But he hadn't been guarding her sensibilities, had he? He'd been protecting himself.
Emma found it difficult to speak for some moments. When she did find words, they were only three. "I hate her."
He laughed. "You're a vicar's daughter. You can't know what it is to hate anyone."
"Oh, yes, I can." Her hands curled into fists. She growled. "I could strangle the woman."
"You could not."
"Fine. But I would stick her with pins. A large number of pins."
"That, I can almost believe."
"I mean it. A great many pins. She would look like a hedgehog by the time I was through with her."
Emma fumed. Her anger was no exaggeration. She might have envied or resented Annabelle Worthing in the past, but in that moment, she truly despised the woman. How dare she. She'd convinced a brave, loyal, decent man that he was a monster. A creature who deserved nothing more than scraps and shadows of affection, and even then, only in the dark.
"Do you know, this room is rather charming," he said, in an obvious attempt to change the subject.
"Charming?"
"It has possibilities. All it needs is a few draperies, better furnishings, a coat of paint, a mattress stuffed with straw from this decade, a few dozen scrubbing brushes, and a vermin catcher. Where's your imagination?"
She gave him a dry look.
"Of course, there is one thing in the room that requires no alteration." He dropped a kiss on her forehead.
"Nicely rescued."
"Are you hungry at all?"
"Not very."
"Well, I'm famished." He pulled on his trousers and shirt, then jammed his feet into his boots. "I'll see about calling for some breakfast and a cab."
When he opened the bedchamber door, however, a deafening clamor rose up. Shouts and cries from the public rooms below. Footsteps pounding madly up the stairs.
A man elbowed his way into the bedchamber and slammed the door shut behind him. "You don't want to go down there. Trust me."
The stranger wore a mask of black mesh and a similarly dark jerkin cinched over black trousers and a dark shirt. In his hand, he carried a slingshot.
Emma shook her head, bewildered.
Her husband, however, seemed to understand.
"What are you doing here?" He waved a hand at the newcomer's strange attire. "And what is all that?"
"Like it? My old fencing kit, a bit of bootblack . . . and here I am." The intruder pushed the mask back, revealing his face. He bowed to Emma. "At your service, Your Grace."
With the mask dislodged, Emma could see that he was only a boy. Eleven or twelve years old, perhaps. Tall for his age, with jug-handle ears and a gap between his front teeth.
And this boy, whoever he was, seemed to be well acquainted with her husband.
She turned to Ash. "May I trouble you for an introduction?"
"This? This is Trevor."
The boy jabbed his elbow in Ash's side. "Ahem."
Ash rolled his eyes. "Right. This is the Menace."
The Menace? Oh, Emma couldn't wait to hear this story.
"I'm the Monster of Mayfair's associate," the boy said. "Apprentice, if you will. His protege."
"How remarkable. How did this come about?"
Her husband gave her a blank look. "I've no idea."
"You're bloody fortunate it did." The boy walked between them and dropped onto the bed with a creak and a bounce. "All London's gathered outside, waiting on the Monster of Mayfair to make an appearance."
Ash went to the window. "I should have known this would happen. Last night . . . I wasn't thinking."
"No, you weren't thinking." Emma crossed to his side, taking his arm. "You were caring."
"That and a penny will buy you stale bread. It's not going to help us now."
"Would it be so terrible if the world learned the truth?" she asked.
"Considering that I'm known about London as a child-snatching, bloodthirsty monster who sacrifices small animals to the Dark Lord? Yes, I think it would be."
Emma bit her tongue. She longed to point out that perhaps he should have thought about all this before encouraging his notoriety. But it wouldn't do any good just now.
"Well, if you mean to remain anonymous, what do you propose to do?" she asked. "There isn't any rear exit, and I'm not jumping out that window."
"You don't need another exit. All you need is a diversion," Trevor said.
"No diversion will tear that mob away," Ash said. "Maybe a fire, but even that's questionable."
"It's simple." Trevor picked up Ash's hat and placed it on his head. It settled halfway down his ears. "I'll be the Monster. You be the Menace."
