It was grossly unfair, the way he had put himself to rights so swiftly and with such negligent ease. He had not bothered to retie his cravat, but other than that, he looked immaculate. She could think of no one else of her acquaintance who could have emerged from the inconvenience of a violent battle and a bout of passion with such aplomb.
He brushed off his hands, rose, and turned to face her. There was a disturbingly somber, decidedly grim expression in his eyes.
“We must talk,” he said.
The too-quiet tone of his voice alarmed her as little else could have done in that moment. It gave her the fortitude to pull herself together at last. She gave him what she hoped was a businesslike smile.
“Yes, of course.”
He took a step toward her and stopped. “Emma, I do not know where to begin.”
Dear heaven, he was going to apologize. She had to stop him. She could not bear an apology, of all things. The fear of having to listen to him tell her how much he regretted their passionate interlude caused her to take an awkward step back. She came up hard against Letty’s desk. Her little reticule, which still dangled from her wrist, thumped against the mahogany panel.
She suddenly recalled what was inside.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course, we must talk. I am so glad that you reminded me, sir.” She hastily opened the reticule and dug out the tightly rolled playbills and papers inside. “I have not yet had a chance to show you what I managed to save from the flames.”
“What flames?” Edison scowled at the papers as she spread them out on the desk. “You mean someone tried to burn those in Miranda’s library?”
“It was Swan. He and Miranda had a terrible row when she discovered that he had failed to find anything useful in your study. She dismissed him out of hand. It was really very sad.”
“What the devil do you mean, it was sad?”
“She did not even give him his quarterly wages, let alone a reference.” Emma studied the playbill on top of the pile. “Turned him off without notice. The poor man will no doubt have a difficult time finding another post. But that is not the most unhappy part.”
Edison came forward slowly. “What was the unhappy part?”
“I’m afraid Swan made the mistake of falling in love with his employer.” Emma cleared her throat and concentrated fiercely on the playbill. “After she left him in the library, he cried. It nearly broke my heart to listen to him.”
“He cried?”
“And then he flew into a terrible rage. He took a box full of papers out of a locked drawer and hurled them into the flames. I managed to salvage a few after he left the room.”
Edison came to stand beside her. He did not touch her as he studied the playbills. “Interesting.”
She looked up swiftly. “The violent manner in which Swan tried to destroy these papers made me think that he knew they were very important to Miranda. He was trying to strike back at her for the way in which she had hurt him.”
Edison flipped through the small stack. “These playbills and reviews have one thing in common. They all feature an actress named Fanny Clifton.”
“There is another thing. Look closely, sir. None of these playbills advertise any performances here in Town.” Emma turned over another page. “They feature a company of traveling actors that appears to have performed chiefly in the North.”
Edison picked up a review and read aloud.
The glorious Miss Clifton brought a new interpretation to the role of Lady Macbeth. The expression of piercing dread in her fine blue eyes was evident even to those seated in the most remote seats. Her small, graceful form is particularly suited to the elegant costume she wore.
“Fine blue eyes,” Emma whispered. “Small, graceful form.” She looked at Edison. “Have you reached the same conclusion that I have, sir?”
“That Miranda may have had a previous career as an actress named Fanny Clifton?” Edison tossed the review aside, folded his arms, and leaned back against the edge of the desk. “It would explain why I have been unable to find anyone who knew her before she turned up in London at the start of the Season.”
“But she is obviously very wealthy. Actresses are not rich.”
Edison raised his brows. “Some have managed to marry extremely well.”
“True.” Emma reflected on that for a moment. There had been one or two particularly notorious actresses who had succeeded in charming wealthy lords into marriage. “The scandals that ensued have generally made it necessary for the couples to leave Town, however.”
Edison met her eyes. “Perhaps Miranda and her husband, the mysterious, late Lord Ames, were obliged to go as far away as Italy.”
“Why would she lie and claim that she came down from Scotland?”
“Perhaps because she did not want anyone to suspect a connection to Italy,” Edison said slowly.
“If you can prove that Miranda spent some time in Italy during the past year, it would give you a possible link to that Farrell Blue person whom you said deciphered one of the recipes.”
“Yes, it would.” Edison paused. “Then again, perhaps there never was a Lord Ames.”
“A good point.” Emma raised her brows. “After all, if I can invent my own references, I suppose another woman might invent a husband. But that would not explain her obvious wealth. It must come from some source.”
“Indeed. And the name of that source should prove extremely interesting.” Edison straightened away from the desk. “I shall begin making inquiries in that direction first thing in the morning. In the meantime, you and I have something else to discuss.”
Emma stiffened. “If you don’t mind, sir, I would rather not continue this conversation. It is late and I am quite exhausted.”
“Emma—”
“It has been an eventful evening,” she said hastily. “I fear I am not accustomed to the, uh, rigors of the social world. I am eager to go to my bed.”
He looked as though he would argue. She held her breath. But Edison had apparently reached some private decision.
He inclined his head with awful formality. “As you wish. But do not think that this matter between us can be ignored indefinitely.”
