A Scandalous Proposal (3 page)

Not that he would so much as hint such a thing. Indeed, doing so would relegate him to the same crass category as the unspeakable Mr. Harding. The Earl of Cheverley normally had only to express interest, and the chosen lady hurried to do his bidding. The impossibly beautiful Madame, however, seemed reluctant to accept even protective assistance from him, despite the real danger in which she stood.

Vividly he recalled that sizzling glance, her smoldering touch. She was aloof, and yet undeniably responsive.

Winning her would not be easy, he recognized, his instincts piqued by the challenge. Once she was won, however, he could imagine no more enjoyable a task than lifting every burden from her slim shoulders and sheltering that exquisite body close.

A discreet little house in Mayfair, perhaps? With furnishings in the first stare of elegance, a loyal staff, gowns, jewels, carriages, whatever she wished. He would move heaven and earth to grant her every whim. He imagined dressing her in amethysts and deep plum satin to match those incredible eyes. Imagined even more vividly undressing her….

Excitement tingled in his veins, and something else tingled lower. Not for months had he felt so alive, so buoyed with anticipation.

He would ensure her safety, of course, whether she smiled on him now or not. But sooner or later, he vowed, she would.

E
mily saw the man immediately after she unbolted the shop door the next morning. As she stared through the fog-wisped air, shocked into immobility, the burly figure lounging in a doorway opposite snapped to attention and gave her a jaunty wave. The bright red waistcoat under his buff frieze jacket proclaimed him a runner, apparently detailed, as Lord Cheverley had promised, to protect her.

Her immediate rush of relief was succeeded by a worry that gnawed at her all morning as she fashioned her bonnets and waited on customers. His lordship was obviously a man of his word. Could he, as he claimed, construe it his public duty to ensure private citizens such as herself were not molested in their homes and businesses? And the wages of the watchman now loitering on the street outside—did she truly, as he insisted, have no need to concern herself over the matter?

Her thoughts went round and round, but always returned to the same point. Despite his lordship's promises, she could not deem it prudent to permit him to fund her protection.

For one thing, the very thought of accepting so great a boon from one entirely unrelated grated against every principle upon which she'd been raised. More ominously, as
bitter experience had taught her twice over, rich and influential men like my lord of Cheverley did nothing without calculation. Debts owed would be called in sooner or later, generally when most advantageous to the lender. Worse yet, she thought with more than a touch of annoyance, the earl's immediate, high-handed action—taken without any consultation as to her preferences—had stuck a spoke in the wheel of Josh Harding's game, a curb that villain was unlikely to forgive or forget.

She recalled the strength of the bully's rough hands jerking her close, the stench of his wet tongue assaulting her mouth. An involuntary shiver skittered down her spine. She had few illusions as to what sort of vengeance he would choose if he could get her once more in his power.

Which meant, unless she were prepared to relocate her business—a financial impossibility—she was likely to need protection for some considerable time. Yet more reason to stand alone now, for who could predict how long the quixotic Earl's interest in her welfare would last?

Perhaps it would be possible to have his solicitor maintain the defensive policies already set in motion. She should consult the man immediately. And determine safety's unpalatable price.

That unpleasant conclusion reached, she instructed Francesca to take over the shop, and embarked on the long walk to the offices of his lordship's counselor.

The bored-looking young clerk who answered her knock subjected her to an insolent inspection her glacial manner did nothing to discourage—until she stated that her business concerned the Earl of Cheverley. Instantly the clerk turned respectful, ushering her to a seat and announcing he would immediately inform his master of her presence.

Yet another indication of the Earl's power, she thought uneasily as she leaned back to rest her tired shoulders. The chair on which she sat was luxuriously appointed in leather;
heavy damask drapes hung at the windows, and a Turkey carpet graced the floor. The entire establishment reeked of exclusivity and expensive cigars.

Suddenly she was transported in memory to a room very like this, where a lifetime ago a defiant young lady had informed her sire she intended to embark, not on the London Season planned for her, but on a vessel bound for the Peninsula, as the bride of Lieutenant Andrew Waring-Black. When she remained steadfast in the face of her father's adamant disapproval, he alternately mocked, threatened and finally raged he'd see her dead first.
“Where do you think you would find yourself, missy, when that impertinent jackanapes got himself killed? Destitute in some heathenish land, that's where, earning a living upon your back!”

