Passionate Secrets (The Secrets Trilogy Book 2) (3 page)

Shoving her worry aside, she changed her gown, anxious to be rid of the ugly, patched grey one she wore and even more eager to be free of the bindings around her middle. She untied the knot at her side which held the strip of cloth that served to flatten her breasts and thicken her middle.

Left in her chemise, she rubbed her stomach, all too aware of the red marks that crisscrossed her body. She drew a deep breath, relieved to be free of the band. It was silly as the bindings were no worse than a corset, but somehow the restriction bound her very spirit. With a shake of her head, she admonished herself. The bindings had protected her, slowing the lord who’d tried to accost her. She had the freedom and the strength to rise each day, to venture into the world whereas Tessa was trapped—bound to the bed by the illness that had claimed her body.

Emma closed her eyes, praying for a miracle.

Praying for her sister to be whole and healthy, for her family to be in a warm, cozy home where once again, they could share laughter and fun and food.

With a sigh, she opened her eyes and reached for her other gown. Though her faith was strong, she had a difficult time understanding why her prayers went unanswered. God helped those who helped themselves, but she didn’t see what more she could do.

As Emma finished fastening her gown, Tessa coughed, waking as the spasm wracked her slim body. Emma sat on the edge of the bed and lifted a cup of water to her sister. Tessa coughed again, covering her mouth with her hand. She reached for a handkerchief from the bedside table and wiped her mouth.

Emma stared at the crimson stain on the cloth in dismay. “You’re bleeding,” she whispered to her sister.

Tessa’s eyes went wide as she looked down at the handkerchief. “Oh, dear.”

“I’ll send for the doctor.”

“No!” Tessa grabbed Emma’s arm. “No. I’m fine. I just need a sip of water.”

“Tessa, I’m sending for Dr. Barnes,” Emma insisted as she handed Tessa the water. “You’re getting worse, not better.”

“We’ll wait until tomorrow. After you obtain the new position. Then we can send for him.”

“Tessa—”

“No, Emma. You know we can’t afford it. I’m not taking away our supper by calling the doctor. Some of mother’s nice hot soup will do more good than anything Dr. Barnes would give me.”

Emma nodded reluctantly, even more determined to gain the position and the money that came with it.

Emma sat on the edge of the ornate chair in the formal drawing room as the Marchioness of Warkshire reviewed her letter of application and references. Emma made certain her posture was perfect. Her hands were folded neatly on her lap, her feet tucked under her chair, and a calm and composed expression was on her face. These were the very qualities she’d be expected to teach the Marchioness’s three young daughters, to act as a lady at all times.

On the inside, matters were quite the opposite—her heart pounded rapidly, her palms were sweating, and she had to remind herself to breathe. It was all she could do not to go down on her knees and beg for the position. Her entire family’s livelihood depended on this interview, but she knew sounding desperate would not help.

The marchioness was striking, her dark hair drawn back in an artful chignon, her alabaster skin flawless, her elaborate gown the color of the Caribbean Sea. At least what Emma guessed it to be from a painting she’d seen.

Emma’s insecurities surfaced, making her feel undeserving of sharing a room with the marchioness let alone speaking with the beautiful lady or her children.

With a stern reprimand to her doubts, she reminded herself that she had all the necessary qualifications and then some. She could play the piano, draw adequately, speak French and a smattering of Italian, conjugate Latin, and was skilled in geography, arithmetic, and knowledgeable about a variety of literature. All thanks to her deceased uncle. The education he’d given her was priceless and made her an excellent governess, as she’d been told on numerous occasions.

It was only the part where she had to take orders from parents who knew nothing of how to teach young children with which she had problems. Well, that, along with any lord who thought an unattached woman living in his home was fair game.

“You mentioned you had another letter of reference?” The marchioness raised a delicate brow with her inquiry.

“Yes, from Viscount Weston.”

The lady frowned and managed to look even more beautiful. “My cousin? How are you acquainted with him?”

“My uncle was his professor at Cambridge.” Emma had rehearsed her answer, hoping it implied she came from a long line of educators. She handed over the envelope.

“I see.” The marchioness broke the seal and withdrew the letter. “Hmm,” she said as she read it, then folded it and tucked it back in the envelope.

Emma wondered what that meant. Perhaps she should’ve read the letter. Surely the viscount hadn’t written anything that would strike against her.

“We received letters of application from several qualified candidates,” the marchioness said, avoiding eye contact.

