A short silence fell after the door closed behind Polly. Emma used it to contemplate the risks of the career she had chosen.
“A common enough tale, I’m afraid,” Letty said eventually. “Not much chance that she found a new post as a companion, that’s for certain, not without a reference from her last employer. So depressing when a young woman squanders her assets.”
“Hmm,” Emma said. She thought about the references she had written for herself in recent weeks. “Sometimes one can invent an illusion of assets.”
Letty’s thin, gray brows rose. Wry amusement glinted in her bright brown eyes. “If a gel’s smart enough to do that, then she’d best use the illusion to marry a wealthy old fool in his dotage. Take it from me, once that is accomplished, one is free to enjoy life.”
Emma thought of giving herself to a man she could neither love nor respect. She clenched her hands in her lap. She would forge a better fate for herself and for Daphne.
“I do not have any plans to marry, Letty.”
Letty half closed her lashes and eyed her speculatively. “Is it that you no longer have your chief asset to barter or is it that you don’t care for the notion of selling it in the marketplace?”
Emma gave her a brilliant smile. “If it transpired that I no longer possessed my virtue, I would certainly not admit it and risk losing my post as your companion, now, would I?”
Letty gave a crack of laughter. “Very well done, my dear. So you don’t care for the notion of bartering your assets for a wedding ring, eh?”
“My fortunes may have fallen quite low of late,” Emma said. “But not so low that I am tempted to go into trade.”
The London newspapers arrived shortly before noon. As was the case with most gentlemen in the country, Basil Ware subscribed to a wide variety, including The Times.
Emma had spent the past hour alone in the library feverishly awaiting the arrival of the post. The household was finally astir, but thus far, few of the guests had ventured downstairs. When Mrs. Gatten, plump and placid, walked into the room with the papers in her work-worn hands, Emma practically pounced on her.
“Thank you, Mrs. Gatten.” She scooped the newspapers out of the housekeeper’s grasp and rushed to the window seat.
“Yer welcome.” Mrs. Gatten shook her head. “Never seen anyone so eager to read the papers. Not like there’s ever any good news in ’em.”
Emma waited impatiently until the housekeeper had left. Then she jerked off the useless spectacles and set them aside. She tore through the newspapers, anxiously searching for the shipping news.
There was no new word of the fate of The Golden Orchid, the ship in which she had invested nearly everything she had got from the sale of the house in Devon. The vessel was now more than two months overdue.
Presumed lost at sea.
Emma had first read the dreadful words in the shipping columns six weeks ago, but she still could not bring herself to give up hope. She had been so certain that the single share she had purchased in The Golden Orchid would prove to be a shrewd investment. Her intuition had never been stronger than it was on the day she had risked everything on the vessel.
“Bloody ship.” She tossed aside the last of the papers. “That is the very last time I shall follow a hunch.”
But she knew, even as she took the oath, that she was lying to herself. Sometimes her hunches were simply too strong to be ignored.
“Good day to you, Miss Greyson. The name was Miss Greyson, was it not? I’m afraid I haven’t seen much of you since you arrived.”
Emma jumped at the sound of Basil Ware’s voice. She seized her spectacles and shoved them back on her nose. Then she turned to the gentleman who stood in the doorway.
“Mr. Ware. Good day, sir. I did not hear you come in.”
Basil Ware was an attractive man in a ruddy, open, outdoorsy sort of way. He looked especially good in the riding jacket and breeches that he wore this morning. He was seldom without his riding crop, which he carried the way other men carried walking sticks. In spite of his years in America, he was, she thought, the quintessential English gentleman, genial and fond of sports, very much at home with his hounds and his horses and his shooting companions.
According to Letty, Basil Ware had followed the path of many a younger son. Alone and impoverished, he had gone off to America to make his fortune. He had returned to England early last year when he had learned that his aunt was dying and that he was her sole surviving heir.
