Chapter Thirty
The journey to London took them three long days, but finally, on the eve of the third day, they entered the outskirts.
Oliver watched as Emily peered out of the windows at their surroundings, the passing carts and donkeys and street vendors continuing to hawk their wares even into the night.
Streetlamps, lit by the watchmen, illuminated the streets.
He tried to imagine what it might look like to an outsider who had never seen the capital before. To him, this time of night, it seemed remarkably quiet, but to her, it was probably bustling. Her face betrayed very little, however.
“Somewhere in here is Isabella,” she said quietly.
“Almost certainly in his lodgings.” Oliver injected as much optimism into his voice as possible. “There’s nowhere else he’d have taken her. Of course, St James’s isn’t the best place for a lady, but once we get her out, no one will be any the wiser.”
“If she ever enters London again, Marlbury will do his best to discredit her.” Emily brought her feet up onto the seat, hugging her legs. The movement of the carriage rocked her side to side. “She’ll never be free of him.”
“That’s if Marlbury is around to say anything at all.”
Emily frowned, glancing at Oliver. “Are you planning on killing him?”
“God no,” he said, trying not to laugh at her. “That’s not the sort of justice I’m in the habit of doling out, darling. But his father has, by all accounts, been openly debating sending him to the continent for an extended period.”
“Why?”
“Because he has been causing too much of a ruckus here. From what I understand, he’s got a few maids with child, and they’ve had to be sent to the country to recuperate.
If Marlbury had his way, he would have abandoned the girls, but because they’re part of his father’s household, his father forced him to fork out for them.
” Oliver shrugged, embarrassed that he had overlooked this behaviour.
There had been rumours, of course, but Marlbury had portrayed the girls as grasping, eager for a taste of his wealth, thinking they could somehow charm him into marriage, and Oliver had believed him.
He hadn’t wanted to investigate further. Letting the issue lie had been easier, and now Oliver was ashamed of his complicity.
That ended now.
“If he’s on the continent, that won’t change anything,” Emily said. “Or teach him to behave properly.”
“Perhaps not. But it will get him out of England, which you must admit is ideal for our situation. I doubt he’ll even know when Isabella enters London again as a debutante, and there’s very little he can do to ruin her reputation from afar.”
Emily leant back against the seat. “You must be wondering why I’m going to all this trouble for such a girl.”
“She’s your sister,” Oliver said, recalling the same words Emily had given to him what felt like long ago. “And you love her.”
“I know she wouldn’t go out of her way for me,” Emily said, and Oliver could only thank his lucky stars that she had at least come to realise this.
“But that’s not really the point. I refuse to base my behaviour on hers.
If she’s in trouble, I will help, because she’s my sister and that’s who I am. ”
“Then you must know that I’ll support you,” Oliver said.
“Even if you don’t agree with me?”
“Helping her is one thing. Sacrificing your own happiness for her sake is entirely another.”
Her cheek curved as one corner of her mouth tilted up. “I have no intention of doing that, Oliver.”
Hope erupted in his chest, and he forced it away again. Once this was over, he would then think about his future. Until then, he would focus on Marlbury and rescuing Isabella.
“It might be safer for your reputation to stay in the carriage while I go inside and confront him,” he said as they approached St James’s Street.
“If you think I’m going to remain inside while you have all the satisfaction of rescuing my sister, you are mistaken.” Emily withdrew the pistol from within her cloak. “Besides, I came prepared.”
Oliver almost laughed. That was his Emily, and he adored her more than he could say. “One should never confront a rake without a gun.”
“That was my theory, too. It went excellently the first time.”
This time, he really did laugh. “Ought I be thankful you didn’t shoot?”
“Extremely.”
“This is a poor moment to tell you this for the first time, but I love you.”
His eyes seemed to gleam as she looked at him. Then she smiled, a little. “I know.”
“I fear I’ve been less than subtle,” he said ruefully. “But neither of us know how the night will go, and I wanted you to know now.”
