Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Emma disliked the word protection. It implied weakness. That she couldn’t think for herself. That she needed someone else to solve her problems.
She was here by choice. Perhaps because her reckless parents had thrown caution to the wind and drowned while testing their sea-bathing invention.
Mr Stanton looked at the muzzle and sneered. “I knew it. Someone put you up to this. Was it Hawke or Montfort? How much did they pay you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“For your meddling. Your persistent hounding.” He dismissed the pistol with a flick of his gaze. “A convincing replica. No one in their right mind would give you a weapon. What are you? An actress? A trickster? A woman with something to prove?”
She lifted her chin. “This is a Henry Nock, given to me by my late father.” One night when he was half-cut, and the neighbour came to complain about the explosion in the workshop. “Granted, I’ve never fired it. But there’s a first time for everything.”
A reluctant laugh escaped him. The corners of his brown eyes crinkled, the gold flecks glinting in the dark. She’d only ever seen him cross. Not that he’d been aware of her sitting in Peele’s coffeehouse across the street.
“Which one of my friends gave you those clothes?”
“I bought this apron from the chandler on Ludgate Hill.” She’d haggled with the tight-fisted devil and secured the grease-stained garment for sixpence. “I added the ink splodges myself. Ask him. I’m sure he’ll remember me. I was quite persistent.”
“That I can believe.”
He studied her for a long moment.
They had reached a stalemate.
“Well? May I come inside, or must I shoot you in the leg?” She scanned his impressive shoulders. He was rigid in more ways than one. “I should avoid your chest. I fear I’ll aim too high.”
“You’d shoot an unarmed man? Somehow I suspect you’re too honourable for that, Miss Vane.”
Drat. He was right, yet she kept a determined expression as she considered a change in tactics. What would make this man yield? The truth, surely.
“Don’t you want to see what I have, sir?”
His mouth quirked. “You should work on your phrasing, Miss Vane. Your letters left no doubt of your intentions.”
Oh, he was incorrigible.
But she’d known that before creeping into the building.
“Now I see why they call you the Devil of Fleet Street.”
“Because I won’t be forced to concede a point?”
“Because you twist words and call it journalism.”
His nostrils flared. He stepped forward until the muzzle grazed his chest. “Shoot me. You’ll hang for it. Where will that leave your precious Lord Howden then?”
“Who said he’s precious?”
“You’re the one desperate to marry the buffoon.”
She tsked. “How disappointing. You pride yourself on accuracy and yet have missed the obvious. If I loved a man, I would marry him regardless of his reputation. In business, one must be more vigilant.”
“Business?” He jerked his head, but didn’t step back. “If marriage is nothing but a transaction, choose someone else.”
He made it sound simple. Clearly, he didn’t have Attila the Hun for a sister. “Are there many lords willing to tolerate a disobedient wife?”
“That depends on what you mean by disobedient.”
“I want to live independently. Manage my own affairs.”
“Every man’s dream, no doubt. They should be queuing the length of Pall Mall, keen to drape you in silk and jewels, ready to receive nothing in return. It’s called the marriage bed for a reason, Miss Vane.”
Heat rose to her cheeks. “You’re mocking me, sir.”
“It’s what I do best.”
“Granted, it’s not telling the truth. You’ve failed miserably there.” She met those piercing brown eyes without flinching. “I shall take my letter to The Herald. I’m sure the editor will call out your error.”
He said nothing as the presses thudded below. Only the faint tick in his cheek said she’d hit the mark.
“I’m never wrong, Miss Vane, as you’ll soon come to realise.” He caught the muzzle of the pistol and drew it over his heart. “You can’t hurt me. I’ve been called cold and unfeeling often enough.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Then you know I’m no gentleman. If you’re found in my apartment, I won’t rescue your reputation.”
“Your virtue is safe, sir. My sister would rather I live in a nunnery than marry a mere mister.”
“Do you do everything your sister says, Miss Vane?”
She eased back the hammer and lowered the pistol. “The steps of St Paul’s make for an uncomfortable bed. I doubt I’d make a good governess or paid companion. Perhaps a press operator’s apprentice.”
“You write well.”
That was the last thing she expected him to say.
More surprising still was the note of sincerity.
“Are you offering me employment, Mr Stanton?”
“Perhaps. If you work under an alias. I’d pay a guinea a piece until you’ve proved yourself. Then you may command at least three.” He rubbed his jaw, his gaze settling on her cap. “I’d pay ten times that if you spied at The Herald.”