Upon taking up his inheritance, Basil had moved into the glittering circles of the ton with ease and a changing grace that had made him extremely popular.
“Is there anything of interest in the papers?” Basil asked as he sauntered into the room. “I confess I haven’t kept up with events in London during the past few days. Been a trifle busy what with entertaining my guests.”
“I saw no news of any great import.” Emma got to her feet and smoothed her dull brown skirts.
She was about to excuse herself when a large, hulking figure garbed in Lady Ames’s distinctive blue and silver livery appeared in the doorway.
Swan, Miranda’s personal footman, bore no resemblance to his graceful namesake. His neck was so thick that it was almost nonexistent. The planes of his face were flat and broad. The fabric of his expensive livery was stretched very snugly across the bulging muscles of his chest and thighs. His hands and feet made Emma think of a bear she had once seen at a fair.
No wonder Chilton Crane had scrambled out of Miranda’s bedchamber last night after she had threatened to summon her footman, Emma thought.
Still, there was an honest, earnest expression in Swan’s eyes that Emma found reassuring. Swan was no brute. He simply had the misfortune to look like one. From what she had observed, he was devoted to his mistress.
“Beg pardon, sir,” Swan said in a voice that bore a striking resemblance to a rusty razor. “I have a message for you from my mistress. Lady Ames asked me to tell you that she will be happy to entertain your lady guests while you’re off at the races with the gentlemen.”
“Excellent. I shan’t have to worry about the ladies growing bored while I’m away with the men, eh?”
Swan cleared his throat. “I also have a message for you, Miss Greyson.”
“Me?” Emma was dumbfounded. “From Lady Ames?”
“Yes, ma’am. She instructed me to invite you to join her and the other ladies in the amusements she has planned this afternoon. She said she did not want you to wander off by yourself the way you did yesterday.”
“Quite right,” Basil declared jovially. “As Lady Mayfield’s companion, you’re a guest here, same as the others, Miss Greyson. By all means, join Miranda and the ladies today.”
It was the very last thing she wished to do, but she could not think of a polite way to refuse. “Thank you, Mr. Ware.” She summoned a small smile for Swan. “Please tell Lady Ames that I am very grateful for her consideration.”
“My mistress is the kindest and most thoughtful of ladies.” There was something close to reverence in Swan’s harsh voice. “I am honored to serve her.”
Oh dear, Emma thought. The poor man is in love with her.
CHAPTER FIVE
The tea was an unusual blend, Miranda had explained. It was mixed to her order by a merchant located just off Bond Street. She had brought enough with her to Ware Castle to allow the others to sample it.
“I could hardly leave the tea to dear Basil, now could I?” Miranda had said when the first cups were poured for the ladies. “Men know nothing about that sort of thing.”
Very slowly Emma put down her cup. She dared not move quickly. The sudden sensation of dizziness made her slightly nauseated. She would be mortified if she became ill right here in front of the fine ladies gathered in the circle around her.
Fortunately, none of the others noticed her predicament. They were all engrossed with the new entertainment Miranda had suggested. A guessing game of some sort.
Miranda glittered in her r
ole as hostess for the afternoon. Her glossy black hair was upswept in the newest style. The vivid blue of her gown matched her eyes. She was not exceptionally beautiful, Emma thought, but she seemed to sparkle. Somehow, regardless of whatever was going on around her, Miranda man-aged to be the center of attention.
Her faithful footman, Swan, watched her with an adoration that Emma found painful to behold.
“Who can tell me what card I have turned facedown on the table?” Miranda asked brightly. “Suzanne? Will you try?”
“An ace of clubs?” Suzanne, Lady Tredmere, hazarded.
“No.” Miranda looked expectantly at the next lady in the circle. “Your turn, Stella.”
“Let me think.” The tall, blonde woman pretended to deliberate for a few seconds. Then she laughed. “I haven’t the vaguest notion, Miranda. A three of diamonds, perhaps?”
