Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Emma hit the pavement hard, the breath knocked from her lungs, her skirts cushioning some of the fall.
The street blurred around her, wheels, boots and voices all muffled beneath the rush in her ears.
She lay still, waiting for her senses to return.
The stench of the gutter was London’s own smelling salts.
Abigail was on her knees beside her. “Bless my stars. Are you all right, miss? I swear that devil was in his cups.” She searched the gathering crowd for the offender. “He walked right into you and nearly knocked you under that carriage.”
“I’m fine. There’s no need to worry.”
Yet she feared there was every need. It had happened in a blink. More a shove than a careless knock. Her upper arm throbbed where she’d been struck. No stumbling drunk hit that hard. There would be a bruise. An ugly one.
“Can you stand, miss?” Abigail brushed filth off Emma’s skirt and patted her limbs, muttering about sprains and broken bones. “Oh lord. We’ll have to tell the mistress about this. She’ll notice the mud, and you’re sure to have a limp.”
She was right. Melinda would notice a hair out of place before taking her nightly dose of laudanum. “If we do, you’ll say it happened on The Strand.” Her voice firmed. “Practise that until you believe it.”
At some point, Abigail was bound to slip up. A fear of being sent to the moors had made her forgetful, and she had grown oddly prone to staring at nothing.
“Secrets always come home to roost. Best you stop this and marry his lordship if he asks.” Abigail clasped Emma’s elbow, trying to lift her, but the maid had the strength of a waif. “All men have their faults. It’s a matter of choosing the devil you can live with.”
Emma’s gaze shifted to the building across the street. A devil lived there, though it was merely a disguise. One almost as poor as her jaunty costume.
Living with Mr Stanton would be an education, if not a trial. A lesson in contradictions. He’d insist she fend for herself, only to leave breakfast on a tray.
A man stopped to offer assistance but stepped aside for one whose broad shoulders cast her in shadow.
Mr Stanton crouched beside her, his trousers pulling tight across his thighs. “Are you hurt? Can you stand?” His hand closed lightly around her arm, testing for resistance before he helped her to her feet. “Next time I offer you my carriage, you’ll damn well accept.”
Abigail gasped, her mouth dropping open. She’d heard talk of Mr Stanton but never seen him in person. He was handsome, short-tempered and rather formidable.
“It was a simple accident.” Emma straightened and tried not to wince. “I slipped on a patch of grease.” She gestured to nowhere in particular.
Mr Stanton raised a brow. “When did we start lying to each other, Miss Vane? I was watching from the window.”
Watching her or the comings and goings at The Herald?
“He stumbled into me. Abigail said he was drunk.”
Abigail swallowed twice before saying, “He was a big fellow, sir, much like yourself, and we were battling for room on the pavement.”
“So he wasn’t drunk?” Mr Stanton snapped.
“I—I thought I smelled liquor, sir.”
Mr Stanton looked Emma over and paled. “Where did he strike? Was it a shove in the back?”
“A barge to the shoulder.”
Mr Stanton ran a hand over her shoulders and upper arms. He checked his palm as if expecting to see blood.
She knew why, but couldn’t mention it in front of her maid. A blade could find its mark in a crowd as easily as in a graveyard.
Mr Stanton’s eyes met hers, dark as Erebus. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “We find ourselves in an impossible situation.”
“The less said about it, the better. We can discuss this later. I’m expected home within the hour.”
“Then you’ll take my carriage.” He clasped her elbow. The urge to lean into the warmth of him proved overwhelming. She’d claimed to need his protection. Perhaps she did. “Fail to follow that order, and I’ll visit your sister myself.”
Abigail shivered, anticipating the chill of the moors.
Emma let him lead her across the street. Her paper parcel lay crushed on the cobbles where she’d fallen. “Oh, your cake.”
His gaze shot to her, his expression shifting, almost softening. “That’s why you entered the bakery?”
She gave a small shrug, ignoring the throb of pain. “You’ve had a busy morning. I thought you might appreciate a slice of walnut cake with your coffee.”
“It happens to be my favourite.”
“Mine too.” Lord Howden despised it.
He guided her into Mr Pullman’s cluttered office, settled her in a chair and sent for his carriage. Abigail stood beside her while the men discussed making room for more advertising.
“London needs to understand what happens on its streets,” Mr Stanton said, “not read about far-fetched cures for baldness and toothache.”
Emma cleared her throat. “According to mortuary records, teeth account for a vast number of deaths among the lower classes.”
“Surely clean water and better hygiene are the answers, not a numbing powder made of ground goat’s horn.”
“Pain can weaken the heart and double the death toll.”
