!” Humiliation deepening, she forced herself to add, “I’m afraid the profits of shopkeeping are vastly overrated.” She managed a weak smile. “I cannot even predict when I should have sufficient funds to repay you.”
He smiled back. He had, she noted despite her distress, a singularly engaging smile that dimpled the skin beside the lean mouth and brought that devilish sparkle to his deep blue eyes. “Ridding the streets of such vermin constitutes something of a civic duty. And, as you doubtless know, I’m a wealthy man. Think no more of it.”
“But I could not be under such an obligation—”
“Please.” He put one finger to her bleeding lip. “I should consider protecting you a very great honor.”
She ought to protest further, but his touch seemed to tangle her already tattered thoughts. As she sat speechless, he slowly traced his gloved finger around the circumference of her swollen lip.
The soft brush of chamois against her stinging skin mesmerized her, sent little ripples of sensation throughout her body. Her startled gaze flew to his.
His finger stopped its tracery. He drew in a sharp breath and met her eyes with a glance so intense she felt herself drawn almost physically closer. The steady pulse of his warm finger quivered against her lip.
When at last he removed his hand, the only thing she could think to stutter was, “Y-you have soiled your glove.”
Cheverley looked at the bloodstain on the fawn surface. He raised his finger and kissed the spot. “I shall treasure it. Don’t worry, Madame, that villain will trouble you no more. You have my word on it.”
Evan whistled as he walked back down the street, a bounce in his step. He breathed in deeply, his nostrils still filled with the enchanting scent of lavender, his senses still heightened by the heady euphoria of holding that slender arm, touching those delicate lips.
He’d roust his solicitor from the tea table and ensure the runners were dispatched immediately. The mere thought of that slimy little villain putting his foul hand on Madame Emilie’s perfect face sent a blistering rage through him. He would check back personally to make sure guards were posted this very day.
But he shouldn’t be too angry at the fellow who had provided him such a perfect opportunity to act the rescuer, he reminded himself as the rage cooled. Surely the divine Madame would look kindly on him for intervening. Be she ever so virtuous, surely she could imagine a way to repay his concern, one that might be immensely gratifying to them both.
Not that he would so much as hint such a thing. Indeed, doing so would relegate him to the same crass category as the unspeakable Mr. Harding. The Earl of Cheverley normally had only to express interest, and the chosen lady hurried to do his bidding. The impossibly beautiful Madame, however, seemed reluctant to accept even protective assistance from him, despite the real danger in which she stood.
Vividly he recalled that sizzling glance, her smoldering touch. She was aloof, and yet undeniably responsive.
Winning her would not be easy, he recognized, his instincts piqued by the challenge. Once she was won, however, he could imagine no more enjoyable a task than lifting every burden from her slim shoulders and sheltering that exquisite body close.
A discreet little house in Mayfair, perhaps? With furnishings in the first stare of elegance, a loyal staff, gowns, jewels, carriages, whatever she wished. He would move heaven and earth to grant her every whim. He imagined dressing her in amethysts and deep plum satin to match those incredible eyes. Imagined even more vividly undressing her….
Excitement tingled in his veins, and something else tingled lower. Not for months had he felt so alive, so buoyed with anticipation.
He would ensure her safety, of course, whether she smiled on him now or not. But sooner or later, he vowed, she would.
Chapter Two
Emily saw the man immediately after she unbolted the shop door the next morning. As she stared through the fog-wisped air, shocked into immobility, the burly figure lounging in a doorway opposite snapped to attention and gave her a jaunty wave. The bright red waistcoat under his buff frieze jacket proclaimed him a runner, apparently detailed, as Lord Cheverley had promised, to protect her.
Her immediate rush of relief was succeeded by a worry that gnawed at her all morning as she fashioned her bonnets and waited on customers. His lordship was obviously a man of his word. Could he, as he claimed, construe it his public duty to ensure private citizens such as herself were not molested in their homes and businesses? And the wages of the watchman now loitering on the street outside—did she truly, as he insisted, have no need to concern herself over the matter?
Her thoughts went round and round, but always returned to the same point. Despite his lordship’s promises, she could not deem it prudent to permit him to fund her protection.
For one thing, the very thought of accepting so great a boon from one entirely unrelated grated against every principle upon which she’d been raised. More ominously, as bitter experience had taught her twice over, rich and influential men like my lord of Cheverley did nothing without calculation. Debts owed would be called in sooner or later, generally when most advantageous to the lender. Worse yet, she thought with more than a touch of annoyance, the earl’s immediate, high-handed action—taken without any consultation as to her preferences—had stuck a spoke in the wheel of Josh Harding’s game, a curb that villain was unlikely to forgive or forget.
She recalled the strength of the bully’s rough hands jerking her close, the stench of his wet tongue assaulting her mouth. An involuntary shiver skittered down her spine. She had few illusions as to what sort of vengeance he would choose if he could get her once more in his power.