“I fear not.” Miranda’s smile had a fixed intensity. “Who will be next? What about you, Letty?”
“I have never been much good at this sort of thing,” Letty said. “I take an interest in cards only when there’s money at stake.”
“Give it a try,” Miranda urged.
Letty sipped tea and eyed the card. “Oh, very well. Let me think a moment.”
Emma took a deep, shaky breath and tried to collect herself. What was wrong with her? She enjoyed excellent health. In fact, she had felt perfectly fine only a moment ago.
Although she had not been eager to join the ladies when they went outside for the archery contest, Miranda had insisted and she had done her best to be polite. She had dutifully participated in the charades that had followed the archery, and now she was attempting to engage in the silly card game.
Surprisingly, Miranda had been almost cordial to Emma today. A bit condescending, perhaps, but not unfriendly. She had been especially eager for her to take part in the card game.
“King of hearts,” Letty proclaimed.
“Wrong. Miss Greyson?” Miranda turned to Emma. “It’s your turn to guess.”
“I’m sorry, I—” Emma broke off, trying to concentrate on not embarrassing herself or Letty. “What was it?”
“That’s what I am asking you, Miss Greyson,” Miranda said, a trace of impatience in her voice. “I assumed you wished to play the game.”
“Yes, of course.” Emma swallowed heavily against the rising nausea and stared at the card on the table.
All she had to do was name a card, any card. Miranda’s game was not one that required skill. Chance alone was involved. Certainly no one expected her to come up with the correct answer.
She looked up from the card, straight into Miranda’s ice blue eyes.
And suddenly she knew what card lay facedown on the table.
“An ace of hearts,” she murmured politely.
A flicker of what could have been surprise or even excitement flashed in Miranda’s gaze. She reached out and turned over the card. “You are correct, Miss Greyson. The ace of hearts it is.”
“A lucky guess,” Emma said weakly.
“Let’s try it again.” Miranda picked up the deck of cards and quickly began to reshuffle it. “Swan, please pour more of my special tea for everyone.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Swan, who as usual was stationed close to Miranda, picked up the large silver pot.
Cynthia Dallencamp eyed the footman with an expression of avid sexual interest as he dutifully refilled her cup.
“Wherever did you get Swan, Miranda?” she asked as if the footman were invisible. “He really is the most amusing creature. I do like size in a man, don’t you?”
Swan flinched but he gamely went on to the next cup. In spite of her own problems, Emma felt very sorry for him.
“He came to work for me at the start of the Season.” Miranda quirked a black brow. “I assure you, he is extremely useful to have around the house.”
“Indeed,” Cynthia murmured. “Would you consider lending him to me for a day or so? Just long enough for me to determine if everything about him is as large as one would hope. I vow, it is so very difficult to find a man who is big enough to give one satisfactory service in every respect.”
Several of the ladies dissolved into laughter at the blatant sexual innuendo.
Swan turned a deep, painful red as he stopped beside Emma. She noticed that the teapot shook in his hands. She feared that when he poured her cup he would spill the brew and invite more laughter together with the withering anger of his employer.
“No, thank you,” Emma said quickly. “I’ve had enough.”
“But I insist,” Miranda said sharply. “It’s an excellent tonic.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is.” It dawned on Emma that it might be the unusual tea that had made her ill. She glanced covertly around the circle. None of the others seemed the least bit bilious.
“Pour Miss Greyson’s tea, Swan,” Miranda snapped.
“I vow,” Cynthia murmured in a voice everyone could hear, “I quite like the way Swan’s livery fits, don’t you, Abby? It certainly sets off his best features. The view from the rear is especially interesting.”
Hot tea splashed on Emma’s fingers. She flinched and jerked her hand out of the way. She heard Swan’s small, anguished gasp.
“You clumsy idiot,” Miranda hissed. “Look what you’ve done, Swan. You spilled tea on Miss Grey son.”
Swan went rigid.
