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.
Sighing, she rubbed the tight muscles at the back of her neck and took another sip of her tea, long cold now. She had entered all the invoices into her ledgers, and though several customers had settled their accounts today and Lord Cheverley had brought his mama’s payment along with an advance on another order, the debit and credit columns still were nearly equal.
We are just barely surviving, she thought with a sigh. If she did attempt to repay Lord Cheverley, ’twould likely be his great-grandson who signed off the debt. Would he give her that long? Dear God, what was to become of them if he refused?
Immediate reimbursement in coin was impossible, the ledger clearly showed. A woman had but one other asset.
She recalled his heated glances, his lingering hand on her lip. She had seen lust in other men’s eyes, during and after her marriage. If she could bring herself to offer, would Cheverley accept that means of canceling her debt?
For an instant, she imagined those hands cherishing her bare skin, that lean mouth at her breast. A deep tremor sent heat rushing through her.
A flush of guilt succeeded it and she felt as if caught out in some unforgivable indiscretion.
Nonsense, ’twas ridiculous. She could not be unfaithful to a dead man.
Oh, but I didn’t want him to die, her heart cried back. How many times had she gone down on her knees on the rough stone of the village church, imploring God as Andrew’s life drained away breath by ragged, painful breath? Promising to go anywhere, do anything, if only God would spare him?
Well, her prayers had been for naught. At the end, her husband had died in that small dusty village. And if God had not heeded her desperate pleas then, He was hardly likely to concern Himself with Emily Spenser Waring-Black now.
No, if salvation came, she would have to arrange it herself. And while her shop teetered so precariously between success and failure, having, for a time, a rich protector to keep trouble away could only help.
The very idea of it ate at her soul like acid.
She gave a bitter laugh. For years while she scraped together the funds to return and open her shop, she’d managed to avoid the fate so often dealt beautiful but impoverished widows. How ironic that it threatened her now, back in the homeland she’d pined for and imagined a haven.
“Mistress, ’tis darkness you work in,” Francesca scolded as she entered. “And your tea, é frio! Another pot will I fetch, and light up the lamp. What’s to become of us, querida, if you lose those bright eyes?”
“What’s to become of us anyway?” Emily replied, more than a hint of despair in her tone. “And don’t make fresh tea—we can scarce afford what we drink now. I’ll make do with this.”
The maid sat herself on the desktop and, head tilted like a small brown bird, gazed down at her mistress. “Be of good heart, querida. Always, we have worries, but always, you prevail. We shall—how you English say it? Ah, yes, we shall come into.”
Emily had to smile. “Come about, I believe you mean. And I wish I had your optimism. Just now, I am having a difficult time imagining how we shall ever come about.”
“Yesterday, that porco threatens you, and today, poof—” the maid waved an expressive hand “—he is gone. Other worries, they too will go.”
“’Twill take more than a—” Emily stopped abruptly. “What know you of Mr. Harding?”
Francesca shrugged. “I hear things, yes? When I hear that voice, I come. I see what he does. Almost I am running to you, but then, the beautiful one arrives. And saves you.”
“Aye,” Emily said in a whisper. “But for what?”
The maid raised her eyebrows, as if the answer were all too plain. “He is a great lord, querida. He saves you for his honor.”
Emily made a scornful noise. “Heaven preserve us from the ‘honor’ of great lords!” She turned accusing eyes toward her maid. “Or have you forgotten, Francesca?”
“Not all lords threaten like the padre of your husband. Also I remember Don Alvero. He would have had you for his lady wife, would you but pledge your troth. But no, we must return to this—” nose wrinkling, she made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the tiny office “—this England.”
“Incomprehensible to you, I expect.” Emily smiled as she squeezed Francesca’s still-outstretched hand. “Dearest friend, to have left your homeland to follow me! I thought we could build a future here, that at last we would be safe.” She sighed and put a weary hand to her forehead. “Was it a fool’s journey, I wonder?”
“The great lord could keep us safe.”
Emily straightened. “In exchange for what?”
When the little maid remained silent, Emily gave another cynical laugh. “Ah yes, his honor. Would those troopers who battled the French for your village have released you out of ‘honor,’ had not my husband’s sword insisted? No, the safety your ‘great lord’ buys us carries a price. He will extract repayment—perhaps not now. Perhaps not soon. But eventually he must….”
The thought that logically followed so dismayed her that she jumped to her feet. “Merciful heavens, ’twould be much worse were he to wait a year—or two or three!”
“Tsh, sit, querida.” Gently Francesca pushed Emily back in her chair and moved behind her, beginning to massage her neck. “Perhaps, as he vows, he wants only your safety.” When Emily made a scornful noise, she shrugged. “Of a certainty he wants more. But ’tis beautiful he is, querida. Would yielding to him be so terrible? And safer to do so now, eh?”
Emily could not deny that truth. Her earlier visit to her father-in-law’s town house confirmed that for the moment he was unlikely to discover them, despite the notoriety a liaison with such a wealthy, prominent man might engender. But how long would the man’s absence continue?
She knew he would lose no time wresting his grandson from her unworthy care should he find them back in England. And though for Drew to return to his rightful place in society, she must eventually turn him over, she intended to treasure every moment before inescapable duty forced her to give him up.