Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Emma stood in the hall of Hugh’s apartment, managing a smile as he locked the door.
There was something to be said for indifference.
It didn’t make a woman sweat as though she were lost in a desert.
It didn’t leave her with the feral urge to rip a man’s shirt off his back.
It didn’t put her heart through a mangle.
“We’ll stay long enough to wash and change.” He gestured for her to head to the drawing room. “Thirty minutes, no more. Then we’ll visit Mrs Fenwick.”
He’d been nothing but practical since reading Lord Howden’s letter. But she’d seen how he gripped the paper, how his lips curled in disdain. His reply had been matter-of-fact, the same tone he’d use to size up a story for The Sentinel’s front page.
He set her portmanteau down. “I’ll send for a pitcher. There’s soap on the washstand. A clean towel on the shelf.”
Emma looked at him. He was as stiff as a major on parade, listing soap and towels while ignoring the problem between them. “I’ll put Lord Howden’s letter in the basket of kindling.”
His expression gave nothing away. “Perhaps you should wait until we’ve solved the case.”
“Why?”
“Things often look different once excitement wanes.”
She knew deflection when she heard it. Melinda was a master. “Hide if you must, but don’t patronise me. It’s beneath you.”
It was hard to tell if the blow hit the mark. He took it like Mr McCaffrey. “I merely suggest there’s a lull once a story goes to print. Wait until then before you destroy your options.”
“Destroy them?” She laughed, though there was nothing amusing about this conversation. “You told my sister we were married. We made love in a marquee. I didn’t hear your words of caution then.”
“Perhaps recklessness is contagious.”
“So this is an illness, then?” There was something too temporary about that word. “If your current manner is anything to go by, you’re clearly on the mend.”
Clearly not; he couldn’t find the strength to disagree.
A different sickness took hold of her, the kind that left her chest hollow and her hands unsteady.
She could press him, demand to know what had happened between the kiss in the puddle and him reading Lord Howden’s letter. But he was hiding in the cupboard, afraid of something he refused to name.
She stepped back. “You’re making it impossible for me to trust you. Be sure that’s what you intend, because I’m left doubting everything you’ve ever said to me.”
He caught her wrist, drawing her closer. “That’s not my intention. I want you to trust me with your life.”
“And I do. But I need you to trust me with yours.”
His grip eased, though he didn’t let go. “You may regret asking that of me.”
“Let me decide what I regret.”
She waited for him to say more, but a muffled thump from the bedchamber had them turning to the door.
“Did you leave the sash open?” They had left in a hurry.
“No.” He released her, his hand moving to the blade in his boot. “Go downstairs and find Pullman.”
She gripped his sleeve. “I’m not leaving.”
“Of course you’re not. Grab a glass from the table.”
She snatched the heaviest glass from beside the decanter and crept behind him. They paused outside the door. A floorboard creaked inside the room.
Hugh gripped the handle and burst in.
A maid staggered back from the bed with a cry, clutching a blanket to her chest. “Mr Stanton. God bless my soul, you didn’t half give me a fright. I wasn’t expecting you back.”
“Polly?” He lowered the blade. “What are you doing here? I gave you paid leave.”
“You did, sir. And mighty generous it was, too. But I was told you were away, and I thought it might be the best time to give the room a proper clean.”
“Told by whom?”
The woman’s cheeks flushed crimson. “One of the pressmen from downstairs. Dark-haired fellow. I don’t know his name.”
That was when the armoire door swung open behind her. Something pale slipped from the shelf and landed in a heap on the floor: a bundle of blankets stuffed into the shape of a body, dressed in a white nightgown. A pumpkin rolled after it, followed by a blonde wig.
Emma recognised that nightgown. The lace on the cuffs had belonged to her mother. Her fingers curled around the glass until the cut pattern bit into her palm. “That’s mine.”
Polly glanced at the makeshift body, then at Hugh. “I can explain, Mr Stanton. It ain’t what it looks like. I swear it.”
“No? It looks like you’re trying to frighten my wife.”
“Your wife?” Polly shrank back, narrowly missing the pumpkin. “You’re married? I didn’t know.” Her words dissolved into broken sobs. She finally met Emma’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Mrs Stanton.”
Emma’s heart missed a beat. My wife. Mrs Stanton. Two borrowed names, and she had no business responding to either. “It might help if you explained your grievance with me.”
“I ain’t got one, ma’am.” Polly rubbed one eye with the heel of her hand.
“I don’t know you. It were Aunt May. She’s sick, and the doctor says the medicine is two shillings a week, and Uncle Jim lost his place at the docks for being drunk in charge of a winch.
” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t know what else to do. ” She stopped for breath.
“Someone paid you to hang an effigy from my ceiling with a noose around its neck, and to dress another in a nightgown?” Hugh muttered a curse. “Did you slash my grandmother’s painting?”
The blanket slipped from Polly’s grip, and she raised both hands. “No, sir. I never touched the painting. I swear on Aunt May’s life.”
Hugh’s expression darkened. “Then who did? And who paid you to bring that thing here?”
“Please, sir. If I lose my position, Aunt May won’t get her medicine, and she may not last the month.”
“Then you’d better tell me everything.”
Polly’s face crumpled. “I met this girl at Smithfield Market, and she said to come to The Lamb and Flag.”
Emma’s blood ran cold. “The Lamb and Flag?”
The servants’ favourite haunt on their half day.
“It was the night they read from the penny bloods. We got talking. I told her about the medicine, and she said she knew a way to earn a few shillings. She had the nightgown with her.”
“By any chance was her name Abigail?” The betrayal stung, but guilt followed close behind. Emma had left her maid in the house with Melinda.
Polly shook her head. “She said it was May, after my aunt. They both have auburn hair.”
Hugh exhaled through his nose. “Polly. What did she ask you to do, and did she pay you?”
Polly worried the edge of her cuff between her thumb and forefinger.
When she spoke, her voice shook. “She said I should come to you and ask for a raise. Then she said you were in trouble. That you’d written a story and a man had been killed, and it might be best to scare you into leaving it alone. ”
Emma met his gaze. “Abigail could have been looking out for you, looking out for us.” Or perhaps Abigail had meant to frighten her into returning home. “Though I can’t risk visiting the house to ask her.”
Hugh didn’t argue or offer a darker explanation. “If that is the case, then I’m relieved. It means someone wanted you scared, not dead.”
Yes, and it supported her theory that Abigail had stolen the tricorn from the blanket box.
Hugh stepped back from the door. “That’s all for now. Go home, Polly.”
Her eyes widened. “Home, sir? But my position—”
“You still have it.”
She pressed a hand to her mouth, but the sob escaped anyway. “Mr Stanton, I swear you’ll not regret giving me another chance. I’ll just clean up this—”
“We’ll see to it.” He glanced at the makeshift body on the floor. “And tell the doctor to send Pullman the bill for your aunt’s medicine. We’ll discuss your uncle’s situation next week.”
Her chin wobbled. “God bless you, sir.”
“You’ll speak to no one about this. No one. Not the girl at The Lamb and Flag, not the pressmen downstairs.”
Polly gave a wet, bewildered nod. “Yes, sir.”
Emma watched her go and heard the front door click shut behind her. She’d known Hugh was capable of kindness, had felt it in stolen moments meant only for her. Seeing him offer it so easily to a frightened servant only made her love him all the more.
Yet how was she to tackle the obstacle between them? The dratted letter, not the pumpkin and wig.
“Where were we?” she said softly.
He glanced at the bed. “I know where I’d like to be. But we must be on the road before nightfall, and we still have important calls to make.”
She tilted her head. “May I suggest you use the time for silent reflection? Where we go from here depends on you. If this has been a mistake, then say so now.”
“A mistake?” He was suddenly in front of her, his hand gentle at her nape. “Be under no illusion. There’s not a second of the day that I don’t think about you.”
She cupped his cheek, aching with the memory of his mouth on hers. “Then what is it, this thing between us? This wall you keep building? You need to tell me before it’s too late.”
“Too late?” His voice carried an edge of panic. “I don’t want to lose you, but you deserve more than I can give.”
“There you go again, being so vague I’m left trying to understand you.” If only he could discuss feelings as easily as he discussed front-page news.
“Once this is over—” he began.
“I can’t wait until then.” Her parents had never gone a single day without speaking plainly to each other, no matter how reckless their choices. No doubts. No misunderstandings festering in silence. What if Hugh never found the courage to speak? “What if there is no after?”
A crack appeared in the careful control he used as a shield. “It’s about Stonefold. Tonight, at the inn, I’ll tell you everything.”
She should have breathed easier.
But he spoke like a man preparing to lose her.
Fenwick’s Books and Bindings
Paternoster Row, London
Mrs Fenwick sat perched on a stool behind the oak counter, studying a leather-bound ledger. Her gaze rose at the weak tinkle of the shop bell.
She groaned. “I hope you’ve got a First Folio you want rebinding. I’ve a selection of expensive Morocco leather that might be to your liking.”