The Princess and the Pauper (8 page)

She reached for a scone, halved it,
then lathered it with butter and strawberry jam. “What will we do
now?”

“
I’m not sure. You were an
unexpected expense.”

He spoke about her like she was a piece of
furniture he’d frivolously purchased, and she ignored the sting in
her breast.

She bit into the warm scone, ate half of
it before replying, “I’m sure you can afford an ornament like
myself. Although I don’t know how well I’ll fit in with your garish
decor.”

He smiled
, and the way it lightened his
hardened features took her breath away. He looked like the boy she
remembered, the friend she . . .

No. She pressed the sentiment deep down in
her soul. He wasn’t a boy anymore. And he surely wasn’t her
friend.

“
It is garish
, isn’t it? My mistress thought
it vogue and transformed the entire house. You can remodel it, if
it pleases you.”

She lowered her gaze. Talk of his mistress
and her housekeeping put her in an unfamiliar position. One she
didn’t much like.

“
What do you want with me,
Rees?”

It was the crux of her troubled
thoughts, the uncertainty of her place in his new life.
She desired a formal
contract, detailing their expectations. She especially wanted her
title clarified, whether it be mistress or maid.

He sobered
. “I want you to play for
me.”

“
I am to amuse you, like an organ
grinder’s monkey?”

“
You are to gratify all my needs.
Isn’t that
our business arrangement?”

She would have preferred making the
arrangement with a stranger. She could have closed herself off to a
stranger. To be wounded by an intimate was far, far more
destructive. If he thought to teach her that lesson, he needn’t
bother. She had learned it long ago.

Her stomach tensed
and she hadn’t room
for any more food. She poured herself a cup of tea, but even that
upset her constitution.

“
You must keep up your
strength,” he admonished.

“
I’m tired.”

“
Then rest.”

He remained
in the chair, watching her,
guarding her. Was this her new home or prison?

“
What’s the matter,
princess?”

Her heart ached to hear him call her that
again, brought forth bittersweet memories. “You must
know.”

“
You keep saying that, but I
don’t know. I cannot guess your intentions.” He paused, then, “I’m
rather poor at that game.”

Did he think her situation a game? An
amusing turn of fortunes? Whatever he felt, it wasn’t sympathy for
her plight.

“
I will rest, I
think.”

She left the table and returned
to the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. She was warm under
the blankets and velvety robe, but a startling pang gripped her
heart, a
longing for comfort no soft fabric could bring.

She wa
nted to ask him to play for her, a
lullaby to put her to sleep. She wouldn’t, of course. He treated
her with scorn. But the need was so overwhelming, tears filled her
eyes.

He moved
away from the chair. As his soft
footfalls neared, she buried her face in the pillow and
sheets.

His shadow spread across
her
body. She
squeezed her eyes shut when she sensed his hand reach for her, but
he pulled it away and retreated, the door closing behind
him.

Emily peeked at the
door to make sure he
was really gone, then closed her eyes again and let the tears
fall.

~ * ~

Grey surveyed the
b
ruiser
standing in the middle of the study, cap in hand, long whiskers
slicked with Macassar oil. It appeared Mr. Woodward wanted to
make
very
sure he received his agreed upon sum and had sent his most
intimidating creature. Grey doubted a fool existed who would turn
the behemoth away . . . and that brought an idea to his
mind.

“
Ten thousand, was
it?”

“
Aye, sir,” the man
returned with a
stoic expression, but there was no mistaking his indifference for
passivity. If unsatisfied, he would break a man’s skull with equal
indifference.

Grey rounded the desk and
completed the cheque.
“Here you are, Mr. . . . ?”

“
Smith,” he
answered
,
reaching for the payment.

“
A moment of your time, Mr.
Smith.” Grey held firm the funds. “I’ve a proposition for
you.”

The man’s
meaty hand remained open while
his voice dropped, dangerously low. “The sum is not
negotiable.”

“
I’m sure of that. No, I’ve
another proposition. This is for Mr. Woodward.” He placed the
cheque on the desk. “And this is for you.” Grey laid a five pound
note beside the cheque. “If you do your job well, there’s another
fiver in it for you.”

Mr. Smith stared at the funds,
unmoving.

“
I assure you,” said Grey, “your
work for me will not interfere with your work for Mr. Woodward.
I’ve a simple enough task, but I need a man with your persuasive
character.”

Another uncertain
moment passed before
Mr. Smith gathered the cheque and banknote, neatly folded both
papers and placed them in his inner breast pocket. “What do you
want?”

“
I want you to make inquiries
into a Mr. Augustus Wright. It seems he lost his fortune a few
years ago, just before his death, and I want to know what happened
to him—every fact and every piece of gossip. Is that
clear?”

“
Aye, sir.”

As soon as Mr. Smith left
the room, Grey
turned toward the window and gathered his arms across his chest,
observing the bustling street life through the sheer
drapes.

What had happened to Augustus
Wright?

Grey knew the miser would never risk his
daughter’s security by speculating, much less gambling and risking
“more than he could afford to lose,” but Emily refused to admit the
truth behind her father’s demise. Evasive without being deceitful,
she protected a dark secret. And Grey would have it. Her false
tears would not distract him from finding the truth.

