Be My Lover (8 page)

Watching them go, Emily folded her arms over her chest,
trying to capture and keep some of Jonathon’s warmth. His scent clung to her
dress—one that smelled of hope and innocence—and sorrow pierced her heart,
weighing it down with the old, sad truth.

She would never, could never, have child.

Considering how she and Anthony had been behaving, she
supposed she should be grateful. They had even managed a quick romp before
coming to the Danbury’s.

“After all,” he had said as he stripped off her riding
habit. “We can’t arrive in our riding clothes, smelling of horses.”

“Don’t you suppose we’ll smell of tupping?” Her speed in
undressing him nearly equaled his undressing of her.

“Where did you learn a word like tupping?” he demanded as
they fell among the sheets. Davis had wisely left the bed unmade.

“From that maid of mine,” she said, opening her legs for
him.

Just as he was about to enter her, she placed her hand on
his cock and began to guide him in and out.

“Thank God for maids,” he said devoutly, putting his
weight on his elbows.

His length throbbed inside her, filling her as she slid
him back and forth. “Oh, Anthony,” she murmured. “You feel so very, very good.”

“I’m glad to be of service.” He groaned as her hand
continued its work, moving him faster and faster until something inside her
shattered and she thought she would die from pleasure.

He cried out her name and fell on top of her. She lay
beneath him, his heart racing against hers while her legs held him in place,
not wanting him to withdraw. Wanting to lie there with him forever.

But then he pulled back and looked at her, taking her
face between his palms, and she knew how much trouble she was in.

“Emily,” he had whispered. “My sweet, wanton Emily.”

Perhaps that’s why she had given herself to him with such
abandon. There was no possibility of a child being created, so why not give
into every form of pleasure they could imagine?

“Emily? Is something the matter?” Anthony repeated his
question from earlier this morning. The men had returned to their places on the
sofa and Franny was reentering the room, followed by several tray-bearing
servants.

“Nothing,” Emily lied again. “Nothing at all.”

Fog had settled over London, shrouding the city in a
chilling layer of dampness. Unlike Pall Mall and other such fashionable
neighborhoods, Bethnal Green had none of the new gas streetlights—for which
Freddy Cooper was grateful. Stepping over a pile of rotting vegetables in the
alley, he cautiously entered the back door of an abandoned house and then
closed it behind him. The creak of the hinges echoed through the empty rooms
and Freddie winced. The dust carpeting the floor puffed up and settled over his
boots as he crept toward the staircase. Boarded windows shut out any possible moonlight
and he coughed against the stale air. The place needed a good spring cleaning.
The kind his ma used to give their house.

The first step of the staircase groaned under his weight and
he paused, listening for any sound of someone else in the house. The next step
echoed the first and this time a voice hissed from somewhere in the darkness
above him. “Freddie? Is that you?”

Freddie’s shoulders relaxed. “Yeah, Henry. I’m coming up.”

His journey to the next floor was much quicker and Freddie
sighed his relief. His younger brother was waiting with the usual food-filled
rucksack. Thank God. Freddie hadn’t eaten in days.

“Got the lock picked, didn’t you?” Freddie asked as they
settled on the steps.

Henry grinned and patted his hat. “Got the tools in the lining.
Lock picking was the best thing you ever taught me.”

Delicious smells rose from the rucksack and, for a moment,
the fear that was Freddie’s constant companion vanished. His stomach rumbled
and his mouth watered in appreciation. “Give it over, little brother.”

The contents of the rucksack were quickly devoured. Pasties,
a chunk of cheese, apples and a small stone jug of milk soothed the gnawing
ache in Freddie’s stomach. At long last he sat back and wiped his mouth on his
sleeve. “Thanks,” he said. “That did the trick. What’s the news in the world?”

“That duke is back,” Henry said without preamble. “The new
one, that is.”

That duke
. The two words were enough to coil
Freddie’s stomach into knots. “Bradford is back? Where’d you hear that?”

“At Victoria’s.” Henry worked as a waiter and sometimes a
croupier at the exclusive gaming club, and overheard all kinds of useful
things. “Them at the club are saying he’s probably gonna start looking for a
wife, but he’s already got himself a mistress. A widow by the name of Mrs.
Emily Martin with a fortune of her own. Not bad to look at neither.”

Sweat gathered on Freddie’s forehead. “What’s else?”

“Word on the street is that the new duke is gonna start
asking questions about his pa’s death. Some are already saying it weren’t no
suicide, but murder.”

A convulsive shudder shook Freddie and he folded his arms
over his chest. “Then that means him that done in the old duke is gonna start
looking for
me
again. Damn, I shoulda left England right after he saw
me.”

“Ma’s half-sick with worry about you, Freddie,” Henry told
him. “Why don’t you just go tell a magistrate what you saw that night?”