She paused. A few articles a week, a little prying into his competitors, and she could afford lodgings on the fringes of Bloomsbury. Tempting.
But she had no reason to trust him. And once she’d accepted, there would be no going back.
“I doubt I would fool anyone at The Herald with this disguise.”
His eyes were on her again, lingering a fraction too long. “No. But you’re resourceful enough to find a way.”
What was this? Two compliments in as many minutes?
“I could begin on a trial basis.” She dared to be bold. The worst he could do was say no. “Let me work on the story about Lord Howden, and I shall write anything you ask. Not gossip. Facts.”
He stilled. Seconds passed as he studied her disguise. “Very well. When you draft your apology for slandering me, be sure to use a grovelling tone.”
“When you thank me for intervening, I trust you will do the same.” She gestured to the door. “May I come in now?”
He removed his hat and dragged a hand through his dark hair. Then she heard it. The faint sigh of a man who carried too much and shared it with no one. “Instinct says I shall regret this.”
“I felt something similar when I left home this evening.”
“If you will be reckless.”
He couldn’t have said anything more damning.
“It’s not reckless to plan for the future.”
She recognised the hypocrisy, but she had run out of options. She had not set her sights on Lord Howden carelessly. He was too distracted by his own ambitions to interfere with hers. As such, he made the perfect business partner.
“All actions have consequences, Miss Vane. Your future may look vastly different from the one you imagine.”
Mr Stanton opened the door and beckoned her inside.
The hall smelled of him, leather and musk, the scent stronger in the dark. It followed her into the drawing room. She took in the space as he lit the lamps.
Forest green walls. A leather Chesterfield the colour of cognac. Paintings chosen with care. Dark seascapes, restrained landscapes, portraits that favoured character over beauty. Books stacked with the carelessness of a man who read them. A decanter, half empty, on the table.
She had imagined his private world as cold and functional.
She had been wrong about that too.
He shrugged out of his greatcoat.
“Can I take your pistol and apron, Miss Vane?”
She almost laughed. It sounded absurd. “Please do.”
She didn’t laugh when their fingers brushed. His were warm where she’d expected ice. She turned away before he could read her expression and reminded herself why she was here.
While he set the weapon on the table and hung her apron on the stand, she searched for signs of a woman’s presence: a sherry glass, a gothic novel, a silk shawl on the chair. It was said he kept no mistress, but a man with his looks and arrogance rarely slept alone.
“A drink, Miss Vane?” He pulled the crystal stopper from the decanter. “I have brandy. There may be port in a cupboard.”
“Brandy is fine.” She had likely broken the law twice tonight. A sip of strong liquor would hardly kill her.
He invited her to sit on the sofa, which wasn’t as hard as it appeared. “In one sentence, tell me precisely where you think I failed.”
She did. “Lord Howden’s father did not fake his death.”
“You sound so certain.” He cast her a sidelong glance as he poured. “Did you weep over the open casket? Compare his face to a miniature? No, because he was beaten bloody in an alley in Covent Garden, his own son unable to recognise him.”
She accepted the glass, the mere tips of their fingers brushing again. “You can’t prove it wasn’t him.”
“You can’t prove it was.” He dropped into the leather chair opposite her, legs spread wide, and tossed back half his brandy.
She took too large a sip and choked. He was at her side in seconds, his hand at her back, heat seeping through the linen of her shirt.
“Some things can’t be rushed, Miss Vane.” The amusement in his voice made her wish she’d chosen water. “You might appreciate it more if you savoured the taste.”
She cleared her throat and took the smallest sip.
“Careful. Remember you’re a novice.”
“I learn quickly, Mr Stanton.”
“I imagine you do.”
She watched him saunter back to his seat, taking comfort in the knowledge she’d rid him of that smug grin. “What makes you so sure Lord Howden’s father is alive?”
“A month before his death, he bought his sister a house in Italy.” He rubbed his hand over his thigh, as if to erase the warmth of her from his palm. “Items went missing from his London townhouse. Sentimental pieces that at least one maid found odd. Conveniently, none were listed in the entail.”
She had to admit it sounded strange. If the former Lord Howden were alive, her plans weren’t worth the ink she’d wasted on those letters.
“Perhaps he planned to flee to avoid prosecution for the colliery deaths, but met a tragic end before he could set sail.”
“A tragic end?” Mr Stanton said with a sneer. “Do you know what his negligence cost those men at the colliery? He deserves to rot in hell.”
“Is it right to blame the son for his father’s misdeeds?”