First Season / Bride to Be (31 page)

Richard occupied himself by examining Fitzgibbon. He would have wagered a good deal that the man hadn't always been a dancing master, and even more that his career included some shadier endeavors. Why else was he using a false name? How did Emily know him so well? No doubt her father had something to do with it.

“Here we are.” Fitzgibbon struck the roof to signal the driver to pull up before a tall narrow house in a bit better shape than others on the street.

Richard opened the cab door and stepped down, turning to offer Emily a hand. She held up the skirts of her gown as she climbed down.

“The Bruiser doesn't like to leave his own part of town,” repeated Daniel.

“So you have said.” Richard surveyed the area. In broad daylight, it didn't appear actually dangerous. He wouldn't have cared to come here at night. A mocking laugh drew his attention. There were two burly ruffians leaning against the wall across the way. One of them pointed at Emily and sniggered. Richard caught his gaze and held it. After a moment, the man jerked his head and urged his companion away.

“Come on,” said Daniel. “No sense hanging about outside here.”

He was nervous, Richard noted. Fleetingly, he wondered if the man was leading them into some sort of trap. Were they to be robbed in this shabby place? But no, it was much more as if Fitzgibbon didn't want to be anywhere near here himself.

“It's a decent boardinghouse,” he said, his tone confirming Richard's instincts. He sounded as if he were reassuring himself.

They went upstairs, and Fitzgibbon knocked on a door near the back. It was opened at once by one of the largest men Richard had ever seen. He stood well over six feet, and his heavy frame was overlaid by slabs of muscle, particularly in the arms and shoulders. His head, which looked rather small in contrast, showed scars from his bouts in the ring, and he had the horny hardened knuckles of a fighter. His hair was carrot red, and when he smiled—with surprising sweetness—large gaps showed in his teeth. “Mornin' Daniel,” he said, gesturing them in.

Richard glanced at Emily, who looked a bit wide-eyed. Apparently, her father's eccentric circle of friends had not extended quite so far as this.

“This is Lord Warrington,” Fitzgibbon was saying. “And…and Miss Crane.”

The extreme reluctance with which he spoke the last words roused a sudden suspicion in Richard's mind.
Who
had insisted that Emily come on this expedition? Perhaps it hadn't been Fitzgibbon after all.

“Yer lordship. Miss.” The giant moved uneasily. “I only got the one chair.”

It was a poor room, Richard acknowledged. There was an iron bed that scarcely looked as if it would support the man's weight, a rickety table with one straight chair, and a broken down wardrobe which presumably held all his possessions. He gestured Emily to the chair. “You know why we are here?”

“Daniel said someone's after you. Asked me to put my ear to the ground, see what I could find out.”

Richard nodded. “And were you able to find out anything?”

“Oh. Like I tol' Daniel, a couple of coves ha' been talkin' about a job they got, and the money comin' to 'em when it's done.”

“A job?”

The Bruiser grinned, but the effect was far from humorous. “That's what they call it. When they're out to do harm.”

“And what made you believe this had any connection to me?” Richard wondered.

The fighter looked confused.

“Was my name mentioned?”

“Oh. No names, yer lordship. They're not as stupid as that.”

“Then why do you think they meant me?”

“They bragged as how it was a swell they were to do.”

That was probably unusual, but it was a slender connection. “I don't suppose they let on who hired them.”

The Bruiser shook his head.

“No, they wouldn't be that careless,” said Richard.

“Afeard some other cove would take the job from 'em,” the fighter elucidated.

“Like you, perhaps?” Richard was a bit impatient.

The fighter shook his head slowly. “I don't do none of that,” he stated firmly.

Emily leaned forward. She didn't look the least bit intimidated, Richard saw. “What is your name?” she asked.

All three men stared at her.

“Your mother didn't call you Bruiser,” she added, with a smile that softened the question.

The huge man ducked his head. He was flushing, Richard noticed incredulously. “No, miss. She called me Jerry. Jerry Jenkins is my name.”

