Anne Stuart (6 page)

Emma sat, also abruptly. “Position?” she said, afraid she was sounding like a lackwit.

“
Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“
Er... of course.”
Position,
she thought, racking her brain. Gertie had mentioned something about different positions, with the man behind, or perhaps beneath, the female, but she hadn’t paid much attention...

“
Any other qualifications aside from your pure state?” Mrs. Withersedge demanded. “Can you read and write? Sew a fine seam? Paint with watercolors?”

“
Of course,” Emma said, surprised. Her education had included that much, even if her watercolors were confined to religious subjects and her reading material consisted of improving tracts that bordered on the fanatic.

“
Of course,” Mrs. Withersedge muttered underneath her breath. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“
Is there much call for that?
^”

“
In governesses, yes.”

“
Governesses?”

“
Do you have trouble hearing, young lady?” Mrs. Withersedge was losing a bit of her temper. “I run an employment agency. I specialize in finding upper servants for the wealthy. Isn’t that why you’re here? Don’t you want a job?”

“
Of course I do,” she said, the stiffness in her shoulders relaxing fractionally. “And I should love to be a governess.”

“
Not if you had much experience at it,” the older woman said wryly. “I know who sent you here. It could be no one but Killoran, curse his hide.”

“
Killoran?”

“
The Earl of Killoran. If you’ve met him, you’re not likely to forget him easily. A most unnerving gentleman, dressed in black and white and silver, with no heart and soul but the most malicious wit—”

“
It was his lordship,” Emma said hastily, remembering those deep green eyes so devoid of life and feeling.

“
And exactly what did you think he was sending you to when he gave you my direction?” Mrs. Withersedge asked sternly.

Emma had never been one for discretion. “A brothel,” she replied.

Mrs. Withersedge shook her head for a moment. “You’re not likely to be paid as well, and you’ll work a great deal harder,” she said. “If you’ve a desire to be a whore, I could always make some arrangements...”

“
No, thank you,” Emma said swiftly. “I think I would make a very good governess. I’m very fond of children.”

Mrs. Withersedge surveyed her doubtfully. “Fondness for children and an ability to paint with watercolors won’t take you very far in this life, my girl. What’s your name?”

“
Emma,” she said, without thinking. Belatedly the need for subterfuge stopped her. “Emma Brown,” she added.

“
Brown, is it? The most common name in England. I don’t have many possibilities. Miss Brown. I try to avoid sending young women such as you into households where there are impressionable young men, but I’m afraid in this case I have no choice. Mrs. Varienne isn’t the most genteel of employers, and she has not one but two older sons, just of the age to get into mischief with an attractive young female beneath their roof. You’d best keep an eye out for them if Mrs. Varienne is willing to take you on.”

Unexpected hope had begun to fill Emma, stiffening her shoulders and brightening her eye. “I’ll devote myself to my charges,” she said. “Besides, I don’t suppose I am the sort to appeal to man’s baser instincts.”

Mrs. Withersedge looked her up and down and then emitted a genteel snort. “And I thought you were acquainted with Killoran,” she said obscurely.

The house was cold and dark, the shades and curtains pulled tight. The smell of old cabbage drifted from the spotless kitchens, and in the front salon came the sound of footsteps, pacing, pacing.

Miriam DeWinter moved slowly, deliberately, back and forth across the room. Mourning made no change in her apparel—she always dressed in black. She had put off colors when she was a plain, thin twenty-three-year-old, mourning her mother’s death, and when the year was over, she decided black suited her very well indeed. It gave her a maturity, a sense of power she craved, and by the time she was thirty she had the bearing of a matriarch.

She hadn’t wanted to bring that little brat into her household, but she hoped she knew her Christian duty. Besides, Uncle Roderick had turned a small foundry into an obscenely profitable armament business, and Miriam had a passionate devotion to money that almost rivaled her passionate devotion to the jealous and vengeful God she worshipped. As long as Emma grew up in the confines of Miriam’s household, there would be no distractions, no temptations, no young men to marry her and lure her fortune away. Miriam would teach her everything she knew, to love and fear her God, to live chastely and humbly. To leave the tawdry business of finances in her cousin’s capable hands.