He huffed and turned to Mr Pullman. “Let Titley advertise his tooth tonic. Set aside the money, and I’ll employ a dental surgeon at the refuge.”
She hadn’t won the argument, but he had listened. Mr Stanton was turning out to be a rather interesting man.
From atop his box, Rowton eyed her bonnet as she approached the carriage. He looked at Mr Stanton and mentioned the tricorn again. “I’ve had that hat since the night your father died and you smashed half the garden. It’s seen us through good times and bad. I’d be obliged to have it back.”
“Since when did you believe in omens?”
“Since you left that house a different man.”
He shot Rowton a sharp look. “That’s enough.” He turned to Emma. “I trust you have no intention of keeping it, Miss Vane.”
“I could hardly leave the house carrying a tricorn. I shall return it tomorrow night, Rowton. You have my word.”
“Make sure you keep your oath,” Mr Stanton said, opening the carriage door, “or he’ll never forgive you.”
He offered his hand.
She took it. The world seemed to fade as her fingers curled around his. Neither moved. A wave of heat washed over her. Her heart thumped like the wild beat of a drum.
“We should be going, miss,” Abigail said quietly.
Emma gathered herself and climbed into the conveyance, though everything about it reminded her of him.
He closed the door and stood a moment, his hand resting on the frame. Then he stepped back and told his coachman to drive on.
A different feeling took hold as the carriage pulled away. A tightening in the pit of her stomach as the distance between them grew.
Abigail chuckled. “Pardon me, miss, but now I know why you took your father’s pistol the other night.”
He was still watching as they passed through Temple Bar. “And why is that? Because Mr Stanton is the devil people claim?”
“No, miss. He’s so handsome, he’s sure to be dangerous.”
It was getting easier to escape the house. Melinda retired early, leaving Thomas alone downstairs, reading in a fireside chair. Emma almost felt sorry for him, but he soon perked up and decided to spend a few hours at his club.
While Abigail placed pillows under the coverlet to make it look like a body in the bed, Emma went to retrieve the tricorn she’d hidden in the blanket box.
It wasn’t there.
Her heart skipped a beat.
“Have you moved Rowton’s hat?”
Abigail looked up. “No, miss. It was there this morning when I changed the bedsheets. I was careful not to crush the points.”
Emma checked the room, her nerves on edge. Not behind the curtain or under the bed. Not in the armoire. Where the devil could it be?
“Has another servant been in here today?”
“No, miss. Only me. It’s laundry day. What with that and tending to wee Master Colworth, they’d not have time to breathe.”
Abigail began searching herself, peering behind the washstand, lifting a picture an inch from the wall once she’d exhausted every avenue.
Emma’s blood chilled. Mr Stanton’s waistcoat and cravat. She could make excuses for a jaunty hat, but not a man’s clothes.
One peek beneath the mattress and her breath caught.
“The waistcoat and cravat are missing.” She’d be out of pocket by more than a guinea. Scrubbing floors at a tavern would be easier than placating Melinda. “Has my sister said anything to you? Sworn you to secrecy? Threatened you with the moors? Has she been snooping in my room?”
Abigail shook her head. “No, miss. She fell asleep on the chaise in the drawing room at midday.”
Was Melinda’s drowsiness another means of gaining sympathy and leaving Thomas to manage the household? Another way to make Emma underestimate her?
“What am I to tell Mr Stanton?” How would she explain losing Rowton’s beloved hat? The man had handed it over as though parting with a dear friend.
“I don’t think he’ll mind, miss. He seems the accommodating sort to me.”
She did not know Mr Stanton.
“Someone has taken them.” Since Mr Bellingham’s murder, suspicion trailed her like a shadow. She studied Abigail. Even the most loyal could be made to lie.
“Will you still go out tonight? If the mistress is playing a devious game, it might be best to wait until tomorrow. I can take a note.”
“A man was killed, Abigail. The truth cannot wait.”
The maid began fiddling with her apron. “But after the accident in Fleet—”
“The Strand,” she corrected. The walls had ears in this house. “I slipped and fell. It happens all the time.”
Abigail glanced at Emma’s arm and gave a knowing look. She had seen the bruise when helping her dress. It was a menacing shade of blue. Thankfully, it would be hidden from Mr Stanton.
“We both know it wasn’t a slip,” Abigail whispered. “He pushed you into the road. And now Mr Bellingham is dead. Seems a queer sort of coincidence.”
She’d thought of that. More times than she’d care to admit.
“You’ve been listening to those penny bloods at The Lamb and Flag again. It’s more likely Mr Bellingham owed the wrong man money.”