Which meant, unless she were prepared to relocate her business—a financial impossibility—she was likely to need protection for some considerable time. Yet more reason to stand alone now, for who could predict how long the quixotic Earl’s interest in her welfare would last?
Perhaps it would be possible to have his solicitor maintain the defensive policies already set in motion. She should consult the man immediately. And determine safety’s unpalatable price.
That unpleasant conclusion reached, she instructed Francesca to take over the shop, and embarked on the long walk to the offices of his lordship’s counselor.
The bored-looking young clerk who answered her knock subjected her to an insolent inspection her glacial manner did nothing to discourage—until she stated that her business concerned the Earl of Cheverley. Instantly the clerk turned respectful, ushering her to a seat and announcing he would immediately inform his master of her presence.
Yet another indication of the Earl’s power, she thought uneasily as she leaned back to rest her tired shoulders. The chair on which she sat was luxuriously appointed in leather; heavy damask drapes hung at the windows, and a Turkey carpet graced the floor. The entire establishment reeked of exclusivity and expensive cigars.
Suddenly she was transported in memory to a room very like this, where a lifetime ago a defiant young lady had informed her sire she intended to embark, not on the London Season planned for her, but on a vessel bound for the Peninsula, as the bride of Lieutenant Andrew Waring-Black. When she remained steadfast in the face of her father’s adamant disapproval, he alternately mocked, threatened and finally raged he’d see her dead first. “Where do you think you would find yourself, missy, when that impertinent jackanapes got himself killed? Destitute in some heathenish land, that’s where, earning a living upon your back!”
“Mr. Manners will see you now.” The clerk’s deferential words startled her out of reverie. Clenching her fingers on her reticule, Emily followed him.
Behind a huge desk sat a thin man with spectacles perched on his narrow nose. Shelves of legal tomes lined the walls; a leather armchair astride another tasteful carpet poised before the desk. A lamp glowed, adding the piquant scent of its flaming oil to the melange of cigar and lemon wood polish. The heavy curtains were drawn, as if the occupant did not wish even the daylight to intrude into his sanctum. The polite but piercing look he fixed on her said he resented her intrusion as well.
“That will be all, Richards,” Mr. Manners said. The clerk, who had been staring at her again, hastily bowed himself out. “A chair, Mrs. Spenser?”
Emily sat. This forbidding man did not seem likely to trouble himself over one such as her. More than ever, she sensed the excluding wall that barred all that was weak and womanly from the world of male privilege and power.
An old, familiar resentment revived her flagging spirits. “Mr. Manners, Lord Cheverley consulted you about me. A matter of attempted extortion, you may remember.”
“Yes, Mrs. Spenser, I’m fully cognizant of the details. Has there been another…incident?”
“No, sir, the, ah, guard his lordship promised has been dispatched. There have been no further threats. I just wished to inquire as to the normal procedure in such situations.”
“There is no ‘normal’ procedure, ma’am. I don’t usually prosecute matters of this sort, but as his lordship refers all his legal business to me, I have of course undertaken a full investigation. You need have no further concern for your safety, I assure you. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
Emily resisted his clear dismissal. “Oh, but I wish—”
“Mrs. Spenser, I am sure his lordship, at his convenience, will acquaint you with any details he deems appropriate. I simply cannot discuss a pending case with other than my client.” This time, he rose and indicated the door.
“And if I were your client?” Emily persisted, rising, but refusing to let his obvious annoyance intimidate her.
“I see no need for that. His lordship already retains me, and as I’ve informed you, everything needful is being done.”
“I am sure it is, Mr. Manners. You must not think I doubt your competence, or that I am not grateful for his lordship’s intervention. But if this…situation should recur in future? Sadly, there are always rogues only too ready to prey on the honest. As a woman alone, I would wish to be informed of my alternatives.”
Mr. Manners tilted his head and tapped at his chin. “’Tis true, ma’am, that despite taking appropriate action now, one cannot rule out the possibility of future difficulties.” He looked her up and down. “You are a widow, I understand. You have no near relatives, yours or your late husband’s, to see to your protection?”
“If I had, would I be here now?” she replied, an edge of anger in her voice.
To her surprise, the humorless face creased in what might be construed as a smile. “Excuse me, I meant no disrespect. Please, sit back down, Mrs. Spenser. What is it you wish to know?”
Emily felt some of the tension leave her. “How does your office handle such a matter? Should I report any future threats to the authorities? And what…” She faltered. “What fee would you require, were I to retain you?”
“First, I would not have you contact the authorities—not initially. Come to my office first. Most of the magistrates are honest folk, but from time to time a bad apple falls into the basket, as it were. My contacts would ascertain the background and intention of the perpetrators and proceed from there. And my normal fee would be two hundred pounds, plus the expense of hiring runners if I thought the need justified.”
Emily tried not to gasp. Lord Cheverley was laying out two hundred pounds, plus expenses, to thwart Mr. Harding? And she had thought another ten pounds a month exorbitant!
She forced herself to rise on shaking legs. “Th-thank you for the information, and for your time, Mr. Manners.”