"That's ridiculous."
"No," Emma countered, "it's brilliant. Think about it. The crowd down there isn't waiting for the Duke of Ashbury. They're waiting for the Monster of Mayfair. A man in a black hat and cape."
"He's not a man. He's a boy."
"I'm tall for my age," Trevor said defensively.
"A minute or two is all we need. By the time they realize he's not the Monster--"
"You'll have skirted the crowd and escaped." Trevor flashed a smug grin. "And I have a hackney waiting on the next corner."
"My goodness," Emma said. "You've thought of everything, haven't you? What a fine assistant you make."
"Stop encouraging him." Ash said.
"Did you have a better plan?"
"Unfortunately, no." He handed her one of the wool blankets. "Wrap yourself in this. We can't risk anyone getting a glimpse of red silk."
Emma wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. It smelled bad and chafed worse, but it was long and thick enough to serve its purpose. She would take a long, hot bath at home later.
"Leave the rest to me." Trevor launched to his feet. Not three paces away, the boy paused. Then, with a snap of his neck, he looked back at them. He raised a single eyebrow. "You've been menaced."
Ash scowled. "What is that?"
"It's my new signature phrase. A calling card. Still working on the delivery." Trevor lowered his voice to a sinister growl, then lifted the same eyebrow. "You've"--pause--"been menaced."
Emma pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh.
"Or there's this way. You've been"--pause, eyebrow lift--"menaced." The boy cocked his head. "What do you think?"
"I think," Ash said tightly, "you should take them both and--"
"Alternate between them," Emma interrupted. "They're both excellent. Quite memorable."
"Thank you, Your Grace." Trevor bowed over her hand and kissed it. "Until we meet again."
With a flourish of black cape, he was gone.
Finally, she allowed herself to laugh. "What an extraordinary young man."
"That's one way of putting it."
Emma cinched the scratchy wool blanket about her shoulders. "I need a better costume. And a name of my own. Oh, how about the Needle? I can prick ruffians with a long, sharp sword."
"Don't start."
He cracked the door open, and together they listened until they heard Trevor reach the public room and bellow: "I am the Monster of Mayfair! To behold my face is to know despair!"
Ash closed his eyes and muttered something unkind.
"It's not bad," Emma protested. "It even rhymes."
He pulled the fencing mask over his face. "Let's just go."
Chapter Twenty-Six
Thankfully, they made their way back to Ashbury House with a minimum of further indignities. After a few vague explanations to the worried staff, a hot breakfast, and hotter baths, the two of them tumbled atop Ash's bed and slept the day away.
Emma woke to late afternoon, and to her husband pushing a wheeled table toward the bed. It was laden with covered dishes and baskets of bread, cheeses, fruits. Her stomach rumbled.
"What's this?" She rubbed her eyes. "Dinner in bed?"
"It's perfect." He reached for a wedge of cheese. "I promised you dinner every night. You promised me bed. We both hold o
ur ends of the bargain at once."
"How very efficient."
"Really, I don't know how the idea escaped me until now."
Emma nibbled at an apple tart. "I've been thinking, dumpling."
He flopped back on the bed and groaned. "Em-ma."
"I'm sorry, but I don't want to call you Ash. It's just not who you are. Ash is the dead, cold remnants after a fire. The parts that get swept away and discarded. You're not Ash to me. You're alive and blazing and more than a little dangerous. You always keep me warm." Lest he grow too panicked at the praise, she decided to lighten her tone. "Besides, it's too amusing to devil you."
"Amusing for you, perhaps."
"Let's have a compromise. When we're in the company of others, I will call you Ash or Ashbury. When we're alone, you'll allow me my little pet names."
"Fine. But you must confine yourself to an agreed upon list. No more rainbows and buttercups."
"I suppose I can do that."
He considered. "Here are the ones I'll allow. 'My stallion,' 'my buck,' and . . . 'my colossus of man-flesh.'"