“You think they’re gonna believe me?” Freddie hissed. “’Fore
I changed my ways and gave up picking pockets and locks, I spent half my time runnin’
from the law. Roscoe the book seller was the only one who gave me a chance by
letting me make special deliveries to the old duke for ’im. He even convinced
the law I’d changed. But the killer
saw
me, Henry. If he’d weighed a
stone less, he’d have caught and killed me too.”

“But most folks still believes the old duke killed himself,”
Henry argued. “No one thinks
you
killed him. ’Cept for the killer and
Roscoe, no one knows you was even close to the duke’s house that night.”

“Yeah, well I’m still not gonna take the chance in showing
my face on the streets,” Freddie said stubbornly. “’Specially if the new duke
is back and thinking he can prove his pa was murdered. He’ll get some of his
friends—them that calls themselves that Rogues’ Gallery—to help him. If the
killer hears what Bradford plans to do, then he’ll start looking for me again.”

“It’s killing Ma that you’re not at home,” Henry wheedled.
“Can’t you try and come see her?”

“Not gonna put her, you or the others in danger,” Freddie
said. He reached into a trouser pocket and pulled out a handful of dirt-caked
coins. “Found these when I was sweeping up a pub floor two days ago,” he said.
“Knew you was coming today so I saved ’em for you to give to Ma.”

“She’d want you to buy food for yourself,” Henry said,
stowing the money in the paper-lined rim of his hat. “You’re nothing but skin
and bones, you are.”

“I’m doing fair,” Freddie insisted. “The coins ain’t much,
but they’ll help buy extras for the little ones. You better go now.”

He hugged Henry tightly and waited until he had eased his
way down the stairs and out of the house before following him. A quick look up
and down the deserted street proved Freddie was alone. After locking the door,
he turned up his collar to the April breeze and vanished into the fog and
darkness.

* * * * *

“But where are we going?” Emily asked, touching the
blindfold. “I’m supposed to be at the dressmaker’s in an hour. We’re going to a
party at Jocelyn’s tonight and there’s a ball tomorrow night. I can’t keep
wearing Jocelyn’s clothing.”

“If Jocelyn told her modiste you’re my friend, she’ll wait
all afternoon,” Anthony said. “Besides, where I’m taking you and what I’m going
to show you are every bit as important as a new wardrobe.”

Emily forced her lips into pout. “Isn’t that just like a
man. From what Jocelyn tells me, fashion—or lack of it—can make or break a
woman’s reputation in the
ton
.”

“Slow us down, Thomas,” Anthony called.

“Yes, my lord,” the coachman called. “Easy on down, boys,”
he told the matched geldings. “Easy on down.”

The rumbling wheels slowed their pace, matching the steady
clip-clopping of the horses’ hooves. They stopped and after taking off the
blindfold, Anthony said, “Keep your eyes closed until I count to three. One—”

“Anthony Dyson, you are the silliest—”

“Hush. I’m a duke. Two—”

“Man I’ve ever met. Even if you are a duke.”

“Three. Open your eyes and look to the right.”

Deliberately exaggerating her sigh, Emily did as he asked
and gasped. A two-story brick house sat on one corner of a square. A pair of
crouching lions on two pedestals flanked the steps leading to a stone walkway
with barrels of crimson and white tulips sitting on the front steps.

“Anthony, what have you done?” Emily demanded as he helped
her to the sidewalk.

“You need a house, so I’ve found you a house. What do you
think?”

She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him far enough away from
Thomas to keep their conversation private. “I
forbid
you to buy me
house,” she hissed. “I will
not
have the
ton
think that you are
keeping me.”

He sighed, removed his hat and rubbed his forehead. “Emily,
I’ve not bought you the house. I’ve merely arranged for you to try it for a
month. The leasing agent was eager to find a renter and agreed to wait for you
to come by today with the first month’s rent if you like it. I would suggest,
however, letting Davis do it for you until you can hire a man of business. A
lady of the
ton
never handles such matters personally.” Putting on his
hat, he winked slyly. “What would people think if you did?”

Her irritation subsiding, she gave her attention to the
house and the tree-lined street. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Where are we?”

“Bloomsbury. Not Mayfair, but still quite fashionable. My
friend, Amos Quigley—when he’s not staying at the St. Ives—lives in that house
there.” Anthony pointed at the house next door. “You will remember Greg Keller
telling you that Amos is another member of Rogues’ Gallery.”

“What is ‘Rogues’ Gallery’?”

“A small band of friends dedicated to the pursuit of
pleasure.” Anthony wiggled his eyebrows at her. “We can be most naughty.”

“And when do I get to meet Mr. Amos Quigley?” Emily asked.
It was good to know a friend of Anthony’s was living nearby.

“I’ll see what I can arrange.”

Recalling his other friends, Emily asked, “Do Sir Gregory
and Lord Brandon keep rooms at the Saint Ives as well?”

“They do. Phillip did until he married Franny. Let’s go
inside.”

She put her hand on his arm. “Another surprise?”

“Something like that,” he said cheerfully as he took her arm
and escorted her up the sidewalk and the front steps to the wide porch. Anthony
opened the front door and removed his hat. “You may go in, Mrs. Martin. Good
morning, everyone.”