If only Horace had managed to control his ungovernable lust. If only Emma hadn’t looked like a whore, with her disgustingly feminine body and her sinful hair. Miriam had prayed, but God hadn’t been disposed to obey. And now she had to live with the consequences.

He was supposed to have killed her. The plan had been simple, but her father, much as she’d adored him, had never been one to listen to her teachings. The lure of fornication and strong drink had weakened his mind, that and the presence of Emma in their household.

She needed to die, Miriam’s father had had no quarrel with that. They were running out of time; sooner or later Emma would run off, or some young man would steal her away, and all that lovely money would be out of reach. It would be a simple enough matter, a fall down the wide, bare, highly polished stairs, or a runaway carriage mowing her down and no one ever discovering the hapless culprit of such an unfortunate occurrence.

But Horace hadn’t listened. He didn’t want accomplices, he’d said. Other people involved, people they’d have to pay, people who could take it into their heads to demand more and more. He was a man; he could do it himself.

But Miriam hadn’t been fooled. She’d seen the damp bog of lust in his eyes, and she’d known. There was nothing she could say, however. She was a righteous daughter, and obedient. She’d remained silent when he’d taken Emma off for the day, knowing it would soon be over. Knowing it would be none of her concern, what Horace did with Emma before he cut her throat.

But Horace was the one who had died. By his own sword, at the hand of some decadent Irish lord. And Emma had disappeared, beyond Miriam’s reach.

If only she could find Emma. The slut would pay for her sins, her crimes. She had to be responsible for Horace’s shameful death. She must have encouraged that Irishman to kill him, and then run away.

They’d brought her father’s body back to her. She’d mourned, loud and long. And then she’d stiffened her poker-straight back, and turned to revenge with a prayerful intensity.

Emma would pay for her crimes. Spectacularly. And there would be no one left to inherit her considerable fortune. Except her dear, devout cousin Miriam.

If only she could find her.

“
I have the most amusing story to tell you, Killoran.”

He looked up from the book he was perusing. It wasn’t something he was particularly interested in—a treatise on agriculture he’d purchased more than a decade ago, when he still thought he might return to Ireland. He used it more as a tool with which to bother his companion, and as such it was very effective.

“
Do you?” he murmured lazily.

Lady Barbara’s delicate mouth thinned for a moment, and then she smiled. It was a good thing Nathaniel was nowhere to be seen. He was already absurdly smitten with Lady Barbara, and there was no denying that she had a truly enchanting smile. If one cared to be enchanted.

“
You recall my neighbors? That dreadfully common Varienne family?”

“
Not particularly.” He set the book down, surveying Lady Barbara with a bored expression. In truth, she didn’t bore him. Her determined pursuit, combined with a complete lack of sincere interest in his innumerable attractions, fascinated him, almost as much as Nathaniel’s instant, passionate devotion to her. The menage they had formed continued to enliven his days, what with Lady Barbara as usual throwing decorum to the wind and arriving on his doorstep morning, noon, and night, thereby convincing the polite world, erroneously, that she was his latest mistress. He gave her very little encouragement, which only seemed to fire her determination all the more. She wouldn’t rest until she had managed to entice him into bed, and he couldn’t imagine why. He knew women very well indeed, and there was no real sensuality in her practiced gaze, no lush longing in her full lips. She had as much honest interest in the delights of the flesh as she had in the agriculture tomes which he used to ignore her, and he was almost tempted to take up the challenge. The men she had bedded were legion, including most of his acquaintances and those who were misguided enough to call themselves his friend. None of them seemed to have noticed she was playing a game. A game he wasn’t particularly interested in learning.