Emma pulled herself together with an effort of will. “Swan did not spill the tea, Lady Ames. I moved the cup just as he started to pour. It was my own fault that I got a few drops on my hand. There is no harm done. I was about to excuse myself, in any event.”
Swan looked pathetically grateful.
“Where are you going?” Miranda demanded, instantly distracted from her rage. “We have only begun to play.”
“I believe I will retire to my room, if you don’t mind.” Emma rose cautiously. She was relieved to note that so long as she moved slowly, she could deal with the dizziness. “You have been most kind to include me in your entertainments but for some reason, I … I am not feeling quite myself at the moment.”
Letty scowled in concern. “See here, are you all right, Emma?”
“Yes, of course.” She smiled weakly and clung to the back of the chair for support. “Just the headache.”
“Dear me.” Miranda’s smile could have been carved from a glacier. “I believe we have quite overwhelmed poor Miss Greyson with a little too much excitement. She is not accustomed to participating in social amusements with those who move in elevated circles. Is that the case, Miss Greyson?”
Emma ignored the sarcasm. “Indeed.”
She turned carefully and walked slowly out of the library. The staircase on the other side of the vast stone hall looked very far away. She braced herself and started toward it.
It seemed to take forever to climb all the way up to the third floor. But by the time she had reached the landing, she thought she was feeling a trifle better. Nevertheless, she longed to lie down until the last of the ill effects of the tea had worn off.
There was no one about in the hall. Hardly surprising, she thought. She had this wing to herself. She was the only guest who had been assigned a chamber in this corridor. The other dingy little rooms here appeared to be used primarily for storage and linens.
She was definitely feeling steadier by the time she got her key into the lock of her bedchamber. She pushed open the door and walked into the small, cramped quarters.
She glanced around the Spartan chamber with its small bed, tiny washstand, and narrow window. The only hint of warmth or decoration came from the framed bit of embroidery that hung on the wall above the wash-stand.
Emma took off her spectacles and lowered herself gingerly onto the bed. She adjusted the pillows behind her head and eyed the framed needlework. It was a simple garden scene. Probably Sally Kent’s work, she thought. Polly had said that Sally was forever at her embroidery.
Emma wondered absently why the unfortunate Miss Kent had left the bit of needle
work behind. She was still mulling over the question when she slipped into a light, fretful sleep a few minutes later.
She awoke quite suddenly to the muffled sound of a woman’s fearful cries.
“Please, Mr. Crane, I beg you, don’t do this to me. I’m to be married, I am.”
“Well then, you’ll have good reason to thank me for teaching you a few things about the pleasures of the marriage bed, won’t ye, gel?”
“No, please, you must not. I’m a good girl, I am, sir. Please don’t hurt me.”
“Shut your mouth. If anyone hears you and comes to investigate, you’ll be turned off without a reference. That’s what happened to the last female I tumbled in a linen closet.”
Polly’s small shriek of fear and desperation was cut off abruptly.
Emma did not wait to hear any more. A white-hot rage poured through her. She rolled off the bed, vaguely relieved to note that her head was no longer spinning.
She seized the handle of the heavy iron bedwarmer and ran to the door. She stepped out into the hall, just in time to see a door halfway down the corridor closing. A little white muslin cap lay on the floor where it had fallen.
She picked up her skirts and rushed forward. When she arrived in front of the chamber, she heard muffled thuds.
Bedwarmer held on high, she twisted the ancient iron knob. It turned easily in her grasp. She took a breath and prepared to open the door as quietly as possible. She did not want to give The Bastard any time to react to her presence, if she could help it. Everything depended on timing.
She waited until she heard a particularly loud thud and Polly’s moan of despair. Then she pushed hard on the door. It swung silently inward to reveal a small, dingy storage room illuminated by a single narrow window set high in the wall.
Crane’s back was to Emma. He had already managed to pin Polly to the floor and was working on the fastenings of his trousers. He did not appear to hear Emma enter the closet.