Emilie's chest constricted. "Then what do you call this? A wrong? An accident?"
"I don't believe in accidents." He was moving again, rustling the air. Putting on his coat, perhaps, and straightening his necktie. "Rest, Emilie. Until next week."
"Wait, sir . . ."
But his lips were brushing her forehead, just above the seam of the blindfold, and before she could say a word, she knew from the emptiness in the air that he was gone.
* * *
If the Duke of Ashland had encountered his son's tutor lurking about the servants' entrance of Ashland Abbey at one o'clock in the morning, disheveled, pale, and unsteady, he would have sacked him on the spot.
Luckily, Emilie thought, skulking across the courtyard shadows with tender care for her newly breached female parts, the Duke of Ashland was wallowing in his ducal bed of guilt at the moment. She had watched his window carefully from the stables, waiting until the last light winked out at last, before hazarding the journey into the house. Her parts had protested wildly. Her parts wanted to be wallowing in bed with the duke, getting breached anew.
You are as mad as a hatter, she told herself. As thick as a tree.
She crept along next to the brick wall, remaining just outside the dim yellow block of light from the lamp in an upstairs window.
You've risked everything, and for what?
What was she doing here? She'd never skulked home in the dead of night in her life. That was Stefanie's sort of lark. Mischievous, naughty, delightful Stefanie. Everybody loved Stefanie. If Stefanie were caught-which she never was-everybody would have laughed. Oh, that Stefanie. Off on a lark again. Emilie had always been the one to answer the clink of stone on their bedroom window, to go downstairs through the catacomb of service rooms and let Stefanie in through the kitchen delivery entrance, to tuck her into bed and lie next to her and listen to her stories. The village festivals, the midnight dances, the illicit sips of foam-topped hefeweizen, the sheep herded into the mayor's public audience chamber to be discovered in the morning.
Now it was Emilie's turn to sneak in the back entrance in the dead of night. She was dressed in trousers, she smelled like a stable, and she had just had her female parts thoroughly and passionately breached in a luxurious hotel bedroom. Blindfolded. With her employer. Her married employer. Whose child she might conceivably have . . . well, conceived.
At least there were no sheep involved.
Well, she'd wanted adventure, hadn't she? She'd wanted freedom, and choice, and independence. Perhaps it had all proved a bit more . . . complicated, that was the word . . . a bit more complicated than she had imagined, but she'd done it.
Now all she wanted was a warm bath and a warm bed. If it were warm enough, she might even forgive it for not containing one very warm, very virile duke.
Warm bath. Warm bed. She reached for the door latch and pushed.
The door held firm.
She rattled the latch and pushed again.
No effect.
The wind whistled around the corner of the kitchen courtyard. Above her head, the winter moon broke apart a pair of clouds to illuminate the old abbey stones.
Emilie drew in a deep breath and leaned her entire body against the door. Nothing. She slammed herself against the wood with force. She kicked. She swore. She leaned again, driving with her legs, and prayed.
Locked out. To top everything off.
She swore again, a particularly explicit vulgarism.
A low whistle came from behind her, slurred and tuneless. "What the devil did you just say, Grimsby?"
Emilie's hand froze on the latch. She straightened slowly and turned around. "Mr. Grimsby," she said.
Frederick, Marquess of Silverton, sordid and disheveled, hat backward, scarf missing, lifted up his gloved hand to tug at his earlobe. "Mister Grimsby. I don't b'lieve I heard you proper. That sort of thing ain't possible. Can't be done, without you . . . without . . . well, it can't be done by a vert . . . verteb . . ."
"Vertebrate animal," said Emilie. "I quite agree. My mistake. We shall consult the anatomy book in the morning for a more reasonable epithet."
"Really, Mister Grimsby," said Freddie, smiling lopsidedly, "a man of your inte . . . intel . . . brains. Surely you ain't gone out of an evening without this little beauty." His pupils worked desperately to focus. He reached one hand into his pocket and drew out a small metal object.
"The key," said Emilie. "Of course."
"Had a copy made m'self." Freddie brandished it with pride. "Most prized poss . . . possess . . . thing I own. Guard it with my life. I . . . Oh damn." He looked down at the mottled brickwork before him. "Where's it gone?"
Emilie sighed and reached down to retrieve the key. "You are inebriated, your lordship."
"I am not ineb . . . in . . . drunk."
"You are, and we will discuss this in the morning. You are far too young to be indulging in drink to such a degree. I ought to have escorted you home myself. Instead, I trusted you to follow my instructions." She fit the key into the old and half-frozen lock, praying it would turn. "I shall have to take this up with your father, I'm afraid."
"Oh, I think not," said Freddie.
"I think so." The lock gave way. Emilie's shoulders slumped in relief. She eased the door open and held her finger to her lips.
"I think not," said Freddie, in a loud stage whisper. "B'cause I think His Al . . . Almight . . . His Grace won't like your being out so late y'self. If you take my meaning." He stumbled over the doorjamb, caught himself on the wall, and stood staring at the plaster for an elongated second. "I think I might be sick."
"You should be sick. Violently sick. It would teach you a most edifying lesson, I believe." She looked down at the key in her palm and slipped it into her coat pocket. Freddie was right, of course. She couldn't risk the duke wondering why his son's tutor was arriving home so late on this particular night, of all nights.
"You're a cruel, cruel man," Freddie said to the wall. He swiveled his head to face Emilie, his crown still propped against its fixed and stable point, forcing back his hat. His eyes squinted shut. His voice turned quiet and serious, a little pleading. "You won't tell Pater, Mr. Grimsby, will you?"
The hallway was dim, lit only by the moonlight, which was fading quickly as the clouds resumed their rightful place in the Yorkshire sky. Emilie shut the door behind them and turned the lock. "No, I won't tell him. But you must promise me faithfully, your lordship, that this sort of affair shall not be repeated. For one thing, it's bad for your health. And for another thing, you might not be so lucky next time, arriving home in one piece."
Freddie lifted an arm in dismissal. "No one would dare. They all know Pater'd . . . He'd . . ." He swallowed, looking a trifle green. "I think I'd better go upstairs."
Emilie slung his arm over her shoulder. "Right we go, then."
Upstairs they staggered, using the back staircase, and down the long, darkened hallway to Freddie's room. Emilie kept her eyes fixed ahead as they passed the imposing door to the ducal chamber. "That's it. Just a few more steps. Remember"-she panted, because Freddie's long shanks weighed a great deal more than they appeared-"remember to drink a pitcher of water before you retire."
"How . . . how the devil do you know about that?" Freddie muttered.
"It's what my father always did. Here we are."
Emilie helped him through the door. Was it her imagination, or did the place smell different at night? The same scents of old smoke and polish and leather, but laced with something else, some tang of night air. She removed Freddie's arm from her aching shoulders. "There you are. The rest is up to you, I'm afraid."
"You're a trump, Grim . . . Gr . . . Oh damn." Freddie removed his hat and gloves and tossed them in the general direction of a blue wing chair. He looked blearily at her. "I shan't forget it."
"See that you don't." She turned to leave.
"Wait! Grimsby!"
She cocked her head back. "Yes, your lordship?"
Freddie was motioning with his fingers about his face. "There's something . . . something . . . wrong . . ."
"Are you all right, sir? Do you need a basin?" She started for the cabinet against the wall.
"No, no. I mean, yes, I b'lieve I do, godawful sick, but . . . but that . . ." He motioned about his face again, narrowed his eyes. "That ain't it."