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 put 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.”
“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?
Who could know when it came to her husband? Emma went to the door, ready to receive a fresh scolding about duchesses not stitching garments.
She turned the latch. “Really, my stallion. I only came by to see my old fr—”
When she opened the door, her heart stopped.
A middle-aged man dressed in black stood in the entry, holding his wide-brimmed parson’s hat in hand. “Emma, my child. It is you. I was told I’d find you here, and here you are.”
“Father?”
Emma felt detached from her body, out of communication with her own mind. Her heart was in utter tumult. So many emotions and impulses warred inside her. Revenge was tempting. She could turn him out, as he’d once cast her into the night.
Gloating also appealed. A small, petty part of her wanted to take him home and show him about the house until he was sick with envy for her newfound wealth, and then send him on his way with a fifty-pound donation to the church.
And somewhere, beneath all this, she wanted to sit at his knee. She wanted to hear that she was loved, and still his little girl.
Be careful, Emma.
“Why are you here?” she asked quietly.
“To see my daughter, naturally.” He moved into the shop, and she closed the door behind him. “Look at you. Emma, my own dear girl, fully grown.”
“I’m Emma now, am I? Your own dear girl? When last we met, you had taken to calling me Jezebel.”
“That’s why I’ve come.” He bowed his head, looking down at the hat in his hands. “To tell you that I am most heartily sorry.”
Most heartily sorry?
The words slipped over her. She couldn’t grasp their meaning. Instead, Emma stared at the top of her father’s head. He was balding there now. Down to just a few straggling hairs, slicked over a gleaming pate. How strange, to see him aged six years all at once. In her memory he’d remained intimidating and thunderously enraged. Now, here in the bustle of London, he looked rather pathetic and small.
He kept his eyes downcast. “I should not have said such things. I should not have turned you out. I’ve come to confess my sins against you. And I pray that you will find it within your heart to grant me forgiveness.”
Emma’s breathing hitched. After all these years, he’d come to her and admitted his wrongs. He’d apologized. This was something she had always thought she’d