"Freddie," she said at last, "I can't marry your father. I simply can't."
"Why the devil not? You love him, don't you? God knows why. Some peculiar disposition for gruff old chaps with dodgy peepers, I expect."
"That's not the point. And do mind your language. I am still your tutor, at least until later this morning."
Freddie's voice rose. "Then what the devil is the point? I thought true love conquered all, and all that rot. Why the devil not marry him?"
"Freddie."
"I beg your pardon. Why the dickens?"
"For a multitude of reasons. Because he wishes to marry me out of . . . of desire, and . . . and a sense of duty, not love. And because . . ."
"Rubbish. Just because he hasn't got the proper words for it . . ."
". . . because I am not some ordinary young lady, who can fit comfortably into your lives. I'm in mortal danger at the moment, or don't you remember? And lastly"-her voice dropped-"because I have deceived him, and what marriage can survive that?"
"Oh, that. He'll understand."
"I don't think he will."
"Try him. You'll see."
A dark shape was rising against the milky snow. "Here we are, anyway," Emilie said. "Do try to get some sleep. I promise I shan't insist on your nine o'clock lesson."
Freddie, for once, said nothing. They went to the stables and unsaddled their horses side by side, then put them away with oats and water. Freddie's hands moved with knowledge over the straps and buckles, the brushes and blankets. He had likely spent a great deal of his childhood in here, Emilie mused.
She let them both in the kitchen door with her key. Freddie turned to her at the bottom of the service steps. "Give him a chance, Grimsby. Please." In the light of the oil lamp, his eyes were serious and pleading. "Just trust him, will you? Let him . . . Well, just give him a chance. He needs this."
The ache in Emilie's chest was too much to bear. She placed her hand against Freddie's cheek. "I'll do my best," was all she could say.
The upstairs corridor was still and silent. A distant clock sounded four o'clock in steady chimes as Emilie crept down the cold floorboards, guilty and churning, muscles still thrumming from Ashland's bed. She found her door, opened it without a sound, and let her knapsack slide to the floor.
A fire still simmered gently in the tiny grate. Emilie took off her greatcoat, hung it on the rail, slipped her black wool jacket from her shoulders. She sat down on the bed to remove her shoes.
The bed moved.
Emilie leapt to her feet.
"Oh, sir! Oh, sir, never be frightened! It's nobbut mysen."
A figure rose from the pillow. The firelight outlined its body, clad only in a chemise, young nipples pointed jubilantly to the ceiling.
"Lucy!" Emilie exclaimed. She clutched the ends of her unbuttoned waistcoat together. "Good God, Lucy! Your . . . your clothes!"
Lucy held out her arms. "Oh, sir, never go away! I nobbut . . . Why, dear me, sir. What's happened to yer whiskers?"
"I shaved them."
"Oh." Lucy blinked, took a deep breath, and plunged on. "Well, I thought . . . Oh, sir, that there wicked Freddie, taking ye out to t'Anvil and those . . . those bad women. I can't bear it anymore, sir, I can't! I pinched t'key from Mrs. Needle . . ."
"You did what?"
Lucy sprang from the bed and drew off her chemise in a single dramatic stroke. "Take me, sir! Take me instead!"
Emilie spun around. "For God's sake, Lucy!"
"I . . . I guess I'm as nice as those wicked women at t'Anvil, aren't I? I'll be taking good care of ye, sir. You can . . . We can be married, t'duke will let us, I'm sure, and . . ."
Emilie stared at the dark wall before her and counted to ten. "Lucy, my dear, this is most improper."
"It's no more wrong nor what you does!" Lucy's voice broke into sobs. "Night after night, coming home at all hour. It ain't right, sir, not for a gentleman like thassen. I'd be ever so much better to you, sir. I would. Don't I darn up yer hosen and lay them out for ye?"
"That was you?"
"Don't I bring ye t'best bits of cake and leave t'heels for His Grace? Don't I bring up yer coffee ever so hot, and keep yer nice coat brushed?"
"Lucy, I . . ."
The floorboards creaked, and Lucy's arms flung around Emilie's shoulders. "Oh, take me, sir, do!" Lucy's arms were surprisingly strong. Emilie found herself spinning around to face the maid. The girl's eyes were closed, her head flung back like a martyr facing the pyre. She was wearing her frilly white cap and nothing else.
