Alex's Angel (19 page)

It felt like a palace to her.

“Emily?” He raised his brows.

She released the edges of her cloak and untied it with slow movements. Reluctantly, she handed it over.

He took it and paused, running his hand over the worn lining and finding all those areas she’d worked so hard to darn. She cringed inside and her eyes roamed over his flawless white stock, his jacket of Federal blue and his buff-coloured, ankle-length pantaloons. Both appeared made of the finest wool. His expensive-looking boots gleamed. Everything he wore appeared to have been purchased for this current season and never worn before.

She felt like a ragamuffin.

“Come.” The word was a soft command. He held his hand out to her.

His eyes were cold, remote. She was nothing more than an unwanted obligation. She understood that with painful clarity. She could imagine what he was thinking. He’d been prepared to fund an artist whose cause he’d believed in. Likely, he had not been prepared for
her
to come traipsing back into his life. She had rejected his offer of protection. She had insulted him. Walked out on him. He could not have felt kindly towards her after that.

She felt lost. And silly. But she hadn’t wanted to be back in his life any more than he’d wanted her here…

Oh, but what a lie. She’d lain awake in her bed at night, craving his touch. She’d dreamt of him, so vividly that her sleep had been restless and disturbed. She’d longed to be back in his company more than she’d ever craved anything in her life. This last realisation galled her.

A sharp retort rose to her tongue.

Remember, this is all for the book. Nothing else matters.

She clamped down on her rising emotions and let him lead her through the ornate house to a spacious parlour.

Opulence greeted her at every turn, from the pale blue, silk-covered walls, to the twinkling crystal chandelier, to the dark gold damask settee where Rachel was sitting. The older woman was gowned regally in dark blue velvet and was drinking from a fine teacup and petting the small pug lying in her lap.

Nancy was curled lazily—unladylike—on the other settee, reading a book.

At the sound of Alex’s boots on the wooden floor, she peeked over her gold-rimmed spectacles, having just pierced the skin of a shiny red apple with her teeth. She was wearing a brimless cap with a red, white and blue cockade. A liberty cap—a silent proclamation of sympathy with the revolution in France.

The little dog barked and Rachel looked up. Her blue eyes narrowed as they landed on Emily. “Good evening, Alex.”

The frosty tone chilled Emily.

“Aunt Rachel, this is Miss Emily Eliot. Miss Eliot, may I introduce my aunt, Rachel Smith?”

Rachel stared back at him glacially and their eyes seemed locked for a few moments. “Yes, we’ve already met. The other morning, remember?” Rachel turned and glanced at Emily and the corners of her mouth rose but her eyes remained cold. “Well, my dear, did you procure the loan for your cousin?”

Emily’s mouth turned cotton dry and her mind went blank.

Alex spoke more quickly than she. “Well, there was a bit of confusion there, but Mr Jefferson helped to clear everything up. Miss Eliot is an artist with an interest in the Algerian situation and I have come to an agreement to have her book printed.”

Despite his pleasant expression, his eyes were as hard as steel and his tone spoke of finality. He directed Emily to the end of Nancy’s settee. “Take a seat.”

Nancy kept staring at her with frank appraisal and Emily’s discomfort grew as she sat by Nancy’s slipper-clad feet.

“Nancy, I’ve asked before, please don’t wear that hat glorifying the carnage in France in my house.” Alex’s voice was hard.

Nancy slowly dropped her book and looked up at him over her spectacles. “When are you going back to sea?”

“Not for some time.”

Nancy wrinkled her nose. “Things were far more pleasant around here without you.”

“Perhaps you’d like to visit your father in London? I’d gladly pay for first-class accommodation.”

A grin cracked Nancy’s face. “Ha! Joyless Tory! Doubtless he’d simply send me back.” Nancy turned her attention back to Emily and scanned her slowly. She clicked her tongue. “You’re so thin! Can’t afford enough to eat? How old is that gown?”

“Nancy, for God’s sake, do not provoke Alex.” Rachel’s voice was sharp.

