Midnight Pleasures With a Scoundrel (19 page)

“So you grew up in this area.”

His sudden voice in the silence was like a crack of thunder. Emma startled and Eleanor went so far as to drop her fork on her plate. He’d not worded his statement as a question, yet Emma thought it required some response. She peered over at Eleanor, who’d retrieved her fork and was occupied moving her food from one side of her plate to the other.

“Yes,” Emma said. “We were born in this house. It’s been in the family for two generations, hardly any time at all when you consider how long England has existed.”

“Have you no servants?”

“We did before Father passed. We had a cook, a maid of all work, and a male servant who served as butler and footman.” She knew she was rambling. What did he care about the particulars regarding their servants? But she could hardly tolerate the tension and the awkwardness emanating from her and Eleanor. James, on the other hand, was distant yet still appeared comfortable with his surroundings. “Are you attempting to tell us that the food is awful?”

“I’ve had much worse.”

Wiping her damp hands on the napkin in her lap, she remembered that he’d never been outside of London before now. She would have dearly loved to be beside him as he took in the countryside. “Did you enjoy the sights as you journeyed from London?”

“I hardly noticed them.”

“A pity. There is some lovely country. Perhaps I can share a bit of it with you before you—we—return to London.”

“For pity’s sake!” Eleanor burst out, coming to her feet. “Can we stop with the politeness?

He means to see us hanged, Emma. I for one have no desire to show him anything.”

Tossing her napkin on the table, she strode from the room, very much mimicking the storm thrashing about outside. Watching her leave, Emma couldn’t help but feel a bit of gladness to have some more time alone with James.

She cleared her throat. “You must forgive her. She’s not been herself lately.”

“How is it that you’re so calm? Do you think to use your wiles to convince me to overlook your transgressions?”

“No, I’m done lying to you. Quite honestly, facing up to what we did will be a bit of a relief. I’ve not slept at all since we left London. Barely eaten. I don’t regret that he’s dead. But there are moments when I regret that we’re the ones who did him in. Do you have any regrets, James?”

He rose from his chair and came to kneel beside her. His lovely green eyes held compassion as he cradled her face and touched his thumbs to the tears on her cheeks, which she had not even realized she’d begun to shed. “They have guided my life, Emma.”

His lips touched hers, so gently, so sweetly. The passion had always seemed to roar through them as though they’d both known their time together was short, and once passed would be gone forever. Now it was banked, but she could still feel the embers of desire fighting not to die, striving to flame as hot and as high as they’d once burned. When he pulled away, he said, “I want to read Elisabeth’s journal.”

For a wonderful moment she’d thought—hoped—that he’d forgotten he was a policeman with a duty. But she suspected his duties were never far from his mind, just as her sins were never far from hers. Wiping away her remaining tears, she nodded. “I’ll fetch it for you.”

She couldn’t have been more surprised when he helped her clear away the table. As she washed the dishes, he dried them.

“I’m not accustomed to a gentleman in the kitchen,” she said. “My father always left the table and went to his study to enjoy a bit of brandy with his pipe.”

“I don’t trust that your sister didn’t pour laudanum into all the liquor. As for the pipe, there’s enough bad air in London. Don’t need more in my lungs. I like the smell of the air here.”

She smiled. “Wait until the storm passes. It’s really quite lovely then.”

As though he didn’t want to contemplate what would happen when the storm passed, he said, “When I lived with Feagan, we all had our chores. Mine was to wash the dishes. Most of the lads didn’t care one way or another, but I can’t stand the smell of rancid food.”

“Can hardly blame you there.”

“It reminded me too much of the smell of Newgate when I went to visit my father before they hanged him.” His voice was somber, and she heard in it the stirring of unpleasant memories.

“You sound as though you still miss him.”

“Every day. A little over twenty years now.” She handed him the last dish. “It’s good, really, not to forget. Sometimes it’s as though Elisabeth is still with me. I’ll get the journal for you now. Meet me in the parlor.”