“Mr. Manners will see you now.” The clerk's deferential words startled her out of reverie. Clenching her fingers on her reticule, Emily followed him.

Behind a huge desk sat a thin man with spectacles perched on his narrow nose. Shelves of legal tomes lined the walls; a leather armchair astride another tasteful carpet poised before the desk. A lamp glowed, adding the piquant scent of its flaming oil to the melange of cigar and lemon wood polish. The heavy curtains were drawn, as if the occupant did not wish even the daylight to intrude into his sanctum. The polite but piercing look he fixed on her said he resented her intrusion as well.

“That will be all, Richards,” Mr. Manners said. The clerk, who had been staring at her again, hastily bowed himself out. “A chair, Mrs. Spenser?”

Emily sat. This forbidding man did not seem likely to trouble himself over one such as her. More than ever, she sensed the excluding wall that barred all that was weak and womanly from the world of male privilege and power.

An old, familiar resentment revived her flagging spirits.
“Mr. Manners, Lord Cheverley consulted you about me. A matter of attempted extortion, you may remember.”

“Yes, Mrs. Spenser, I'm fully cognizant of the details. Has there been another…incident?”

“No, sir, the, ah, guard his lordship promised has been dispatched. There have been no further threats. I just wished to inquire as to the normal procedure in such situations.”

“There is no ‘normal' procedure, ma'am. I don't usually prosecute matters of this sort, but as his lordship refers all his legal business to me, I have of course undertaken a full investigation. You need have no further concern for your safety, I assure you. Now, if you'll excuse me…”

Emily resisted his clear dismissal. “Oh, but I wish—”

“Mrs. Spenser, I am sure his lordship, at his convenience, will acquaint you with any details he deems appropriate. I simply cannot discuss a pending case with other than my client.” This time, he rose and indicated the door.

“And if I were your client?” Emily persisted, rising, but refusing to let his obvious annoyance intimidate her.

“I see no need for that. His lordship already retains me, and as I've informed you, everything needful is being done.”

“I am sure it is, Mr. Manners. You must not think I doubt your competence, or that I am not grateful for his lordship's intervention. But if this…situation should recur in future? Sadly, there are always rogues only too ready to prey on the honest. As a woman alone, I would wish to be informed of my alternatives.”

Mr. Manners tilted his head and tapped at his chin. “'Tis true, ma'am, that despite taking appropriate action now, one cannot rule out the possibility of future difficulties.” He looked her up and down. “You are a widow, I understand. You have no near relatives, yours or your late husband's, to see to your protection?”

“If I had, would I be here now?” she replied, an edge of anger in her voice.

To her surprise, the humorless face creased in what might be construed as a smile. “Excuse me, I meant no disrespect. Please, sit back down, Mrs. Spenser. What is it you wish to know?”

Emily felt some of the tension leave her. “How does your office handle such a matter? Should I report any future threats to the authorities? And what…” She faltered. “What fee would you require, were I to retain you?”

“First, I would not have you contact the authorities—not initially. Come to my office first. Most of the magistrates are honest folk, but from time to time a bad apple falls into the basket, as it were. My contacts would ascertain the background and intention of the perpetrators and proceed from there. And my normal fee would be two hundred pounds, plus the expense of hiring runners if I thought the need justified.”

Emily tried not to gasp. Lord Cheverley was laying out two hundred pounds, plus expenses, to thwart Mr. Harding? And she had thought another ten pounds a month exorbitant!

She forced herself to rise on shaking legs. “Th-thank you for the information, and for your time, Mr. Manners.”

He rose and nodded. “Think nothing of it, Mrs. Spenser.” His shrewd eyes scanned her again, and she colored, sure he must have realized how staggering was the sum he'd quoted her, how impossibly far beyond her means.

“Don't distress yourself, ma'am,” he said, his tone kind. “Lord Cheverley will pursue this to its conclusion, regardless of time or expense. I have had the privilege of his patronage for many years, and one could not find a more conscientious member of the nobility. You may trust him to do the right thing, Mrs. Spenser. And I doubt you will be troubled again.”