Emma’s heart sank.

“I wanted to meet each of them personally before deciding which governess would best suit our family. The education of my children is of the utmost importance to me.”

“Of course,” Emma agreed, trying to quell her panic.

“I’m afraid I’ve decided on one of the other candidates. I hope you understand.” The marchioness offered a small smile with the devastating news.

“May I ask why?” Emma knew her question was impolite, but she had to know.

The lady appeared affronted at Emma’s inquiry. “I don’t owe an explanation to you, Miss Grisby. However, I will tell you the other candidate is well qualified and her letters of reference were outstanding.”

Emma could hardly believe it. Obviously, whatever Viscount Weston had written had been less than flattering. She caught herself from saying anything further. No purpose could be served from angering the marchioness. The person who deserved Emma’s wrath was the viscount and she intended to give him a piece of her mind.

~*~

Michael drummed his fingers on his desk, impatient with himself. His lack of concentration today was ridiculous not to mention annoying. The financial report before him on his latest venture in a Latin American railroad required his complete attention but, instead, he picked up a small piece of paper that held a single line of information.

102 Trenary Lane

Surely the only reason it captured his interest was because Miss Grisby might provide him with clues regarding her possibly resurrected uncle. Michael thought it too much of a coincidence that she’d contacted him now, so soon after he’d become suspicious about whether her uncle had truly been killed in the accident.

Michael didn’t believe in coincidences.

He’d tried to determine what ulterior motive Miss Grisby might have to seek him out. But she’d asked only for the letter of reference. She’d made no other comments, no other inquiries. Nor had she asked for money—something everyone else did, strangers and acquaintances alike. Despite that, he still felt her visit had to be tied to recent events. He withdrew the list he’d started of recent events, adding a new one:
Emma involved?

Michael wished he’d made more of an effort to find Miss Grisby and her family after the funeral ten years ago. At the time, he, Stephen, and Lucas had still been recovering from their own injuries and grappling with their newfound aura-reading abilities. When he’d attempted to visit the Grisby’s home a week later, they’d already moved. The neighbors didn’t know where they’d gone. In a city the size of London, it was difficult to find anyone.

He’d tried Cambridge as well, but the only thing they’d reluctantly revealed was that the Senate had decided to pay the professor’s pension to his heirs according to his wishes. Knowing Miss Grisby and her family would be taken care of had given Michael some peace. With careful management, the pension should’ve lasted them for quite some time. Obviously, those funds were gone now if she was serving as a governess. Or perhaps she felt a calling for the work.

He’d intended to continue his search for her family, but within days, his mother and father had been killed. His life had been turned upside down in the aftermath, and he’d had no time to worry about anyone else’s family.

He shook his head. He had no desire to relive those terrible days when grief and guilt had warred within him all while he’d been adjusting to the lasting effects of the accident. When he’d had to endure the gossip surrounding the events of his parents’ deaths at their country estate. When he’d realized how deeply in debt his father had cast them. When the creditors had come calling before the funeral had been held.

With a deep breath, he shook off the dark memories to focus on the issue. Evidence had begun to surface three weeks past indicating Professor Grisby hadn’t died in the electromagnetic lab experiment ten years ago at Cambridge. This, despite the fact that Michael and his two friends had seen the professor’s terribly damaged body, attended his funeral and grieved for his loss along with his family—Miss Grisby included.

The clues had started when one of those friends, Stephen Davenport, Viscount Ashbury, had been attempting to protect the woman who was now his fiancé, Abigail Bradford, from the man who’d murdered her father.

That man, Vincent Simmons, had attempted to force Abigail to give him a lunar meteorite which had belonged to her father—a stone said to enhance the conduction of electromagnetism. Professor Grisby had been searching for that very stone before his death.

Then Simmons had captured Abigail and her sisters in an attempt to obtain the meteorite. Michael and Ashbury had succeeded in freeing them and detaining Simmons who they’d turned over to the police. While they were sorting it all out, they’d received a note addressed to ‘Michael, Stephen and Lucas’ that appeared to be from Professor Grisby.

It seemed impossible that the professor could be alive, that Simmons could somehow be working for him, but evidence was mounting. Unfortunately, Simmons, who now resided in prison, wasn’t speaking.

In the midst of all this, Ashbury had discovered an article in the paper about a reclusive scientist who claimed to be conducting experiments similar to what Professor Grisby had done. When all the pieces of information were gathered together, it seemed an odd twist of fate—one that Michael could not overlook.