“Miss Eliot, please forgive Nancy—she’s a mere child of thirty after all,” Alex said dryly.

Nancy blinked several times, then pushed her spectacles up her nose. “What’s your opinion of Ann Radcliffe?”

“Ah—be careful answering, Emily. ‘Tis how Nancy judges any female’s worth,” Alex said.

Nancy arched a dark brow. “I simply abhor sentimental trash—turns young girls into giggling, romantic fools.”

 
“Far better that they follow your example of a vinegar-tongued spinster?” Alex’s lip quirked in a sardonic sneer.

Nancy’s blue eyes narrowed. “You’ve ever been a man of primitive sensitivities.”

“Children, silence!” Rachel massaged her temples. “See why I can’t live in Boston?”

“Don’t deny it, Mama—you love the drama of Philadelphia’s social scene,” Nancy said.

Rachel pursed her lips. “Nancy, go tell Sally to prepare a bath and have Mrs Webbs set out a meal for our new houseguest.” She put a dubious emphasis on the last word. “And tell her to find some clean night attire. The poor girl looks exhausted. Have them prepare one of the bedchambers in the attic.”

“Yes, Mama.” Nancy rose and stalked off.

Alex took her place on the settee. An uneasy silence settled over the parlour and gave Emily time for some disquieting thoughts.

It must say a great deal about Alex that his aunt and cousin automatically assumed Emily was a harlot.

It was a horribly mortifying position to be in.

But it didn’t matter. She only needed his patronage for the book.

The sound of boots on the floorboards cut into Emily’s thoughts. She looked up. A tall, dark-haired gentleman with a stern expression was staring at her.

“Alex, Nancy just told me the most amazing story. She said you’d taken on an artist. Some girl. I must say, I didn’t know what to think.” He blinked, then resumed his wintry stare. “I still don’t.”

Alex came to his feet and turned to look at Emily. “Miss Eliot, this is my younger brother, Mr James Dalton.”

James’s gaze didn’t warm. “Surely you don’t intend that she should stay here?”

“I don’t see why not. Aunt Rachel will prove an adequate chaperone.”

“Alex, I plead to your higher nature. I know you have no care for gossip or what your actions do to our good name, but some of us do care.”

Alex shot his brother an irritated look. “Stop being such a clucking hen.”

“You recently brawled in a Hell City tavern with our cousin,” James said.

“What?” Rachel cried with her hand to her chest.

“Aye, he fought Richard Green, bare knuckled—they grappled on the sand-strewn floor like two common tars.” James turned back to Emily, raking his eyes over her body with scathing effect. “They fought over the dubious honour of girl who very much fits the description of Miss Eliot here.”

“Oh, my God! We shall be ruined! Ruined!” Rachel’s voice rose in pitch and with her pug in her arms, she hurried from the parlour, her skirts swishing loudly.

“Alex, you promised me.” James’ voice rose. “You promised me you would be attentive to things. You explicitly promised me you wouldn’t go off travelling—or girling—or getting yourself into some horrid scrape until this Navy business is completed.”

“Enough,” Alex said. “This is still my house and I shall do as I see fit.”

James clamped his mouth shut and cut Emily a glowering look.

Emily’s insides knotted. How would she ever live here with these people who didn’t approve of her? What exactly had she signed onto with that contract?

* * * *

“Did you ready a chamber in the servant’s attic for her?” Rachel’s voice echoed from the other side of the screen that had been set up in the large kitchen.

“Said to put her in the blue room, Mr Dalton did,” Sally, the maid, said.

“The blue room!’ Rachel cried.

Emily sank deeper into the warmth of the huge copper tub that stood before the large stone hearth. But with a headache brewing, she’d drained the glass of claret she’d been given. Now her head had begun to pound harder and she felt so woozy that she didn’t even care that those women sat chattering about her as if she weren’t a human being with feelings. In fact, this all seemed so unreal—perhaps it was all just a dream.

“An artist? That’s rich.” Nancy’s whisper carried on the air in hissing tones. “Do you really think there even is a book, or does he think we’re blind fools?”