Emily nodded, still smiling.

Her smile encouraged the man to further confidences. “But it don't sound well, for a fighter, you see. Jerry Jenkins. It's too…lighthearted, like, for the ring. So I started callin' meself the Bruiser.” He cocked his great fists and scowled.

“Very effective,” pronounced Emily, earning another grin.

The fighter turned back to Richard. “You a member of the Fancy, my lord? Look like you'd strip right well.”

“No.” He had had no interest in boxing before leaving London; and after the rigors of his journey, he had even less. Fighting for no purpose but money and attention seemed a ridiculous waste after fighting so many months for his life. “Is there anything else you can tell us?”

The Bruiser frowned.

He had either never had quick wits, or they had been pounded out of him, Richard concluded. “Who are these men you spoke of, the ones doing the ‘job'?”

“Oh. Bob Jones and Ralph the Thumb, me lord.”

“Ralph the Thumb?” echoed Emily.

Richard tried to imagine any other granddaughter of an earl brightly asking such a question, and failed.

“He bit off Ikey Reynolds's thumb in a fight six years ago. So they started callin' him Ralph the Thumb. Ikey put it in a flask of brandy. He shows it for a penny.”

“What?” Emily asked.

“His thumb.”

At this she finally looked a bit green, thought Richard with satisfaction. “Perhaps we should talk to, er, Bob and Ralph,” he suggested.

Daniel Fitzgibbon looked horrified. The Bruiser shook his head in his deliberate way. “They'd cut you as soon as look at you.” Thoughts seemed to move ponderously through his brain. “And if they're after you, me lord, then it wouldn't do to meet them.”

“And present yourself to be killed,” added Emily tartly.

“I suppose it won't do,” acknowledged Richard. “But you could talk to them,” he said to the Bruiser. “Buy them some blue ruin, get their tongues wagging, see if you can learn more.”

“They're partial to the bottle,” the fighter allowed.

“I would pay you to do this,” said Richard, trying to be very clear.

“I could use a bit of rhino. Ain't gettin' the matches I used to, these days.”

“You'll do it then?”

“I'll try me best, me lord. Bob's a mean, closemouthed cove. Ralph might let somethin' slip, if he was far enough under the hatches.”

“Perhaps you should concentrate on him, then.”

The Bruiser frowned uncomprehendingly.

“Perhaps you should get Ralph off alone and fill him with gin,” Richard explained.

“That's right clever.” He nodded in appreciation.

Richard's hopes, never high, sank a notch. “The important thing to find out is who hired these men and who is their target.”

“And you must be very careful,” said Emily. “It sounds as if they are dangerous.”

Fitzgibbon looked startled, but the Bruiser seemed positively astonished. “You worrin' about me, miss?”

“You are taking a risk to help us. Of course I am concerned.”

She really was, Richard thought. He looked at the Bruiser in a new light. The man seemed totally at a loss for words. He was staring at Emily as if she were a creature wholly outside his experience. Undoubtedly, she was. She was rather outside his as well.

“I'll do my best for you, miss,” said the Bruiser, with the fervency of a convert.

“Thank you, Jerry.” Emily rose and offered the giant her hand. “I'm sure you will do very well.”

The Bruiser held her fingers as if terrified of breaking them. It took Richard a moment to recover from the sight. Then he took out a sum he judged sufficient and passed it over to the fighter, along with his card. “You will send word when you have news?”

“Yes, me lord.”

“A note will fetch me any time.”

“I don't write so good. I'll get the landlady's boy to go.”

“Very well.”

They moved toward the door, but Emily stopped before going through. “Do you like being a fighter, Jerry?”

The man grimaced. “I used to, miss. But I ain't so quick on my feet now, and my fams ache in the wet so it's hard to mill like I did.”

She looked blank. “Fams?”

“Hands, miss.” He flexed them. The horny calluses on his knuckles cracked.

“You need some other employment.”

“Ain't none for such as me.” He frowned. The effect was daunting. “Or none I'd take.”