"Have yer wicked way with me, Mr. Grimsby!"
"Lucy!"
"Sate yer unnatural lusts! Do what ye will with me!"
Emilie put her hands to her temples. "Lucy, Lucy. What sort of novels have you been reading?"
"Pluck t'precious flower of me innocence!"
"Lucy, remember yourself! Have you been drinking His Grace's sherry?"
An indignant gasp. "Why, I never, sir!"
Emilie's exhausted head was beginning to pound. She reached out and patted Lucy's shoulder, keeping her gaze trained resolutely upward. The faint scent of Mrs. Needle's lemon oil gathered between them. "Lucy, my dear. Put your clothes on."
"Sir?"
"I'm afraid my unnatural lusts are quite at rest at the moment. No need for any . . . any heroic floral sacrifice on your part."
Lucy crossed her arms over her breasts. Her eyes rounded plaintively, like a puppy's. "Nay?"
"Not at all, I'm afraid." Emilie smiled kindly. "You're very sweet to . . . to offer yourself up to my . . . my unruly passions in such a . . . an unexpected manner. But I assure you, I have no wicked designs on your person, Lucy. None at all."
Lucy sniffed. "Nowt at all?"
"None."
Lucy's lip trembled. Her eyes blinked.
"Now, don't cry, Lucy . . ."
Lucy lifted her arms and pounded her fists on Emilie's bound chest. "Cruel, that's what ye are, sir! Letting me think ye cared for me! I seen t'look in yer eye when ye thanked me for yer coffee! Burning with t'flames of desire, ye were! And then ye runs off down to t'Anvil and drains yer knackers with t'wicked ladies there!"
Emilie grasped Lucy's pummeling fists. "Lucy, do hush. I assure you . . ."
Lucy wrenched away, picked up her chemise, and threw it over her head. "Me mum were right, weren't she? Never do trust a gentleman, Lucy, she says to me. It's only t'working boys is decent."
"Now, Lucy . . ."
"Never ye Lucy me, Mr. Grimsby! Ye keeps yer wicked hands to yessen, from now on!" The dressing gown went on, belted at the waist with dramatic tugs. She picked up the candle on the nightstand, lit it on the coals, and swept to the door. "Satyr!" she spat, and turned in the doorway.
Emilie sank onto the bed.
"Oh, and Mr. Grimsby, sir?"
"What is it, Lucy?" Emilie whispered tiredly, not lifting her head from her hands.
"Ye looks like a lady without t'whiskers."
The door slammed, and Lucy was gone.
Emilie stared at the floor. Her head ached with fatigue, but her thoughts were jumping spasmodically, as if shocked by electricity. Ashland. Freddie. Her family. Bloody Lucy.
What the devil was she going to do with this mess?
She turned her face and gazed longingly at the pillow. It was dented from Lucy's head, probably still warm.
Emilie heaved herself to her feet. At least there was one place at Ashland Abbey she could be certain of peace and quiet.
* * *
A sleepy footman unbolted the door at half past five o'clock, after only a minute's brisk pounding. The Duke of Ashland swept through the portal in an urgent slap of boots on marble.
"My apologies, Lionel. Awaken my valet at once. I shall require a bath and a change. I have ordered the carriage."
Lionel made a half bow. "At once, Your Grace."
Ashland made his way around the corner of the great entrance hall and down the corridor to his study, not pausing an instant. A clatter of shoes echoed behind him as Lionel rushed to obey his instructions. He threw open the door to his study and strode to his desk.
"Pater!"
Ashland started and turned. "Freddie? What the devil?"
His son rose from a reclined position on the sofa, rubbing furiously at his eyes. A stalk of straw extended prominently from the back of his head. "Was waiting up for you, of course."
"Waiting up for me?" He let his hand fall to the desk. In all his panic at waking to an empty bed, in all his wild worry for Emily and the almost physical pain of her absence, in all the week's bustle of laying plans and settling affairs, Ashland had allowed the thought of Freddie to slip from the forefront of his mind. A stab of remorse struck his chest at the sight of his hollow-eyed son. "I beg your pardon, Frederick. I have been immensely busy of late. How are you getting along? Everything well with Mr. Grimsby?"