She laughed in his face at that last. "Let's keep to the traditional endearments, shall we? Such as 'my dear'?"
"That's acceptable."
"'Darling'?"
He made a face of disgust. "If you must."
She chewed on the pastry, trying to gather courage. "How do you feel about 'my love'?"
He stared deeply into her eyes, as though questioning her sincerity. However, she knew it wasn't what lay within her that mattered--it was whether he'd allow himself to believe the words.
The familiar shields overtook his expression, closing the door on possibility. "'My stallion' it is."
Emma was disappointed, but she decided not to press the matter. Perhaps it was all too much for one day.
She looked about for a diversion. Her eye fell on a fresh stack of papers beside the dinner tray.
She'd made a habit of asking the servants to collect broadsheets daily. By this point, Ash was supporting half the printers in London. Probably a few paper mills, as well. The Monster of Mayfair was the best thing to happen to British journalism since Waterloo.
She seized on the change of subject, gathering the papers and bringing them back to the bed. "Let's see what they're saying about you today. There's certain to be something about last night's adventure." As she skimmed the first broadsheet, however, her anticipation of humor turned to horror. "Oh, no. Oh, Ash. This is bad."
"What is it now? Have I rescued a girl from drowning in the Serpentine?"
"No. You've abducted a woman in red, forced an innkeeper to let you hide her, and she was never seen again. Foul play is suspected." She passed him the paper, then positioned herself behind his shoulder and reached over to jab her finger at the paper. "The Crown has issued a hue and cry for the Monster of Mayfair." She poked again, rattling the newsprint. "The Crown. Every able-bodied man in London is obliged to help capture you on sight."
"Yes. I see."
"They've even offered a reward. Twenty pounds. That's a year's earnings for a laborer."
"Yes. I know."
"'Wanted on suspicions of trespassing, assault, theft of property, kidnapping, and murder.' Murder!"
"I am able to read, thank you." He was infuriatingly calm. "I'm a bit disappointed witchcraft and insurance fraud aren't on the list."
"How can you even joke about this?"
"Trust me, there's no call to be agitated." He dug into a portion of game pie. "Even the worst possible scenario is a mere inconvenience."
"Being brought up on charges of murder would be a mere inconvenience?"
"I didn't commit any murders, Emma."
"That's not what the broadsheets would have their readers believe. You know how eager people have been to make false reports of your exploits."
"Yes, I do know." He swallowed his mouthful of pie. "One of those eager people with false stories would be you."
Well, she couldn't contradict that.
"I would never be charged with murder," he went on. "The very thought is absurd. I'm a duke. It just doesn't happen. Even if I were captured, I would never be brought to trial."
"How can you be certain of that?"
"To begin, dukes aren't charged in the same courts. We are entitled to a trial of our peers in the House of Lords. That's if there were any evidence, which there isn't. Second, there's a little thing called privilege of peerage. All we have to do is invoke it, and we're off the hook for nearly any crime."
She was agape. "You're joking."
"Not at all."
"My goodness. That must be nice."
"It is, rather. Can't deny it."
On any other occasion, Emma would have been appalled by the injustice of this system. However, given the current state of affairs, she found herself unable to complain.
"Hold a moment," she said. "You said a peer may be forgiven almost any crime. Which means some crimes are exceptions."
"Well, treason, naturally. And--" He broke off, clearly reluctant to continue.
She leaned forward. "And . . . ?"
"Murder," he admitted.
She bounced on the mattress in anger. "You just told me it would be a minor inconvenience! How could hanging be a minor inconvenience?"
"It never goes that far." He set aside his now-empty plate. "At the most, I'd make a manslaughter plea, and that would put paid to it."
"What if it does go that far?"
"It wouldn't."
"Humor me."
He sighed as he reached for his glass of wine. "A peer found guilty of a capital felony--which never occurs--could conceivably be executed. Which never occurs, either. No one's been struck with corruption of the blood in ages now. Literal centuries."
"And what's corruption of the blood?"
"It means a bloodline is considered tainted. They take away the peer's title and property, and none of his descendants can inherit it."
