Emilie placed the letters next to her plate and tried to quell the desperation that surged through her movements. Miss Dingleby was settling the bill, preparing to leave, and nothing had been said. She'd been looking forward to this meeting for over a fortnight, this scrap of familiarity from her old life, and yet it hadn't felt familiar at all. Miss Dingleby had changed; she wasn't the quietly firm governess of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof anymore. She was someone else, someone in confident disguise, someone who clearly harbored secrets she wasn't about to relate. "Must you go?" Emilie asked, rather ridiculously, since they both knew this was the last train to make the connection to London until the next morning.
"I must, I'm afraid," Miss Dingleby said kindly. "But I'll return next month, of course, unless something happens in the meantime."
Something happens.
"You'll keep me apprised of anything you learn, of course. Anything at all."
"Anything at all," Miss Dingleby said, and her voice was empty of even the pretense of sincerity.
Something went cold inside of Emilie's chest. She reached inside the pocket of her dress and pulled out her own envelopes. "For Stefanie and Luisa," she said, pushing them across the table.
"No identifying details, of course."
"None. As you instructed." Emilie's voice sounded flat and cold, even to her own ears.
"Very good." Miss Dingleby rose. "I am so glad to find you well, Emilie, my dear. You look flourishing."
"I am not flourishing," Emilie said. "I want my sisters back. I want my life back."
"Believe me," Miss Dingleby said, and this time her expression was full of sincerity, "that is my constant aim, waking and sleeping."
* * *
Emilie sat a few minutes at the table. There was still a little cooling tea left in the pot; she poured it out and read her letters.
Her sisters seemed well, but then a princess of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof never complained, at least on something so permanent as paper. There was evidently some overbearing daughter of the house in Stefanie's case, and Emilie smiled at the image of her heedless sister forced into the necessity for meekness. Luisa was more vague; she seemed to be a personal secretary of some kind, and the household was not a happy one. But she closed with an eager wish to hear of Emilie's safety and happiness, and to be reunited soon in better circumstances.
Somehow, Emilie had been hoping for more. She and her sisters were so close. She had shared a bed with Stefanie almost from infancy; this person who had penned the few lines before her seemed almost a stranger.
She folded the letters back in their envelopes, tucked them into her pocket, and rose from the table, just as a familiar voice carried across the air from the lobby.
A deep voice, patient and commanding.
The Duke of Ashland.
For an instant, she could not move. Her feet seemed to have frozen to the marble floor; her brain locked into place.
He was speaking to some member of staff, it seemed. His voice was low and discreet; she couldn't pick out the words, but she would recognize that vibrating tone anywhere. She cast her eyes desperately to the archway leading to the lobby. Miss Dingleby must have swept right past him on her way out.
The back entrance.
Emilie's brain fastened on the thought, and came gratefully unstuck.
She turned, and with great calm and dignity-the dignity for which a princess of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof was famous-walked toward the rear of the restaurant, as if she were simply bound for the ladies' retiring room.
The floor here was covered with carpeting. Emilie moved soundlessly down the corridor, past the ladies' retiring room. Somewhere here a hallway came off, leading to the rear of the building; she had come through on her journey in, but the way had been obvious in that direction. She had been led by the abundant light in the electric chandeliers. Coming from the restaurant, any number of blurry hallways might be the one she sought, while the others only led to the service rooms.
Voices ahead. She whipped around a corner and flattened herself against the wall.
". . . know what to do," a woman was saying. "She ain't come, that's for certain. The passengers is all off, and never a sign of her."
"What's His Grace being to say?"
"He won't be fair pleased."
"Well, if ye asks me, he can ride on back to his grand estate and swive one of t'girls there, if he has to have it," said the other voice, a man's voice, quite hardened.
"T'poor fellow. He's too decent to plow his own soil, is what. Oh, t'poor fellow."
Emilie's mind flew. Good God. Could it be? Ashland's monthly night of recreation, in a discreet back bedroom of his own hotel, with a woman who came in from elsewhere. Was this the date for it? It was a Monday, not a Tuesday. Was it the third or the fourth one?
Her throat stung. She could almost taste the bile rising up. Ashland, in some other woman's bed; some other woman, knowing Ashland's body, his lips, his voice saying her name. Not knowing, probably, how fortunate she was. Perhaps not even caring.
Or perhaps she did care. Perhaps she came because she loved him; perhaps she wasn't a whore at all. Perhaps he loved her but was too discreet to keep a mistress in the regular way.
Except the woman hadn't come this month. Hadn't even sent word, apparently.
The shadows seemed to darken around her. Emilie brought up her arm and bit down on her sleeve. She ought to feel pity for Ashland's disappointment tonight. Lonely Ashland, with no wife for comfort. He would have to wait another month for . . . well, for whatever relief this woman gave him.
What did they do in that discreet back bedroom? What might it be like, to be in bed with the Duke of Ashland?
"She were badly, maybe," said the male voice. "Lots of women are badly."
"Then they would have sent another, wouldn't they?" The woman's voice was growing louder. In a moment they might be upon her, find her lurking in the hallway like an eavesdropper. What would she say? Oh, I beg your pardon, I was only looking for the retiring room. Emilie looked down the dark hallway, leading Heaven knew where. Should she try to slip away? Or would that lead to even greater risk of discovery? A lady deep in the bowels of the hotel: Even if the hotel staff didn't call the police, the incident would stick in their minds. They would remember her face, her nervousness.
"They might have mixed up t'date," said the man. Emilie heard the footsteps now, making soft and hurried thumps along the carpet. Lord, he was nearly here. In another instant she would be caught. "It's never His Grace's usual date."
"Because of Christmas Eve tomorrow," said the woman. "I don't know what I'm being to tell him. I hazard . . ."
Better to brazen it out. Emilie drew a deep breath and turned around the corner.
"Oh! I beg your pardon. I must have gotten lost," she said, with an almost panicked breeziness.
The woman nearly thumped into her, a slender, middle-aged woman with severe dark hair and a housekeeper's aspect. "Oh! Thank t'Lord, madam! There ye are!"
Emilie started back, horrified. "What? No, I . . ."
The woman's hand closed around her arm. "New, are ye? Well, that's all right. Ye gave us quite a turn. We thought ye weren't coming altogether. I'm Mrs. Scruton, but of course ye knows that."
"No, there's been a mistake . . ." The blood whirled in Emilie's ears.
"Go tell His Grace she's here. He can come straight up," said Mrs. Scruton, with an air of authority, and the man-leering, of course-disappeared from the corner of Emilie's vision. "What sort of mistake, dearie?" the woman asked kindly, tugging Emilie down the hall with astonishing speed and strength. "Didn't they never instruct ye where to go?"
"No, I . . . Oh, please, I . . ." Emilie's self-possession had deserted her. She could not do this, she must fly away, and yet her limbs allowed themselves to be tugged around the corner to the back staircase.
"Now, don't never be nervous. It's yer first time here, isn't it? He's a fair good man, Mr. Brown. He never would hurt a fly, I tell you."
Mr. Brown?
Mrs. Scruton led her up the stairs, and Emilie's feet lifted instinctively, while her heart pumped madly, while her brain told her she must turn around, because she could not possibly go into a bedroom with the Duke of Ashland and pretend to be a whore, because he would surely recognize her and everything would be ruined, broken to bits.
But Mrs. Scruton. If Emilie told the woman she wasn't Ashland's monthly appointment, then the woman might ask questions, mightn't she? Might wonder what Emilie had been doing, lurking in the back hallway like that; she might remember Emilie's face, and if someone were to come looking . . .