A row of people stood waiting in the foyer, their crisp
aprons and caps or smart black suits marking them as servants. They bowed and
curtsied as Anthony entered and led Emily toward them.

“This is the some of the staff from my father’s house.
They’re yours until you can hire your own. I thought having them here would be
helpful so you wouldn’t have to rush to find others.” He pointed at a strongly
built man who appeared not much older than himself. “Emily, this is Timmons,
the Dyson family butler.”

Timmons stepped forward and bowed. “When His Grace proposed
we work for you until you can find your own staff, Mrs. Martin, we were delighted.”
Behind him came nods and murmured agreements. “I promise you, ma’am, we will
provide you with complete satisfaction.”

“Timmons runs a tight ship,” Anthony said. “Everyone here
has been employed by my family for at least three years. Even little Sally
here, your kitchen maid. She does the dishes and helps keep the kitchen clean,
but the last I heard she had been entrusted to cook the potatoes and makes a
very fine piecrust, don’t you, Sally?”

A girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen, bobbed a
curtsy. “Yes, my lord.”

Anthony pointed at the serene-faced woman next to Timmons.
“This is Mrs. Timmons, the housekeeper. Next to her is Ruthann, the first
parlor maid, Eliza, the second parlor maid, Joseph, the footman, Harold who
will take care of the grounds, Ralph, his assistant, Masie, the tweenie and
last but not least Mrs. Jackson, the best cook in London.”

“I’ll be glad to have someone to cook for again other than
the staff, Mrs. Martin, and that’s a fact,” Mrs. Jackson declared. “I hope you
like simple cooking, ’cause that’s what I’m best at. But if you’ve a mind to
entertain, I’ll do you proud.”

“Simple sounds wonderful,” Emily told her. “Thank you all
very much.”

Timmons cleared his throat. “My lord, there is one thing. I
hope you don’t mind my presumption, but…”

“Timmons, I’ve never known you to beat about the bush,”
Anthony said. “Just say it.”

“I brought Zeus with us.”

Anthony’s eyebrows rose. “You did?”

“My lord, I promise you he’ll be no trouble. I’ve taken good
care of him while you’ve been away and I do believe he’d grieve himself to
death if he were left behind. I’ve…” A rosy pink flooded the butler’s face. “I
know it sounds strange, but I’ve grown fond of him, if…if one can be fond of a
parrot.”

“A parrot?” Emily asked. “Zeus is a parrot?”

Timmons seemed to be looking at something over Emily’s head.
“Yes, ma’am. A macaw, actually.”

Anthony’s bellow of laughter filled the foyer and,
cautiously, the staff began to laugh as well.

“Well,” Anthony gasped. “I suppose that will be all right,
Timmons. We can’t let Zeus die.”

Relief relaxed Timmons’ worried expression. “Thank you, my
lord.”

“And when do I get to meet this beauty of a bird?” Emily
asked. “Especially if I’m going to be sharing my house with him.”

“I put him in the sitting room, ma’am,” Timmons said. “It
gets plenty of morning sun and he likes that.”

“Then to the sitting room we shall go,” Anthony announced.
He led Emily across the foyer and opened a door. The room was small, but cozy
and well furnished. Large medieval-themed tapestries hung from each wall and a
fire burned in the grate as if Anthony was sure of her acceptance to rent the
house. Next to a window overlooking an expanse of yard a large cage hung from a
stand. Inside the cage was the biggest bird Emily had ever seen. Covered in
blue and gold feathers, it swung back and forth on a wooden perch, seemingly
oblivious to his visitors.

“Good heavens,” she said. “That’s Zeus? He’s huge.”

“Hence his name,” Anthony said. “Zeus belonged to my father.
To tell the truth, I had completely forgotten about him.”

Emily tucked her hand in the crook of Anthony’s arm. “Have
you been to your father’s house since your return?”

“No.” The single word signaled more questions would not be
wise.

“I’m sure with Timmons’ help, Zeus and I will become good
friends,” Emily said quickly. “And his feathers are such beautiful colors! I’ve
never seen a macaw before.”

“Let me show you the rest of the house,” Anthony said,
leading her from the room. “The original owner had it built forty years ago. He
was a notorious rake who slept with anything wearing a skirt. It’s rumored his
poor wife had no clue to his many infidelities, even after he died
in
flagrante delicto
with a woman whose morals—or lack of them—equaled his.
The man’s sneakiness knew no bounds.”

“The furniture in the sitting room doesn’t look forty years
old,” Emily observed. “Has the house had a more-previous owner?”

“It did. But the man’s fiancée bolted with another just
before the wedding and the jilted bridegroom-to-be fled for the safety of a
monastery. Or so says Brandon. I don’t know if the former owner’s taste in
furniture matches yours, but at least you won’t have to worry about buying any
for now. Three of the four bedrooms upstairs are furnished as well. You, of
course, will want to have your own things for your room.”