The carriage came to a stop outside Marlbury’s lodgings: a nondescript house set in a street of similarly nondescript houses. Each large house was split into a couple of apartments; the perfect bachelor houses for young men who aspired to avoid all responsibilities.
Oliver, too, had apartments in St James’s.
“This is it,” he said, looking at Emily. “Last chance.”
She met his gaze steadily. “I’m coming with you.”
He hadn’t expected anything else. As the coachman opened the door, he extended a hand and helped Emily down. Then he rang the doorbell.
Emily had expected something more openly salubrious from a street that was inappropriate for women to enter, but it appeared just the same as many other streets. Houses and shops and taverns—although she suspected these were gentlemen’s clubs. Nothing like the taprooms she was accustomed to.
Beside her, Oliver was still and quiet. He was not an especially large man, but he had an air of menace today that made her feel surprisingly safe. Marlbury’s actions had been a betrayal, and she had seen shame in Oliver’s eyes more than once.
When they had first met, she had tarred him with Marlbury’s brush. A man’s friends were a reflection of himself—and in some ways it was true. Marlbury was a reflection of Oliver’s worst traits: his propensity to avoid all responsibility; his selfishness; his arrogance.
Yet he had grown past that, demonstrating to her without doubt that he had left those traits behind him. No longer would he accept poor behaviour without question or examination.
No longer would he turn a blind eye to cruelty or injustice.
The fact he was here beside her now proved that. Yes, he was doing this for her, but she thought he was also doing it for himself. And that was far more important.
Oliver rang again. Emily steeled herself, her fingers tight around the handle of the pistol. If it were a smaller pistol designed for a woman, she might have fit it into her reticule, but this was too large for her to do anything but conceal it as best she could.
As satisfying as it would be to confront Marlbury with it, she was determined to use it only as a last resort.
Footsteps sounded and when the door swung open, a servant stood behind it. Emily blinked, but Oliver seemed entirely unsurprised to see him.
“Hello, Smiths,” he said. “I’ve come to see Lord Marlbury.”
“I’m afraid his lordship isn’t receiving visitors right now,” Smiths said, but before he could shut the door in their faces, Oliver stuck his foot inside.
“He’ll see me.” Without waiting for a response or permission, he barged inside. Emily followed on his heels, determined not to be left behind. “Marlbury!” Oliver yelled, his voice too loud for this time of night. “I know you’re here.”
There was movement in the doorway, then Marlbury emerged, a glass in his hand and his cravat undone. He wore a crimson robe over his shirt, and by the flush on his cheeks, he was more than a little drunk.
For a moment, Emily remembered all the things he had done to woo and hurt her. She had seen him at a distance, of course, since the day when he told her he could never feel anything for someone like her, but never this close.
Bile filled her throat at the sight of his dark hair and arrogant mouth.
Once, she had thought him unbearably handsome, and now she found his smarminess repulsive.
He walked through the world as though he expected to be applauded for existing, and he looked at women as though he expected them to fall to their knees before him.
How could she ever have fallen for such conceit?
At the sight of them both, his dark eyes narrowed.
“Beaumont. And is that Emily Brunton?” He gave an unsteady, delighted laugh.
“I ought to have known you would come here together. You know, Beaumont, your throwing that girl over in favour of her sister was cold of you. I applaud the gesture, although it did mean I was subject to her whining.”
Rage punched Emily in the chest; she hadn’t known she was capable of such anger until that moment. Her teeth clacked together audibly. “Where is she?” she demanded.
“Where is who? Be specific.”
“Marlbury,” Oliver said, his jaw clenched. “It’s over. Give her up.”
Marlbury sneered. “I really thought you would be more sporting, old chap.”
“Where is she?” Emily repeated. Her heart pounded in her chest, and although the fire had long since slumped into embers in the hearth, her palms dampened with sweat.