“The less said, the better,” she muttered. “Good night, sir.”
He hesitated. She could see the irritation flicker in his eyes. Again she feared that he would force a conversation. Instead, he turned and went toward the door.
“Good night, Emma.” He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “As your employer, allow me to tell you that you went above and beyond the call of duty tonight. Rest assured that you will be suitably rewarded for this evening’s work.”
She could not believe her ears. And then rage lanced through her. “Rewarded. Did you say rewarded?”
“I feel compelled to add an extra few pounds to your wages at the end of your employment in my service,” he continued thoughtfully.
“How dare you, sir?” She seized the nearest object, a small globe, and hurled it at his head. “How dare you imply that I would take money for that … that stupid incident in the carriage? I am obliged to work for my living, but I am no whore”
He caught the globe with a seemingly absent movement of his hand. “For God’s sake, Emma, I did not mean that you were.”
She ignored him. She was in the grip of a storm of fury. She cast about for something else to throw and got hold of a vase full of flowers. “I will not take money for what happened between us. Do you hear me? I would sooner starve in the workhouse than accept money from you for that.”
She tossed the full vase with all of her strength.
“Damn it, calm yourself, Emma.” He managed to catch the vase but he did not succeed in avoiding the contents. Water and flowers splashed him in the face. He grimaced and shook his head once. “I was talking about rewarding you for your investigation in Miranda’s library. What you discovered may prove extremely useful.”
“Rubbish.” She planted her hands on her hips. “I don’t believe you.”
br /> Anger flashed across his face. “I’m telling you the truth, you maddening, stubborn, featherbrained creature.”
He was suddenly roaring at her, Emma thought, nonplussed. She had never heard him lose his temper like this.
“Do you swear that on your oath?” she asked, not bothering to conceal her suspicion.
“Hell’s teeth, woman.” He glared at her, wet hair plastered to his head, eyes glittering with anger. “If I was in the market for a mistress, I would have chosen a female with a more compliant character and a good deal more experience in the passionate arts than you’ve got.”
Her jaw dropped. “Now you’re insulting me for lacking experience in that sort of thing?”
“I’m trying to make it bloody damn clear that I do not view what happened in the carriage as a business venture.” With a disgusted gesture he flicked some stray petals from the sleeve of his coat. “The reward I mentioned was for what you discovered concerning Lady Ames, or Fanny Clifton, whatever the case may be.”
“Edison—”
He scowled at her as he jerked open the door. “And while we’re on the subject, allow me to inform you that if you ever again take that sort of risk, I will never write that bloody reference for you.”
“Edison, wait.” She picked up her skirts and rushed toward the door. “Perhaps I was a bit hasty in my accusations.”
He did not deign to respond. The library door closed very firmly in her face just as she reached it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Edison steeled himself the way he always did on the rare occasions when he was obliged to pay a call on his grandmother. He even dreaded the simple act of entering the mansion in which she lived, although he could not explain his reaction to the house. By rights it should have pleased his taste in such matters. It was a grand structure in the Palladian style, with classical lines and well-proportioned rooms. But it always seemed oppressive and cold to him. Long ago he had privately dubbed it the Exbridge Fortress.
He crossed the drawing room to the sofa where Victoria, Lady Exbridge sat, a regal, solitary queen of a woman. It was at times such as this, he reflected, that he truly appreciated the usefulness of good manners. They were both sword and shield in the brutally civil skirmishes in which he and Victoria engaged.
“Edison.” Victoria regarded him with the austere, imperious air that was second nature to her. “It is about time you got here.”
“I believe your note requested me to call at three, Lady Exbridge.” He never addressed her as Grandmother. To do so would have been to yield a tiny fraction of the ground he had vowed to defend. She had never wanted him as a grandson, not even after he had salvaged the Exbridge fortune for her. Damned if he would admit that he wished to have her for a grandmother. “It is precisely three now.”
He studied his opponent as he inclined his head very formally over her hand. Victoria was, he concluded, in her customary fit fighting form today, perhaps even a bit more eager for combat than usual.
Age had added a few lines and wrinkles to what had once been a strikingly beautiful face, but nothing would ever soften the hawklike glitter in those golden brown eyes. Eyes that were, Edison knew, the mirror image of his own.
Victoria wore the cloak of elegance and style as easily as if she had been born in it. Her high-waisted, silver-gray morning gown with its crisp ruff and full sleeves was obviously the work of an expensive French modiste. It was a perfect complement to her silver hair.
Edison was well aware that her natural sense of style together with her position as the wife of a wealthy viscount had combined to make her a glittering hostess at one time. Her soirees and balls and fashionable salons had once been the talk of the ton. Widowed when her son, Wesley, had been fourteen, she had remained prominent in social circles.
But all that had changed several years later after Wesley’s death and the shock of learning that he had gambled away the family estates. She had withdrawn from the social whirl altogether. She rarely went out, preferring the solitude of her conservatory and occasional visits with a handful of old friends.