He rose and nodded. “Think nothing of it, Mrs. Spenser.” His shrewd eyes scanned her again, and she colored, sure he must have realized how staggering was the sum he’d quoted her, how impossibly far beyond her means.
“Don’t distress yourself, ma’am,” he said, his tone kind. “Lord Cheverley will pursue this to its conclusion, regardless of time or expense. I have had the privilege of his patronage for many years, and one could not find a more conscientious member of the nobility. You may trust him to do the right thing, Mrs. Spenser. And I doubt you will be troubled again.”
His attempted reassurance was nearly as daunting as his fee. She had known pursuing the miscreant would be costly, but had never dreamed the total would be that vast. How could she allow a virtual stranger, be he ever so noble, generous and dutiful, to absorb such an enormous expense on her behalf? But then, how could she ever reimburse him?
Emily sat in her tiny garden, absently eating the nuncheon Francesca had insisted on preparing for her when she returned. She was still pondering the dilemma, and no closer to a solution, when a shadow fell across her teacup.
Lord Cheverley himself stood over her. As her gaze met his, he gave her again that enticing, intimate smile. “Forgive me for disturbing you. I just wished to ascertain that the runner we sent was satisfactory.”
“Yes, of course. I hardly know how to thank you.”
“There’s no need.” He was looking at her intently, waiting, she realized, for her to offer her hand. When she raised it, he brought it to his lips, lingering over it a fraction longer than was proper.
“I would have called last night to report the guard was in place, but I had several appointments, and ’twas late when I returned to check. I saw no lights, and did not wish to disturb you.”
“You came by last night?” she echoed in astonishment.
“Of course. I told you I would. I could not have slept, had I not been assured of your safety.”
It had been so long since someone other than Francesca had expressed any concern whatsoever for her well-being that in spite of herself, she was touched. “You are too kind. Again, I thank you. And you must allow me to defray some of the costs—the runners, perhaps—”
He waved away the suggestion. “Certainly not. A business as clever and stylish as yours must surely succeed, but hardly needs any additional expenses at its inception. I am fully recompensed by knowing you are safe.”
Again, she felt absurdly touched. “I do feel safe. Thank you for that.”
His compelling gaze captured hers. “I would not beteem the winds of heaven/visit thy face too roughly,” he paraphrased from Hamlet. Gently he touched one finger to the bruised corner of her mouth.
A jolting spark tingled her lip. She stood mesmerized as he slowly removed his hand.
Bemused, she raised her own hand to the spot. ’Tis the bruise that throbs, she told herself.
“Ev, the runner wishes to speak with you.”
It seemed to take a moment for the newcomer’s voice to penetrate. With a grimace, Lord Cheverley stepped back. Waving at him from the garden door, Emily saw, was the man who had accompanied him to her shop the previous day.
His lordship turned on her another dazzling smile. “I shan’t keep you any longer, ma’am. The patrols will be properly maintained, so you may rest easy. If anything occurs to frighten or trouble you, send to me at once. Number 16, Portman Square. Someone there will know where to reach me if I’m from home.”
Once again he raised her hand to his lips. “I shall call again later.”
“’Twould be an honor, my lord,” she managed to murmur.
As Lord Cheverley strode from the garden, his companion ambled toward her. “Brent Blakesly, ma’am,” he said with a bow. “You can rest easy, you know. Evan is as good as his word. Trust him to guarantee your safety.”
“So I’ve been urged,” she murmured, recalling the solicitor’s advice. “I only wish he were not doing so at such great expense.”
She must have looked troubled, for Blakesly’s friendly face sobered. “You mustn’t distress yourself, ma’am. Evan is wealthy enough that his kindness places no strains upon his purse.” He gave her a deprecating smile. “I suppose, having always had vast sums at his disposal, he never realizes it might be difficult for his friends to easily accept his assistance.”
“But I am not a friend,” she replied, her voice low. “I have no more claim to his largesse than I have the means to repay it.”
“May I speak candidly, Mrs. Spenser?” At her nod, he continued, “Evan has a great dislike for bullies. ’Twas how I first met him, when as a runty lad at Eton he pummeled the two upperclassmen who were tormenting me. Seeing some villain attempting to take advantage of a lady, he would feel compelled to prevent it, even—” he grinned at her “—did he not so greatly admire the lady. But you must not imagine his doing so places you under any…obligation whatever. Indeed, I am certain he would be appalled should you even consider such a thing.”
Somehow, his certitude didn’t raise her spirits. She followed as he walked out to join Lord Cheverley on the street. No obligation whatsoever, Blakesly assured her. Trust him to do what is right, the solicitor advised.
But what is right? she wondered as, with a wave, the two men started down the street. And why did her dratted lip still tingle?
Hours later, Emily looked up from the tangle of bills on her desk. Dusk had fallen, and she could hear the lamplighters going about their tasks. Through the salesroom window she glimpsed the glow of a lighted cheroot. Another guard on duty, she surmised.