“Nonsense, I'm sure something can be found.”

Richard's heart sank at her thoughtful expression. He was not surprised when she turned a speculative eye on him. “We must go,” he said quickly.

“Yes, but…”

“We will talk later.”

She hesitated a moment longer, then went out. Richard followed with the sure knowledge that he had only postponed the inevitable.

Since the Cranes did not insist on a house in the most fashionable part of London, they found lodgings without much delay. The house included space for a studio for Emily's father, which sweetened his temper considerably.

Her mother bustled into her chamber. “Do you need anything?”

“I don't think I can fit all my things into my trunk,” she admitted. Her aunt had expanded her wardrobe even more than she'd realized until she tried to pack it.

“I'll borrow another from Julia.” Her mother started out again, then hesitated. “I've arranged with her to continue chaperoning you. You were promised a whole season, and you shall have one.”

Her mother suspected something, Emily knew. She had sensed an oddity about the engagement, though she hadn't quite put her finger on what it was. “I'm surprised Aunt Julia agreed,” she said as a diversion.

Her mother smiled. “I made it the price for our leaving her house.”

“But…”

“Your father was insisting on going, but Julia didn't know that.”

Emily laughed. “We've been a great trial to her.”

“It's good for her to be shaken up a bit. I'd forgotten how complacent she is.” She gave Emily a searching look. “Was I mistaken to send you to her? We might have found some other way to…”

“She is very kind to me. I have learned a great deal from her.”

“Um.” Her mother didn't look entirely satisfied. “I'll go and see about the trunk.”

When she was gone, Emily sat on the bed, a half-folded chemise in her hands. She and her parents had never communicated well, she realized. They talked, and her parents were solicitous when they noticed there was some difficulty; but remarks on both sides seemed to veer off in incompatible directions, never quite hitting the mark. How had she turned out so different from them?

* * *

In the new house Emily had far more freedom than before, and one of her first acts was to invite Sarah Fitzgibbon to tea. The great pleasure she found in this simple act showed her more than anything else had done the constriction she had felt at the duchess's.

“We haven't had a proper talk in ages,” said Sarah when they were sitting together over the tea tray. “Now we can say what we like.”

“Yes.”

“So why don't you tell me what's really going on between you and this Lord Warrington.”

Emily's cup wobbled in her hand, though she managed not to spill any tea. “What do you…?”

“I remember when you were wild about the second assistant curate at the cathedral in Winchester. You aren't acting anything like that.”

“That was five years ago! And a case of calf love. This is entirely different.”

“Why?”

Sarah had always been blunt, Emily recalled. “I am older now,” she hedged, uncertain whether to tell her the truth.

“And wiser,” mocked her old friend. “And so? You've decided to settle for money and position after all.”

“He hasn't any money,” Emily replied before she thought.

Sarah stared. “None at all?”

“I don't care about money.”

Sarah's answering look was penetrating. “We used to imagine the sort of men we'd marry. Remember our lists?”

“Yours was very long,” said Emily with a smile.

“I'm particular. You always said that all you wanted was the sort of love your parents have.”

Her smile fading, she nodded.

“Well, I beg your pardon, but your…connection with Lord Warrington doesn't look like that to me.”

“You can't tell that,” she protested halfheartedly.

Sarah merely continued to look at her.

Her regard was irresistible. And it would be a relief to have a friend who knew her true situation. “You must swear not to tell a soul.”

“Haven't I always kept your secrets?”

Taking a moment to gather her thoughts, Emily told the whole story, beginning with Richard's appearance at her house in the country and omitting nothing, not even the night they spent in the hay. “So we will break it off when we have discovered the truth,” she finished. “I will, I mean.”

Sarah gave a soft whistle. “If it weren't you telling me, I'd have trouble believing such a rigmarole.” Her eyes gleamed. “You really got to meet the Bruiser? I've begged to do so, but my father always refused.”

“He didn't seem at all dangerous. His real name is Jerry.” Sarah's answering grin made Emily feel that they were children again, conspiring over some forbidden treat.

