Grimsby was rising from his chair. "Are you all right? May I help you at all?"
"I am entirely well. Thank you for the conversation, Mr. Grimsby. I hope we may repeat the pleasure often, of an evening, as the winter howls outside." He waved his hand at the window.
"You are retiring, Your Grace?"
"Yes." Ashland studied Grimsby's face, his narrowed eyes behind his spectacles, the tiny crease of concern between his eyebrows. He was so earnest, so wise and naive all at once. "You are rather an intriguing young fellow, you know," he said absently.
Grimsby's hand fell upon his book. "I am nothing of the sort."
"I can't help wondering if there's a great deal more to you than you let on."
"I beg your pardon. What do you mean?"
Ashland straightened himself. He should not have drunk that extra glass of sherry; his body wasn't used to it. But it was rather nice, after all, to have his brain pleasantly encased in numbness, to feel that hum in his blood again, to sense nothing in his missing hand but a comfortable bluntness. "I don't quite know what I mean, Mr. Grimsby," he said. He smiled, reached out his hand, and chucked the poor fellow's astonished jaw.
"But I look forward to finding out."
* * *
The door closed behind the Duke of Ashland's imposing body, and Emilie crumpled into her chair. She closed her eyes, but she could still see his face in front of her, the black leather mask against the smooth skin, the single bright blue eye examining her with minute care.
You are rather an intriguing young fellow, you know.
Emilie took a deep breath. Was it her imagination, or could she smell him in the air? The sting of sherry, the wild moorland wind, the warm wool, the scent of spicy soap-sandalwood, perhaps. Or maybe it was only her. She lifted her arm and sniffed her sleeve.
No, she smelled nothing like that.
Her heart still beat quickly in her breast; her fingertips still tingled. What the devil was happening to her? That tall, broad man with his piercing eye and maimed face and empty cuff-good God, surely she was not infatuated with him? With the Duke of Ashland, not two hours out of some strumpet's bed, his powerful legs stretched out before her and his hair gleaming white against the shadows of the library?
Emilie lifted her hand again and touched her jaw with her fingertips. She could feel him now, feel the instant thrill in her veins as his hand came toward her, as her skin anticipated his touch. She, Emilie, cool-blooded and studious, a princess of Germany!
A distant thump reached her ears: Ashland, climbing the stairs to his room.
But I look forward to finding out.
Emilie reached for her glass of sherry and drained it.
This was going to be a very long winter.
SEVEN
Two days before Christmas
The common room at the Anvil was as crowded as usual, a fact on which Emilie had been counting. She clutched her knapsack and breathed the stale and humid air as shallowly as possible. Around her, the men laughed and swore and ate and drank. The fire burned smokily along the wall. Rose the barmaid bustled about, her hands never free of tankards, her mouth giving as good as she got, which was plenty.
Emilie observed her closely. When she ducked into the taproom to fill her next round, Emilie followed her.
"I need a room," she said quietly, and held out her palm, on which a gold sovereign caught the light from the swinging old-fashioned lantern overhead. "A private room, close to the back stairs."
Rose stared at the sovereign, then stared at Emilie. "With a girl, or without?"
Emilie blushed. "Without."
There was no furniture in the tiny chamber to which Rose led her, except for the bed that overwhelmed the space, but Emilie did not need furniture. She set down her knapsack, opened the flap, and stripped to her drawers in the cold air.
Chemise first, then stays. The fastenings gave her trouble, but she had selected a new corset with efficiency in mind, knowing she would have no lady's maid to help her. Petticoats and sturdy little half boots: Her chilled fingers fumbled with the buckles until she had them all.
Her dress had rumpled in the knapsack, despite her best efforts at folding. It buttoned up the front, because she would never have been able to manage otherwise. For a moment she savored the fall of fine wool down her body, the swell of material at her hips, the lovely, heavy feminine swish of skirts around her legs.
At last she reached inside the knapsack for the final two items: a small hat, and a large false chignon, made from the thick golden pile of hair that had fallen from Miss Dingleby's scissors a month ago. She did not pause for melancholy. She pinned her short hair back, pinned the chignon at the nape of her neck, and placed the hat over all.
She stuck her head out the door. There was no one in the hall. She stole quietly to the back stairs and slipped noiselessly down.
The wind had calmed today, and the late December air lay heavy and frozen against Emilie's exposed cheeks. A steady trickle of townspeople were out, finishing Christmas errands, and instead of taking the high street down the center of town, Emilie stole around the back lanes, taking note of details and street names, as Miss Dingleby had instructed. A train pulled away from the station, the hourly service southward to York, as she passed by.
The buildings thinned; the noise of commerce died away. Ahead, the clean white shape of Ashland Spa Hotel came into view, its marble facade fronting the road like an ancient Roman bath transported to modern Yorkshire.
Emilie took off her spectacles, slid them into her pocket, and went around back to the garden entrance.
"My dear." A slight figure rose from his chair in the restaurant, straightened his lapels, and grasped Emilie's outstretched hand.
"Good afternoon, sir," said Emilie, smiling, as the man bent over and kissed the air above her gloved knuckles.
"Good afternoon, Miss Bismarck." The gentleman looked up, and Miss Dingleby's eyes danced in place before her beneath the curved brim of a neat black hat.
"How very good it is to see you, Mr. Dingleby," said Emilie.
"Sit, my dear. You must be exhausted." Miss Dingleby gestured to the other chair.
Emilie settled herself into her chair, remembering at the last instant to complete the action with a graceful swoop of her skirts. "It's only four miles. Hardly half an hour's brisk riding."
"But your delicate constitution." Miss Dingleby winked and picked up the menu. "Rather elevated fare, isn't it, for such a godforsaken outpost of civilization?"
Emilie cast her gaze about the room. She had taken tea here with Freddie a week or so ago, and had looked with the same surprise as Miss Dingleby on the spacious, high-ceilinged grandeur of the lobby, the fluted pillars and the shining marble floor, the intricate plasterwork and the oval domed skylight aglow with tinted glass. The soaring space had swarmed with people. Where had they all come from? Ladies, mostly, dressed in trailing veils and enormous bustles, attended by maids with white caps and neatly buttoned collars. They had gone back and forth between the lobby and the bathing pools in the enclosed courtyard at the center of the hotel, and as teatime advanced they had trooped into the blue and white interior of the restaurant and sat at the elegant marble tables and drunk their tea with fingers extended into the lily-scented air.
"It isn't so remote," Emilie said. "I believe they see a great many fashionable guests. The duke has transformed the spa into an establishment of repute."
"Has he, now? The clever fellow." Miss Dingleby's voice lowered a trifle. She was wearing dark whiskers along her jaw but no mustache, and her cheeks twitched. Emilie's own skin itched in sympathy.
"He's spent the last ten or twelve years diligently improving the town and the estate," Emilie said, leaning forward. "And he's got even more plans in contemplation. You ought to see the schemes, really. It's remarkable."
"No doubt."
"Of course, it all depended on the railway link. He petitioned for it himself; did you know that? And helped to fund its construction. Olympia assisted him in getting the necessary approvals and so on. You know how well connected my uncle is."
"Indeed, I do. Good afternoon," said Miss Dingleby, addressing a waiter who hovered nearby. "Tea, if you please. Do you have a decent Lapsang souchong?"
"Indeed we do, sir. An excellent blend."
"The Lapsang, then. And the usual complement of sandwiches and biscuits." Miss Dingleby smiled at the waiter and tented her fingers together on the tablecloth. "I find myself famished after such an arduous journey."