On top of all that came the visit from Emma. Surely the purpose of her visit hadn’t been merely for a reference letter. She had to know or want something. Perhaps a consultation with Ashbury on this matter would shed some light.

Being reunited with Ashbury these past few weeks had made Michael realize how much he’d missed his friend. The accident had caused a rift between them that was difficult to explain. Michael knew he was to blame. Between his injuries, the strange phenomena of aura reading, and the awful death of his parents, his world had been turned upside down. He’d placed the fault on everyone else, refusing to accept the part he’d played in the accident.

As the amount of debt his father had accumulated came to light, Michael had been devastated. It had taken him nine long years to rebuild his life. He hadn’t made any effort to form friendships, only business associates and casual acquaintances. Keeping his distance from Ashbury had made it easier to pretend he was still normal, unburdened by the ability to see auras.

When his old friend had re-entered his life, he’d realized how stupid that had been.

Michael couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Ashbury and Abigail, who were now planning a wedding. The two were perfect for each other. Her lightness countered Ashbury’s darkness, and they made each other whole. While on the surface, their match was a good arrangement, they had much more than that. Their obvious love for each other made him reconsider his reason for marrying—but no—he knew he carried the same destructive seeds his father had, making marrying for love impossible.

Ashbury had been the farthest from the blast the night of the experiment. He saw auras of good and evil, which had nearly driven him crazed. Michael’s ability to read success and failure was bad enough, but to know someone intended to do harm of some sort made Ashbury determined to do whatever he could to stop them. No wonder he suffered from severe headaches and melancholy. Lucky for him, Abigail had come along, for she had truly saved him.

Lucas remained in Brazil where he’d fled as soon as his injuries had healed. As he was the ‘spare’ heir, his presence in England wasn’t required. They’d heard nothing from him since his departure.

Angry voices coming from the foyer interrupted his musings. He rose from his desk to find out what the devil was going on.

“Either open the door or move aside.”

The feminine tone puzzled him. He couldn’t envision his fiancé, Catherine, speaking in such a manner.

“I’m sorry, miss. The viscount is not receiving.” Jeffries sounded equally determined to stop the visitor.

“He’ll see me. Have no doubt,” the angry voice insisted.

The door flew open to reveal a disheveled Miss Grisby. She glared at him, one hand still on the doorknob. Jeffries stood directly behind her, eyebrows raised, waiting to see if he should bodily remove her.

Michael eyed her appearance, taking in her crooked hat to the same grey gown as the previous day to the strands of hair dangling along her flushed face. Even her spectacles sat askew. Had she run all the way here?

“You are a scoundrel of the worst sort,” she proclaimed as she adjusted her spectacles.

“Normally, it takes ladies much longer to realize that.” He nodded to Jeffries and the butler backed away and closed the door.

The heated glare she sent him would’ve reduced a lesser man to ashes. “How dare you provide a letter of reference that would prevent me from obtaining the position with your cousin.”

“Whatever are you speaking about?”

She folded her arms over her middle, disapproval in every line of her rigid stance. “I’ve just come from my interview and things were going well.”

“I’m pleased to hear that.”

“Until she read your letter.”

Puzzled, he could only frown at her. “I assure you, there was nothing in the letter that could’ve caused her to change her mind.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you. You told me when you handed it to me that you thought it would do no good.”

He hesitated, remembering her dim aura and his certainty that she wouldn’t win the post.

“Only because she holds little regard for me.” He latched on to the explanation with relief. At her obvious disbelief, he explained further. “I fear I teased her relentlessly when we were young. She’s never forgiven me for it.”

When she continued to glare at him, he added, “My letter described you in the highest regard. I promise.”

Miss Grisby seemed to deflate at his words. Her shoulders slumped as she dropped his gaze. The fiery woman before him returned to a grey mouse. Though he didn’t care to be the target of her ire, he preferred her anger to this. Surely those weren’t tears glistening in her eyes.

Her silence made him even more uncomfortable. “I’m sorry you didn’t receive the position. Did she say why?”

She shook her head.

“Should I ask her?” He could see how important the post was to her and felt responsible. “Perhaps I could speak with her in person,” he found himself offering, much to his dismay.

“No.” Miss Grisby shook her head. “Never mind. I’m just...disappointed.” She met his gaze, her chin held high. “My apologies for barging in on you. Thank you again for the letter.” She bobbed a curtsy and turned to go.