Ignoring Marlbury’s self-satisfied smirk, she pushed past him.
“Isabella!” she called. “It’s me, Emily. I’ve come to take you away from here.”
To her everlasting relief, when she reached the stairs, she found Isabella’s pale face looking back at her. She wore a white lawn nightgown that was draped around her in a positively scandalous fashion.
Emily’s stomach dropped.
She hadn’t really believed Marlbury would have taken Isabella all the way down here without also taking her to bed, but to see such blatant proof—neither Emily nor Isabella owned such garments—made her feel as though she had swallowed ice.
“Let her go without a fight, and this doesn’t have to be hard,” Oliver was saying to Marlbury.
“She has no wish to go with you,” Marlbury said, that sneer still in his voice. “She thinks you abandoned her, Beaumont, and I can’t say she was wrong. I never thought you’d be the type to choose the ugly sister, but I misjudged you.”
“Enough.”
Emily held out her hand to Isabella. No matter what Isabella had done, all she could feel at the sight of her sister’s pale, resentful face was pity. This was a cruel fate for someone so young, and she probably hadn’t realised quite how dire things had become.
“Listen to me, Bella,” she said. “I know he has promised you marriage, but he won’t ever go through with it.
He lied to you so you would be quiet and compliant, and I know he was convincing.
Believe me.” She took a single step up the stairs, and when Isabella didn’t flee, another.
“But if you stay here with him, you won’t have a future. ”
Isabella’s scared eyes flicked from Emily’s face to one side. Marlbury leaned in over Emily’s shoulder, his breath stinking of brandy. “Do you recall how convincing I am, Emily? It’s been such a long time; I thought for sure you had forgotten me.”
The next second, his head was wrenched back, and Oliver stood between them, his face alive with fury. “Don’t touch her!”
“Lord Marlbury,” Emily said, gathering herself, her fingers aching on the pistol handle. “Tell my sister, if you please, what you truly intend with her.”
Marlbury grinned lazily up at Isabella, not seeming to mind that Oliver stood primed to hit him.
He must be further gone than Emily had imagined, the brandy dulling his reactions.
“I have lots of things planned for us, love,” he called up the stairs.
“Come down now and tell them that you would rather stay with me.”
“No man who intends to marry a lady would bring her to St James’s Street,” Emily said.
Isabella ventured a little further down the stairs, her nightgown clinging to thighs. “Victor,” she said, a plaintive note in her voice. “Stop playing around and tell them the truth.”
“The truth is that he will not marry anyone like us,” Emily said, shrugging out of her cloak and hurrying up the stairs. “I know it must be hard to accept, dearest, but you must. I won’t allow him to ruin everything.”
But Isabella was now staring wide-eyed down at Emily’s hand. “What is that?” she demanded tremulously.
“A pistol,” Marlbury said with apparent indifference. “She means to take you from me by force, love. Are you going to let her?”
“Don’t call my sister love!” Emily snapped. “You don’t care the slightest bit for her or you wouldn’t have ruined her.”
Isabella shook her head, blonde hair swinging around her head. “You don’t understand. He wants me.”
“That’s right,” Marlbury called, swaying a little. “Tell them.”
Oliver grabbed Marlbury’s loose cravat with his good hand. “Shut up,” he hissed.
“Lust is not a reason for a gentleman like Lord Marlbury to choose marriage.” Emily brushed the hair back from Isabella’s face tenderly. “You foolish girl. I know you wanted your revenge on me, but this was not the way to take it.”
“Bring her downstairs, Emily,” Oliver said, shoving Marlbury back to clear a space at the bottom of the stairs. “Let’s leave before things get ugly.”
Marlbury smiled, and it was as though a stone dropped into the very pit of Emily’s stomach. Unnamed dread, a sense of the pained inevitable. “Oh,” he said, raising his glass as though to toast them all, “things are already about to get ugly.”
Then he smashed the glass against the side of Oliver’s head.