Not even the restoration of the Exbridge fortune had brought her out of her self-imposed seclusion. What had he expected? Edison asked himself. That she would be grateful to him for protecting her from the shame and ignominy of bankruptcy? As if such a gesture from a bastard grandson could possibly make up for the loss of her legitimate son and heir.
“You should have called to tell me the news of your engagement as soon as you returned to Town,” Victoria said, by way of her opening salvo. “I was left to learn the information from Arabella Stryder. It was exceedingly awkward for me.”
Arabella was, Edison knew, one of the few friends Victoria still saw regularly.
“I doubt that even a volcano erupting in your drawing room could make you feel awkward, madam.” He smiled humorlessly. “Certainly no news of me would have the power to do so.”
“One would think that having endured your disdain for the social niceties often enough in the past, I would have grown inured to it. Nevertheless, this time you go too far.”
“That is an odd complaint, coming from you, madam. As I recall, it was only last month that you again took me to task for failing to find myself a suitable wife.”
Victoria’s eyes snapped with anger. “Suitable is the key word. From all accounts, your fiancée is hardly suitable.”
“You are in no position to form an opinion on the subject. You have not yet met her.”
“I have heard more than enough to conclude that you have made a disastrous choice.”
“Why do you say that?” Edison asked mildly.
“According to Arabella, your Miss Greyson was employed as Lady Mayfield’s paid companion when you met her. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Incredible. A professional lady’s companion? In your position you could easily choose any heiress on the marriage mart.”
“I don’t know that I can afford to be too choosy, madam.” Edison smiled thinly. “We must not forget that I am not exactly a prize myself. I was born on the wrong side of the blanket, if you will recall. Miss Greyson’s parentage, on the other hand, is quite respectable.”
Victoria’s gaze crackled with anger but she did not take the bait. “I was also told that the reason you announced your engagement to Miss Greyson, in the middle of the night, no less, was because she was in danger of being accused of murdering Mr. Crane.”
“That was a factor in the timing of my decision,” Edison admitted.
“Everyone who was at Ware Castle believes that she actually did kill Crane. Most of the ton think that you’ve just engaged yourself to a murderess, of all things.”
“It makes no great difference to me, one way or the other.” Edison shrugged. “Crane deserved to be shot.”
Victoria stared at him. “How dare you sound so blasé. We are speaking of the dreadful killing of an innocent man.”
“Chilton Crane was not what anyone would call innocent.”
“Have you forgotten that Mr. Crane was a highly esteemed gentleman of the ton? He belonged to all the best clubs. He moved in the most elevated circles. He was connected to the marquis of Riverton on his mother’s side.”
“Crane was a thoroughly debauched rakehell who preyed on young women who had no one to protect them from his lechery. He specialized in forcing himself on chambermaids, governesses, and companions. He was also a reckless gamester.” Edison paused. “In point of fact, he probably had a good deal in common with my father.”
“How dare you say such a thing?” Victoria’s voice vibrated with fury. This time she did take the hook. “I have told you often enough that Wesley did not force himself on your mother. She was a foolish young woman who got involved with an engaged man well above her station, and she paid the price.”
“She was foolish,” Edison agreed politely. “Foolish enough to believe my father when he claimed that he loved her. Foolish enough to put her faith in him when he said that he was free
to marry her. Foolish enough to think that she had given herself to a man of honor.”
“Never forget that she sold her own honor in the process.”
He clamped his fingers around the mantel and forced himself to produce a politely quizzical smile. “I am, of course, delighted to discuss family history with you, madam. But I must warn you that I cannot stay long, as I have another appointment at four. If there is something else you wish to talk about this afternoon, perhaps we ought to get to it.”
Victoria’s mouth was a flat, hard line. As Edison watched she took a visible breath, schooling her raw fury, just as he had done a moment earlier. He wondered if she would retreat to her conservatory after he left. It was what he did when he needed to calm the dark, dangerous emotions such conversations aroused.
He watched her pick up her teacup. The dainty china trembled ever so slightly in her grasp.
He should have been able to take some measure of satisfaction in knowing that he had the power to force her to the brink of her self-control. But as usual, the knowledge that he had done so did nothing to elevate his mood. He wondered again, as he always did, what it was that he wanted from this formidable woman. Why did he continue this bristly, unpleasant association? Why did he not simply ignore her very existence? It was not as if she wanted any attention from him.
“You know very well that I asked you to come here today so that I could hear the truth about your so-called engagement from your own lips,” Victoria said icily.
“There is nothing so-called about it. I am, indeed, engaged.”
“I refuse to believe that you actually intend to marry this … this murderess.”
“Have a care with the way you fling that word murderess around,” he warned her very softly. “If necessary, I am prepared to testify in court that Miss Greyson was with me at the time of Crane’s murder.”
“Crane was killed in the middle of the night. Arabella said that when you and Miss Greyson appeared to join the others at the scene of the crime, she was dressed in a nightshirt, cap, and a wrapper. She appeared to have just got out of bed.”