His attempted reassurance was nearly as daunting as his
fee. She had known pursuing the miscreant would be costly, but had never dreamed the total would be that vast. How could she allow a virtual stranger, be he ever so noble, generous and dutiful, to absorb such an enormous expense on her behalf? But then, how could she ever reimburse him?

 

Emily sat in her tiny garden, absently eating the nuncheon Francesca had insisted on preparing for her when she returned. She was still pondering the dilemma, and no closer to a solution, when a shadow fell across her teacup.

Lord Cheverley himself stood over her. As her gaze met his, he gave her again that enticing, intimate smile. “Forgive me for disturbing you. I just wished to ascertain that the runner we sent was satisfactory.”

“Yes, of course. I hardly know how to thank you.”

“There's no need.” He was looking at her intently, waiting, she realized, for her to offer her hand. When she raised it, he brought it to his lips, lingering over it a fraction longer than was proper.

“I would have called last night to report the guard was in place, but I had several appointments, and 'twas late when I returned to check. I saw no lights, and did not wish to disturb you.”

“You came by last night?” she echoed in astonishment.

“Of course. I told you I would. I could not have slept, had I not been assured of your safety.”

It had been so long since someone other than Francesca had expressed any concern whatsoever for her well-being that in spite of herself, she was touched. “You are too kind. Again, I thank you. And you must allow me to defray some of the costs—the runners, perhaps—”

He waved away the suggestion. “Certainly not. A business as clever and stylish as yours must surely succeed, but hardly needs any additional expenses at its inception. I am fully recompensed by knowing you are safe.”

Again, she felt absurdly touched. “I do feel safe. Thank you for that.”

His compelling gaze captured hers. “I would not beteem the winds of heaven/visit thy face too roughly,” he paraphrased from Hamlet. Gently he touched one finger to the bruised corner of her mouth.

A jolting spark tingled her lip. She stood mesmerized as he slowly removed his hand.

Bemused, she raised her own hand to the spot.
'Tis the bruise that throbs,
she told herself.

“Ev, the runner wishes to speak with you.”

It seemed to take a moment for the newcomer's voice to penetrate. With a grimace, Lord Cheverley stepped back. Waving at him from the garden door, Emily saw, was the man who had accompanied him to her shop the previous day.

His lordship turned on her another dazzling smile. “I shan't keep you any longer, ma'am. The patrols will be properly maintained, so you may rest easy. If anything occurs to frighten or trouble you, send to me at once. Number 16, Portman Square. Someone there will know where to reach me if I'm from home.”

Once again he raised her hand to his lips. “I shall call again later.”

“'Twould be an honor, my lord,” she managed to murmur.

As Lord Cheverley strode from the garden, his companion ambled toward her. “Brent Blakesly, ma'am,” he said with a bow. “You
can
rest easy, you know. Evan is as good as his word. Trust him to guarantee your safety.”

“So I've been urged,” she murmured, recalling the solicitor's advice. “I only wish he were not doing so at such great expense.”

She must have looked troubled, for Blakesly's friendly face sobered. “You mustn't distress yourself, ma'am. Evan
is wealthy enough that his kindness places no strains upon his purse.” He gave her a deprecating smile. “I suppose, having always had vast sums at his disposal, he never realizes it might be difficult for his friends to easily accept his assistance.”

“But I am not a friend,” she replied, her voice low. “I have no more claim to his largesse than I have the means to repay it.”

“May I speak candidly, Mrs. Spenser?” At her nod, he continued, “Evan has a great dislike for bullies. 'Twas how I first met him, when as a runty lad at Eton he pummeled the two upperclassmen who were tormenting me. Seeing some villain attempting to take advantage of a lady, he would feel compelled to prevent it, even—” he grinned at her “—did he not so greatly admire the lady. But you must not imagine his doing so places you under any…obligation whatever. Indeed, I am certain he would be appalled should you even consider such a thing.”

Somehow, his certitude didn't raise her spirits. She followed as he walked out to join Lord Cheverley on the street. No obligation whatsoever, Blakesly assured her. Trust him to do what is right, the solicitor advised.