“So he intends to carry on with her here?” Rachel made little attempt to lower her voice. “Well, we must be civil to her, I suppose, but—oh, I shudder to think how the gossips will see this. She looks about sixteen… Imagine! Brawling in a tavern! How shall we hold our heads up after this?”

“Calm yourself, Mama—if society shuns you, then we’ll simply return to Boston.”

“You think this won’t follow us to Boston? We’ll have to go abroad,” Rachel wailed. “Oh, how I hate the idea of English summers and all that infernal rain!”

Nancy sneezed several times.

“You simply must get better before tomorrow or James surely will have a conniption,” Rachel said. “He acts as if everything is riding on this precious supper party. I can’t image how he feels about this girl being there.”

“I’m so tired of playing hostess at his dreadful, dull parties,” Nancy grumbled, then blew her nose nosily. “When will one of these bothersome cousins of mine get married?”

“Not any time soon, with a tavern girl living in this house,” Rachel remarked dryly.

“What is this?” A new, female voice sounded from the other side. “Sally, why are we bathing this child in the kitchen?”

“Because I thought she was going to sleep in the attic with the other servants,” Sally said.

“We had to bathe her.” Rachel said. “No telling what sorts of vermin she’s carrying—Mrs Webbs, you make sure her hair is clean, no nits.”

It was too much, having them think she was unclean.

Wearily, Emily rested her head against the edge of the tub. She closed her eyes. That contract. She had signed away all her rights to govern the use of her own work. She had promised to do whatever he wanted.

No—not whatever he wanted. She wouldn’t be a willing whore for the sake of the contract.

The details of her life seemed scattered. Her wits scattered. Her belongings scattered.

Alex had said that he would send a maid to her boarding house rooms tomorrow to pack up her belongings.

Tomorrow she’d also sort out what to do.

The floorboards squeaked behind her. Her eyes popped open. Two large, warm hands touched her head. She went rigid all over.

Soft fingers, massaging her temples. Something like warmth, like energy, passed through her and the pain began to ease.

“Now, Miss Emily,” whispered a deep yet feminine voice. “Don’t you pay them cackling hens any heed. This is Mr Alexander’s house and if he intends you to stay here, then you’ll stay.”

Emily turned.

Kind, hazel-brown eyes met hers. A perfect oval face the colour of coffee lightened by cream with high-sculpted cheekbones and full, well-shaped lips. Instead of the normal white, lace-trimmed cap, she wore a turban of yellow and purple-striped cloth. Heavy lines creased by the eyes as the woman smiled, softening the aura of almost intimidating self-possession that emanated from her.

Emily smiled in return, her spirits lifting.

“I am Mrs Webbs.” She glanced about. “This is my kitchen and you’re always welcome here.” Mrs Webbs touched Emily’s hair, taking one of the pins out and handling a tress. “You have very fine-textured hair.”

“I don’t have lice,” Emily said.

Mrs Webbs held the tress up to Emily’s face and between her thumb and forefinger. She grimaced. “You use too much soap and it leaves a residue. It makes the colour dull and the hair limp. We must rinse your hair in red wine vinegar and bring out its natural beauty.”

“That’s all right, I can—”

“Nonsense, we’ll do it now. Maybe we’ll add some herbs to brighten it. And afterwards, we’ll get you a decent meal. Need to start getting some meat on your bones.”

Mrs Webbs hummed to herself and the sounds of pouring fluids echoed. She returned. “Lean your head back, child, and let me wash your hair with this.”

Emily complied. Just to be agreeable. She didn’t really believe much could be done with her hair. But the feel of Mrs Webb’s fingers massaging her scalp and the cooling sensation of the liquid was relaxing. The last of her headache was fading and it left behind a relieved sort of fatigue.

“Mr Alexander spends all his time away from here, chasing something…something I think he will never find.” Mrs Webb spoke in low, confidential tones, as if they had been friends for a long time. “He lets his mother’s sister live here in his house like an ungrateful squatter. If he had a wife, then he’d have a reason to long for his privacy.” Mrs Webbs chuckled. “All these squatters would be gone.”