“So it's not love, but an adventure.”

Even as she nodded, Emily felt an irrational tug of sadness. But that was exactly what it was.

“He's a handsome man, though,” added Sarah. “And he must be brave, getting out of the jungle like he did.”

“Yes.” Some part of her enjoyed hearing these compliments, though of course they had nothing to do with her.

“He's worried about his mother. He doesn't like her going to Herr Schelling. Can't say as I blame him,” Sarah went on. “Most of the women—and nearly all who come are women—just stay a few sessions, get what they want, and go on. But a few keep coming, and those tend to be, I don't know, shaky.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like they've lost their confidence or something. They can't break free.”

“You mean Herr Schelling plays on their weakness?”

“No.” Sarah wrinkled her nose. “Well, he does. But it's not that. It's like…something happens to them, and they never move on and get back to the way they were.” She shook her head. “And the strange thing is, he didn't even die.”

“Lord Warrington?”

“Right. She was all to pieces when she thought he was gone. You'd think with him back, she'd be set right. But she comes to Schelling's little shows same as ever, and she still seems shaky, like I said. Her son sees it too. I could tell.”

Emily felt as if she had gotten a glimpse into Richard's heart. It felt clandestine, and all the more thrilling because of that. She was filled with a sudden desire to do something for him, to help. She wanted to repay him, she realized, for accepting her family as no one else had ever done. Ideas racing, she examined Sarah. “Why do you work for Herr Schelling?”

“It annoys my dad,” was the quick response. But at Emily's look, she shrugged. “Well, it does. He always assumes I'll do whatever he thinks I should.”

“Do you like Schelling?”

“He's all right. A businessman, you know?”

“He does seem to take advantage of people's sorrow.”

“I've seen churchmen do as much. Get the money for a new window in the church or a fine monument from the grieving relatives.”

“I suppose.”

“I probably won't stay with him much longer,” she confided. “But the thing that really drew me in—it's like the plays we did in Dad's troupe, but it's real. The people come in, and they tell their stories, and they're full of emotion, you know. The things that have happened to them are as amazing as in the plays, but they really happened.”

Her expression was intense, and Emily didn't interrupt.

“I used to feel—well, I still do sometimes—like my life was all made up. We wandered around, doing the plays. We had no house or anything…real. So when I watch these people at Herr Schelling's, it's as if that's all reversed. I'm on the other side.”

“But you're still…”

“I'm still performing,” acknowledged Sarah. “I'm not part of it. But I understand it better, almost so I could go off and do it myself.”

“It?”

“Real life,” explained Sarah. “A regular life, like most people have.”

Emily stared at her, feeling a strong echo of what she meant in herself Where did one find that confidence in life, that contentment? How did you know that you were doing it right?

“I'll be moving on soon,” repeated Sarah.

“To what?” Emily leaned forward a little, waiting for her answer.

“That's what I'm figuring out.” Smiling, Sarah added, “Perhaps Herr Schelling will give me the answer from the Great Beyond.”

Emily smiled back, but her mind was still busy. “If you are really going to leave his employ,” she began.

Sarah raised her eyebrows.

“Would you help get Lady Fielding away from him?”

Inquiry turned to surprise on Sarah's face.

“If we could think of some way to discourage her from seeing Herr Schelling…”

“Nothing easier. I know how all his dodges work.”

“Then you'll do it?”

“You're dead keen on this, aren't you?”

Emily drew back. “I'm simply trying to help a…an acquaintance.”

“Ah, that's what it is, is it?”

“What else?” Emily took care to meet her gaze squarely.

After a moment, Sarah grinned. “What indeed? Sure. I'll do it. Easy.” She snapped her fingers.

Emily was overcome by gratitude too intense to be examined.

* * *

Richard made a small elegant bow and put out his hand to lead Emily into the dance. He'd been a bit surprised to see her arrive at the ball, chaperoned by the duchess as before. But at the first sight of her, his spirits had risen. “I didn't expect to see you,” he said as they began the waltz.