Eleanor refused to leave her bedchamber. Emma didn’t mind. It left her alone in the parlor with James. She had brought him the journal, explaining that the pertinent parts began last June when Elisabeth arrived in London. In a fashion typical of his thoroughness, which she was only beginning to recognize, he opened the journal to the first page and began there. Strangely, she wasn’t impatient with his reading. Judging by how long it was before he turned the page, he wasn’t a fast reader. If he intended to read the entire journal before leaving, then she and Eleanor would have a few additional days of freedom to put matters to right. They had to make arrangements for someone to take the few animals they had. There was also the matter of the house. They could lock it up, but eventually it would need to go to someone. Or perhaps they should sell it. They would need money for a solicitor, and those with money also fared better in gaol.

While he read, Emma saw to her needlework. James had lit the fire in the hearth before she arrived, so the room was nice and warm. Apparently deciding that Eleanor hadn’t tampered with all the liquor in the house, he had helped himself to her father’s brandy. A half-filled glass rested on the table beside the chair in which he sat. Emma sat in a chair on the other side of the small table so they shared a lamp. She was near enough to catch his fragrance, to hear the crackle of the paper as he turned the page.

These moments were like the ones she’d dreamed about when she imagined her life in later years, when she thought of herself married and with children. But the years that awaited her would have no moments like this in them. Her mouth grew dry and her tongue seemed unwilling to cooperate. “Do you suppose there is any chance they’ll transport us rather than hang us?”

He looked up from the journal, his face unreadable. “Is that what you’d prefer?”

She wanted to swallow but the dryness continued. “I don’t know. I should think any life at all is preferable over death, even a harsh life.”

“It’s more than harsh. It’s brutal.”

She nodded. She’d never known anyone who’d been transported. In truth, the only person she knew who’d ever been to gaol or prison was James—and she’d seen what they had done to his back when he was a child. She couldn’t imagine how much harsher the punishment would be for an adult.

As though aware of the distressing thoughts plowing through her mind, he said, “I shouldn’t worry about it overmuch, if I were you.”

“You’re absolutely right. I should make the most of the time I have here while I’m here.”

She studied the clumsily done needlework in her lap. “I don’t even know why I’m bothering with this. I can’t possibly finish it before we leave. I doubt—”

“Emma.”

His voice was firm, yet gentle, and it drew her in the same manner that everything about him did. She found comfort from his nearness even as she knew that he’d be the death of her.

“Say my name again.”

She didn’t understand the struggle she saw in his features. Was he repulsed by her, by the thought of her name rolling off his tongue?

“Emma,” he finally murmured.

“You can’t imagine how many times I longed to hear you say my name rather than Eleanor’s.” She looked down because she didn’t want him to see the damnable tears that had surfaced yet again. “How much do you despise me for my deception?”

It seemed that minutes ticked by before he finally said, “Probably not nearly as much as you despise yourself.”

She peered over at him, surprised by his candor, yet relieved by his words. Although judging by how much she loathed herself, perhaps his dislike for her was greater than she wanted. “You are oh so very wise, James Swindler.”

“My life has brought all sorts through it. Some guilty. Some innocent. Some deserving of what fate brought their way. Some not. There was one lad I knew, long ago, cocky bastard. Greedy, too. Wanted everything he set his eyes on, he did. One day he saw a gent take a gold watch from his pocket. It was so shiny. The boy thought, ‘Oh, I’d like to have that, I would.’ So he pinched it. But he wasn’t very good, you see.

“The gent missed his watch straightaway, started yelling for a constable. The boy got scared. His father was standing nearby, so into his father’s pocket he dropped it. I suppose it was the surprised look on his father’s face that caused the constable to search him. And the gent, well, he was a lord. Didn’t appreciate having his watch pilfered. He saw to it that the man was hanged for his offense within the fortnight. Not once did the man ever declare his innocence. Not once did he ever point the blame at his son. He walked up the steps to the gallows as though he had no regrets. The regrets were left to his son.”

Her chest ached as though it had grown too small to contain her heart. “You were the son.”

She saw the answer reflected in his eyes. Twenty years to live with regret.

“My father told me we were playing a prank, we were swindling justice. When Feagan took me in, when he took anyone in, he made the boy change his name. Swindler seemed to suit a lad who’d managed to have his father hanged in his place.”