Ah, but young Nathaniel made it so much more interesting. When he looked at Lady Barbara with all the fierce passion that Killoran doubted he’d ever felt in his entire, jaded life, Nathaniel even managed to startle such a practiced flirt. She tried to keep away from him, albeit subtly, which amused Killoran greatly. Young Hepburn, studiously correct in all of his dealings, made the manipulative Lady Barbara extremely nervous. It was enough to cause Killoran to tolerate both of them.

“
They’re a family of cits,” Lady Barbara said, rising and drifting toward him. It was half past four of a Friday afternoon. Lady Barbara had arrived for lunch, and despite Killoran’s complete lack of hospitality, she had refused to leave. “One of their spotty young sons kept sending me flowers.” She shuddered extravagantly.

“
Not that you aren’t deserving of all floral tributes,” Killoran said idly, “but why?”

“
You’ve never sent me flowers,” she said in a surprisingly soft voice.

“
You aren’t interested in flowers from me, my sweet,” he replied.

Her smile was bright, bold, never reaching her china-blue eyes. “True enough. And the young man was most appreciative of my charms. He would watch me from his bedroom window. It looked directly into mine.”

“
Fascinating,” he remarked. “And did you do anything to merit his adoration?”

“
The poor lad was so furtive about it. Always snuffing the light and lurking just out of sight, but I could see him from behind the awful lace curtains with which his mother festoons everything. Night after night he would watch, hoping to catch a glimpse of something. I thought such devotion deserved some reward.”

“
I’m certain you did.”

“
In a way, I’m afraid it might have provoked the current contretemps.”

“
I’m expecting you to amuse me with the eventual conclusion of this convoluted tale,” Killoran murmured. “Or I shall return to my agriculture text.”

She crossed the room to the settee beside him, perching close to him on her knees. Her dress was far too low-cut for day wear, exposing her small, undeniably lovely breasts, and she smelled like violets. He’d never cared for violets. “For a week, Killoran, I had my maid undress me in front of that window. I always left the candles brightly burning, and I made certain Clothilde stood behind me so as not to obstruct the boy’s view.” She sighed. “Wicked of me, wasn’t it?”

“
Indeed,” he said. “Though not unexpected.”

“
You never find wickedness unexpected, Killoran. That’s why I find you so interesting. I did it for a week. And then I stopped, abruptly. The poor boy would never leave his room. He was distraught, waiting for one more chance to view me. I have quite a lovely body, you know, Killoran. Many men have told me so.”

“
I’ve seen it,” he said blandly.

“
But you haven’t taken it.”

He smiled into the lost depths of her eyes. “Finish your tale, Scheherazade.”

“
I decided to watch him. I was much more adept than he was, and he had no idea I would come up in the darkness and sit behind my curtains. He had a very strong body. A spotty face, but that wasn’t visible across the mews.”

“
You are a lustful wench,” he said dryly, knowing it to be a lie. “I trust you enjoyed yourself.”

She smiled, running her tongue over her full lips in a gesture as practiced as it was meaningless. “This morning I saw something far more interesting than a naked male body.”

“
I pray you, don’t tell me you watched him tumble the upstairs maid. I would think a woman of your experience would have long ago tired of voyeurism. There are, after all, only a limited number of variations, and I imagine you’ve tried most of them. Certainly more than a spotty adolescent could think of.”

“
Oh, it was far more interesting than fucking, Killoran,” she said, using the word deliberately, as if to prove she could say it without flinching. It sounded sad and absurd on her lips. “I got the chance to watch murder being done.”

He closed the book. “Indeed,” he murmured. “And who was murdered? The spotty little voyeur?”

“
Presumably. She bashed him over the head with a fire poker, and even from my vantage point I could see the blood.”

“
She? The upstairs maid, I presume. This loses interest, darling. It’s far too predictable.”

“
I was hoping it was his sister,” Lady Barbara said, “but I gather that young lady is still in leading strings. I’m guessing it was the governess, though I’ve yet to find out.”

“
Why should the governess kill him?”

“
He was trying to rape her. Ripping at her clothes, tearing at her. I’m afraid it’s my fault. I must have driven him to a frenzy.”