“My mother insisted, and she blackmailed Aunt Julia into bringing me.”

Emily appeared to be watching her feet, so he couldn't see her expression. “Blackmailed?”

She nodded, though all he could see was the top of her head. “She promised to remove Papa from my aunt's house as long as she continued to take me about.”

“Ah.” He tightened his arm slightly, and they turned at the end of the room. He thought he felt her slender frame tremble very slightly. “Is anything wrong?”

At last, she looked up. “No.” Her gaze dropped again.

Richard said nothing, and the silence lengthened. “Nothing further has happened?”

“No.”

Another couple moved clumsily into their path. Holding Emily closer, he swung out of the way. She gave a little gasp at the quick movement, and he suddenly became aware of the suppleness of her waist under his hand and the grace with which she danced. Her ball gown left her pale shoulders half-bare, and ringlets of hair brushed her white skin as one's lips might. The image was electrifying. It filled his senses until he was conscious of nothing else in the room but her. The rhythm of their dance faltered briefly.

“I'm sorry,” said Emily. “I haven't actually waltzed before. I mean, I've practiced, but I've never…”

“So I am the first?”

“Yes.”

She met his eyes, and it seemed to Richard that she was as conscious of him as he was of her. Their clasped hands seemed to pulse with heat. Muscles clenched involuntarily in his other arm, seeming eager to draw her tight against him. He remembered the feel of her nestled close in the hay. Shadows shifted in her gaze, and her lips parted slightly. His body was urging him to take them for his own.

This wouldn't do at all, he thought. This hadn't been part of the plan, and desire had no place in their arrangement. He clenched his jaw. Would the music never stop?

“Did I make a mistake?” asked Emily.

“Possibly,” he muttered.

“Did I step on you? I didn't think I had…”

“You dance beautifully, Miss Crane.” He could move to the side of the room and suggest they stop. But somehow he didn't. He kept holding her, turning in the dance, her flowery scent clouding his senses.

When the music finally ended, they were both breathing rather quickly, as if the waltz called for great physical exertion. They stood together as the couples moved off the dance floor, still linked by the fever they'd roused.

Richard realized that they were attracting amused glances. He offered his arm and led her out of the ballroom into an adjoining chamber. “A glass of champagne?” he said.

Emily put a hand to her flushed cheek. “Thank you.”

When he returned with their glasses, she was composed once more. Indeed, she appeared determined to ignore the past quarter hour. “I don't suppose you've heard anything from our friend Jerry?”

“No.” She looked more than ever like a Botticelli, Richard thought. She was drawn on such delicate lines, and her face had that blend of the sensuous and ethereal that made a man want to… “There's scarcely been time.”

Emily nodded and drank from her glass. Groups of guests chattered around them, but it was somehow as if they were quite a distance away. She took a deep breath. “We must find some job for him.”

“I sensed you would expect me to do so.” His voice sounded caressing, Richard realized. This must stop at once. “I don't see why,” he added in harsher tones.

“He is helping us.”

“And being paid for it.”

“But it is so sad, the way he has been treated.”

“The world is full of sad cases.”

Emily looked at him as if he had disappointed her. Richard felt a pang, but the important thing was to break this unforeseen current of attraction. It complicated matters most damnably, and threatened to take him in directions he had no intention of going.

“Perhaps on your estates somewhere. Surely there are many tasks Jerry could do.”

“You think he'd like to herd sheep? Or farm?” answered Richard mockingly. “Or are you imagining him as a footman? I suppose he would be handy for ejecting unwanted callers.”

“You're teasing me, but—”

“I have no intention of employing the Bruiser.” His reward was a startled, hurt glance, quickly averted. He tried to take satisfaction in it.

“There you are.”

Lydia Farrell came up to them, and Richard greeted her with relief. The dance had been a bizarre aberration. Something in the air, or the music. It wouldn't happen again. “Hello, Cousin.”

Lydia's tone was rueful. “I'm afraid your mother sent me to fetch you.”