Emma's hands were fists in her lap. "So if . . . and I'm allowing you the 'if' . . . this exceedingly unlikely event occurred, you could be captured and charged as the Monster of Mayfair, brought to trial in the House of Lords on charges of murder, convicted, and put to death, with the result that your wife and possibly your child would be left without any property or inheritance?"
"It never happens, Emma. Never."
"But it could!"
"It won't."
She took a deep breath to calm herself. "You've allowed this ruse to go on too long. We can mend this. Come forward. Let everyone know that you're the Monster of Mayfair, I'm the missing lady in red, and that it was all merely a lark that got out of hand."
"So instead of facing the slim chance that I would ever be captured--and the slimmer chance that I would be brought up on any charges--you want me to confess to crimes I didn't commit?"
"No. I want you to confess to encouraging a silly legend and letting it continue for far too long. Just have out with it. As you say, a duke gets away with everything."
He drained his wineglass and rose from the bed. "I will not admit to the world that I'm the Monster of Mayfair. There would be a scandal, and you would have to bear up under it. Who knows what the broadsheets would call you? The Beastly Bride of Bloom Square?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Did you have that moniker thought out in advance?"
"No," he said, sounding defensive.
"Because it tripped rather easily off your tongue."
"The point is this. I'm not going to do that to you. Whatever name the papers might choose, I refuse to put you under their scrutiny. Much less any child you could be carrying."
"If you are so concerned for your wife and child, perhaps you ought to have considered that earlier," she muttered, vexed. She tried to find a compromise. "If you refuse to come forward, at least promise me this. The Monster of Mayfair has retired. He's pensioned off to the country, never to return. Swear to me that you'll burn all your capes and never go walking at night again."
"Done." He p
ut a finger under her chin, tipping her face to receive his kiss. "The Monster of Mayfair is no more. I swear it."
"You had better keep your word," she said. "Or you'll face the wrath of the Beastly Bride."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
"There." Emma helped do up the last button on Davina's new day dress. "Is it comfortable? You don't feel too pinched?"
"No, not at all."
With Fanny's help, Emma had been able to arrange a fitting at the dressmaking shop. They'd kept the shop open late for Davina while Madame was making her weekly visit to the storehouse to see the latest imported silks.
Davina turned and regarded herself in the mirror. "You truly work wonders with fabric, Emma."
Wonders, perhaps. But not miracles.
"It should help you conceal it for another few weeks, I hope."
"I hope so, too. Just the other day, Papa commented on my waistline. I told him that I'd been eating too many rich foods." She took Emma's hands. "We must secure permission as soon as possible. When will the duke be able to meet Papa?"
Oh, dear. Emma had been dreading this conversation. She would have to tell the girl that their original plan just wouldn't work. Ash wasn't willing to circulate in society, and as Annabelle Worthing had made clear at the theater, in London's eyes, Emma was still a seamstress, not a duchess. She was hardly the sort of lady an ambitious gentleman would allow his unmarried daughter to visit for the winter.
The whole scheme had been doomed from the start. Emma saw that now. She felt horrible for raising the girl's hopes.
That didn't mean there was no way to help, however. She had Nicola, and Alex, and Penny--dear Penny, who never met a creature in need she wouldn't coddle. If the four of them put their minds to it, they could devise an alternative.
Yes, that was the thing to do. She would consult them next week at tea.
"Give me a bit more time," Emma said. "You have my word, I will not fail you."
Once Davina had left, Emma let Fanny go, offering to close up the shop as she'd done in the past. She felt an odd sense of nostalgia as she went about drawing the shades and putting away the shears, ribbons, and pins. She'd passed years of her life in this shop, after all, and that couldn't be forgotten in a matter of months.
Thump-thump-thump.
Emma looked up, startled. "We're closed," she called.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
How curious. The last time she'd heard that sort of incessant knocking, the Duke of Ashbury had pushed his way into the shop--and into her life, as well. Surely he wouldn't have followed her today?