Although all these years had passed, her heart still went out to the boy who was now sitting before her as a man. “Oh, James, he wouldn’t have wanted you to live with the regrets. He knew what he was doing. Parents sacrifice for their children all the time.”

“It doesn’t make it any easier to live with, Emma.”

“That’s the reason you don’t carry a watch.”

“Can’t bring myself to purchase one—even though I can now well afford it.”

As though they’d only been talking about the weather, he returned to reading the journal. Because she could think of nothing significant to say to comfort him, she left him to it.

Chapter 16

B
ecause he’d taken an overly long sleep that afternoon, due to the unfortunate draught that Eleanor—strange how the name he’d once adored suddenly grated on him—had slipped him, Swindler was far from tired when the clock on the mantel chimed ten. Emma, on the other hand, was wilted. She told him to sleep in her bedchamber. She had plans to sleep with Eleanor. If sleep came at all.

Although aware that he appeared a buffoon without manners, he didn’t stand when Emma rose from her chair. He knew if he got to his feet, nothing on earth would stop him from approaching her, taking her in his arms and carrying her to bed. If he could last that long. His body was wound so tightly from being alone in her presence that it was quite possible he’d try to have her before they ever left the room. So he’d stayed where he was, given her a distracted good-night without ever looking up from the journal. It was bloody hell to sit so near her without touching her.

To make matters worse, he’d revealed his deepest, darkest secret as though it were a fairy tale. Whatever had possessed him to confess his sins regarding his father? Now she knew he, too, was responsible for a man’s death. He may as well have murdered his father, dropped the noose around his neck. The guilt had gnawed at him for twenty years now, leaving behind raw wounds that would never heal. No one knew about them, not even Frannie, but where Emma was concerned, he seemed unable to keep any secrets.

It was long past midnight when Swindler set the journal aside. He wanted to come to know the girl so he could better understand how whatever had happened might have affected her. Perhaps a bit of him was also searching for hints regarding Emma. He didn’t want to believe that she’d been completely duplicitous while in London. She had to have shared her true self with him, even if her name and her reasons hadn’t been honest. Damn it, he didn’t want to lose her, lose the woman he’d met in London, the one who intrigued him, made him laugh, made him glad to get up in the morning, gave him reason to anticipate the day. He thought the woman he’d known in London was more Emma than the woman who watched him here, the one with worry in her eyes and suspicions. He didn’t blame her for whatever doubts she might be harboring. He wasn’t even certain that he could explain all the reasons that had brought him here. Pride, because he’d allowed a murderer to escape his clutches. Honor, because his word could so easily be brought into question. But it was more than work. It was so much that he couldn’t explain.

The storm still raged outside. Swindler wasn’t certain he’d be able to sleep with all its howling and shrieking. Even the rain was louder than anything he’d ever heard in London. Rubbing his stiff neck, he decided that with both ladies in bed, what he really wanted was a hot bath.

Just off the kitchen he found a bathing room. No doubt a recent addition. While he was able to pump water to fill the tub, because he preferred it near to boiling and because he liked it full and was in the mood for a bit of indulgence, it took him a while to get the water to his satisfaction. He’d just pulled his shirt over his head when the door opened. His heart galloped as he turned around, and just as quickly it slowed to a canter.

“Eleanor.”

Releasing a soft laugh and drawing her shawl more tightly over her night rail, she took two steps toward him. “Oh, James, I can’t tell you how it hurts me that you fail to recognize me. It’s me. Emma.”

“The bloody hell you are.” Dismissing her, careful to keep his back from her view, he dipped his hand in the water. Still hot enough, but not for long.

“I can’t believe after all we shared—”

Spinning around, he grabbed her wrist before she could touch his bare shoulder. He wasn’t certain what his face revealed, but judging by the widening of her eyes, it was exactly what he was thinking. “Leave me be. I want nothing to do with you.”

She sagged as though all remaining life had been drained from her. “You really can tell us apart. No one else has ever been able to do that. Not even Father. How can you be sure I’m not Emma?”