"Barrington."
He came to stop in front of her uncle's house. It was completely dark, even though the hour was not that late. The houses surrounding it had many lighted windows. "This is your uncle's house. Never been inside of it myself."
Her brows squeezed together. "Does it not seem odd to you that it's the only house without candles? Is this my uncle's custom?"
"No. He's not known to be parsimonious."
"What can have happened to make Uncle fail to meet my coach? To have even stolen away his servants?"
"I'm sure there must be servants—even if your uncle has forgotten you." Not the best choice of words. "Er . . . I didn't precisely mean your uncle has forgotten you."
"I shall find out." She mounted the two steps to the shiny black door and rapped at its equally shiny brass knocker.
A minute passed. She rapped again. Another minute ticked by as she waited.
He let go of the portmanteau's strap. "Here, let me try." He came to stand beside her and rapped at the brass knocker, then pounded upon the thick wooden door with all his strength. His efforts were no more successful then hers.
"Oh, dear, what shall I do?" she asked, her voice more forlorn than it had been in the previous half hour of their acquaintance.0
He froze. A snatch of lucidity sharpened his stupored mind like a magnifying glass to a blurred word. He suddenly remembered why the house was dark, why no uncle had met her coach, why the name Simon Hastings was familiar to him.
The man had died three or four days earlier. Adam's valet had told him all the servants had been forced to find new positions.
But Adam could hardly break such sorrowful news to the girl now. Not after the ordeal she'd endured the past few hours. How terrified she must have been when no one greeted her. Even more horrifying was the prospect of dragging her possessions across the vast and strange city. At night. In near-freezing rain.
He turned to her and smiled. "Not to worry. We'll put you up at my house tonight."
Chapter 2
This gentleman's house might not be as opulentacious as his brother's, but it was the grandest house Emma had ever seen. In size, it was no larger than Aunt Harriett's, but where Auntie's house was furnished in dark, ancient Tudor pieces with faded upholstery, every elegant piece of this heavily gilded decor gave a nod to the French. Her eye was drawn to a massive crystal chandelier lighting the entry hall's marble staircase.
A second son he might be, but this man must be exceedingly wealthy—sot or not. She suddenly became shy in his presence.
After greeting his master, the butler quietly locked the massive entry door behind them and took up the long-handled snuffer, no doubt to darken the house now that its owner had returned.
"Tell me, Studewood," the gentleman asked the butler, "which room would be best to put this lady in?"
Studewood's manner did not change one bit as he calmly said, "The yellow room, I should say, Mr. Birmingham. Since the other servants are in their beds, I'll just pop up and see that there's a fire in the young lady's chamber." The butler put down the long-handled snuffer, took the strap to her portmanteau, and started up the stairs.
At last, she now knew this man's name. Mr. Birmingham. It seemed a solid name. If he weren't such a reprobate, he'd be . . . awfully appealing. No man in Upper Barrington could match this dark-haired man for handsomeness. Indeed, no man in Upper Barrington dressed so fine, either—not even their revered kinsman, Sir Arthur Lippincott—who actually lived in Lower Barrington. What tailor would not adore clothing a man with such long limbs and trim waist and broad shoulders as Mr. Birmingham? He would show to great advantage any clothing he wore.
"Allow me to escort you to your chambers," Mr. Birmingham said to her.
Their eyes briefly locked. His were dark and piercing. She nodded, then lowered her lashes and began to mount the staircase.
When they were half way up, he paused on a step and swayed as he glanced back at her. "I shappose I should know your name."
Afraid he'd tumble down the stairs, she came to his side. "I'm Miss Emma Hastings. Do give me your arm to hold onto, Mr. Birmingham." She could hardly tell him it was he who needed to hold onto her.
"I say, how did you know my name?" He proffered his arm.
"Your butler addressed you."
"Show he did."
They came to the first floor where the entertaining rooms were located and continued to mount the stairs to the next level. Before they rose to the next floor, she tried to take in as much as she could of the tasteful drawing room with its richly patterned carpets, silken draperies, and slender-legged furniture. She was struck that, unlike at Sir Arthur's, the walls of Mr. Birmingham's stairwell were devoid of ancestral portraits. That must mean the Birmingham wealth was new.