Even now, his impulse was to
comfort her. It had taken all his strength to pull back his hand
and walk away from the bed
side. She had no reason to weep. She was safe. And
he resented her orchestrated tears. He resented even more how
powerfully she still controlled him—though she would not for
long.

~ * ~

Thunder boomed
in the distance as
dark clouds rolled over the city.

Emily stood beside the
large window and
looked out at the tempestuous horizon. She had bathed and dressed
and braided her hair, organized the bedroom by rearranging some of
the furniture, gathered all the violins and music sheets, and still
she felt as restless as the growing storm.

Sighing,
she turned away from the glass and
flexed her fingers. It was nearly night, and Rees had not yet
returned. She wanted to explore the rest of the house but worried
about being mistaken for an intruder. Had Rees informed the
servants about her stay? If so,
who
had he announced was living in his room? And how
long would she remain here? Would she ever have an apartment of her
own? A stipend? Any freedom a’tall?

She dropped into the winged
chair, which she’d pushed
toward the window earlier in the day, and pressed
her cheek into her palm, ruminating. It was her duty to gratify all
his needs, he’d said. But what were his needs, other than to hear
her play? He’d a mistress to look after his physical wants,
servants to tidy his house, and if he truly desired music, he could
create his own. She really had nothing to offer him.

So why had he purchased
her?

Of course, she thought grimly.
He hadn’t purchased her, per se, but
a
woman. He couldn’t have recognized her on the
stage of the gentleman’s club, for she’d taken particular measures
to conceal her features. Had he wanted another mistress? How many
had he acquired in such a distasteful manner?

But then she remembered he’d
called her
an
“unexpected expense,” suggesting he hadn’t been trolling the club
in search of a new mistress. Had he simply been carried away by the
frenzied bidding? He had jumped from two to ten thousand pounds,
after all. Unexpected, certainly.

And still distasteful.

Emily
shivered. She had always known her
benefactor would be an ignoble sort. She’d not harbored any
misgivings about a man’s honorable character when he procured
vulnerable women from brothels. But she’d
never
imagined Rees capable of such a
thing.

The door opened and Rees
fi
nally
appeared, balancing a tray on one hand. He filled the room with his
presence, and she focused on him alone, pushing aside her troubled
thoughts.

He’d once risked his life to
stop her falling from the roof. He had always protected her,
comforted her. She would not let go of that boy, even if he didn’t
exist anymor
e. She would not forget him—or what she had done to
him.

Though
low light created shadows across his
face, she still noticed his confounded expression when he tried to
place supper on the table and found the furniture
missing.

“
I organized
,” she explained.

“
I can see
that.
”

He walked over to the table’s new
location, near the coal-burning fireplace, and set down the
fare.

Whatever his intentions toward her,
they were not to starve her. The roasted meats, vegetables and
boiled puddings looked better than jewels.

She crossed the room and took a seat.
This time, he joined her at the table, taking the opposite
chair.

“
Duck?”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

He filled her plate with an
assortment of meats, and she studied his graceful movements with
suspicion. As a boy, he’d followed her father’s dictates, never
hers. On occasion, he’d even taken the presumptuous position of
ordering
her
about. But his refusal to be her servant had placed them on
equal footing, as friends. Now he served her. What was she to think
of that?

“
The food is getting cold,”
he said in an even voice.

She picked
up the fork and knife, carved
the meat, then stilled. “Why aren’t you dining?”

“
I’m not
hungry.”

“
W
hy did you bring up so much
food?”

“
I selected a variety of dishes.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know what you fancy. You and I have never
shared a meal.”

She shifted in her seat. “I’m not
particular.”

They had always shared what was important
as children—their secrets and dreams and music. Did it really
matter to him what she preferred on the menu?

It didn’t matter to her, and she returned
to the duck breast, ignoring his watchful gaze.

“
Where is your valet?” she
wondered. “Or housekeeper? They’re remiss in their duties. It took
me all day to organize this room.”

“
The ho
usekeeper knows better than to clean
my bedchamber, and I don’t need a valet.”

He was dressed without ceremony, his shirt
sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his collar unbuttoned, his hair
impishly rumpled. He most certainly needed a valet, she thought,
and he must have guessed her disapproving thought for his brow
arched as if he dared her to voice the sentiment aloud. But she
wasn’t in a position to critique his bohemian ways.

“
In truth,
” he went on, “I don’t invite anyone
inside this room.”

“
Apart from your
mistress.”

“
Not even her.”

She paused. “But . . .”

“
What is it,
princess?”

“
You said your mistress
transformed the entire house
. Bedroom and all.”

“
She didn’t paper the walls
herself,” he returned dryly. “There are workers for
that.”

“
I just thought
. . . never
mind.”

She wasn’t about to ask where he
stored his mistress, especially if she lived somewhere else in the
house. She certainly didn’t want to know
that
or that Rees visited her every night or .
. .

Emily
wasn’t sure why she’d mentioned the
other woman and attacked the duck breast, but then her thoughts
changed direction, and she realized what he’d admitted—no one,
apart from her, had entered his bedroom, his sanctum, the place
where he composed his music. Why had he made an exception for
her?