Emily found it laughable that only minutes before she had found a suave stranger so menacing. No man was more dangerous to her than this one. She lived daily with the mortal risk of falling to her knees at
his feet and begging him to love her.
He circled her, then stopped so close behind her that she could feel the angry heat emanating from his lean form. His lips touched her ear, bringing the tiny hairs along her lobe to tingling life. "How would
you like to be robbed or murdered … or raped?"
"Are those my only choices?" His sigh scorched the back of her neck. She turned to face him. "Why
were you following me anyway? Don't you trust me?"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "I wasn't following you. I just happened to be passing by."
At that moment his carriage rumbled around the corner at a full gallop with Penfeld hanging out the window, waving his handkerchief. "Thank the Lord, sir!" he cried as the carriage clattered to a halt.
"You found her. If anything had happened to her, I would have blamed myself. . . ."
He trailed off beneath Justin's glower, realizing that Emily was grinning like a Cheshire cat.
"You might be a bit more inconspicuous if the Winthrop crest weren't emblazoned on your carriage
door," she said, brushing a stray twig from the shoulder of Justin's greatcoat. "I'd suggest you pay
Bentley Chalmers whatever it takes to keep him in your employ. The two of you make rotten detectives."
With those words she marched away, disappearing into the brougham with a twitch of her sassy little bustle.
Justin muttered, "I'd like to put my foot-"
The coachman twisted on his bench, craning his neck.
Shaking his head in disgust, Justin threw himself into the carriage. As they drove into the night, the dark figure at the window of the house across the street lifted his glass in a mocking toast.
* * *
Emily's behavior in the next week was beyond reproach. Each expedition she made was chaperoned by the duchess or one of Justin's sisters. When her newfound popularity showed no sign of abating, even Cecille and her diminutive mama deigned to woo her affections. Justin heard not even a whisper of impropriety as she became the toast of London. He heard other things, though. How she had leaped out of a moving carriage to rescue a terrified puppy darting among the congested traffic of the Strand. How she had tossed the silk purse containing her entire allowance to a shivering beggar child on the street.
How she had shamed Cecille and her fast set out of going to Bedlam to poke fun at the lunatics.
Justin could find no fault with her. To complain would have been the worst sort of hypocrisy. She was the kind of daughter every father dreamed of having. But Justin wasn't a father. And he suspected the ways he dreamed of having her were not only immoral, but possibly illegal.
The whirl of activity left little time for him. At each soiree and ball her dance card was filled minutes
after arriving. At each luncheon and card party the seat next to hers was taken by some fawning young toff who hung on her every word as if it might be her last. Justin was relegated to the position of
watchful uncle even though he knew none of the eager young men were the threat to her virtue that
he was.
He tripped down the stairs late one afternoon, struggling to knot his tie for the opera that evening.
Penfeld had a way of disappearing whenever Emily was preparing for a night out, leaving Justin to struggle with the damnable scrap of silk alone.
Two strange young men were hovering in the foyer.
"Excuse me," he said, brushing past them.
"Your Grace, may I have a word with you?" The one with the flaming red hair trotted after him. Justin took the freckled hand he offered and he pumped eagerly. "Claiborne, sir. Richard Claiborne. My
friends call me Dick."
Justin looked him up and down from his yellow boots to his checkered jacket. "I dare say they do."
The other man rushed forward, clutching a stovepipe hat. His slicked-back hair reeked of bear's grease. "Henry Simpkins, Your Grace. At your humble service."
"Yes, well, that's very nice," Justin said vaguely. His tie curled like a serpent around his Adam's apple.
He tugged at it and started to walk away. "If the two of you are seeking employment, I suggest you
make an appointment with my offices."
Dick Claiborne flushed to the roots of his hair. "I wish to speak to you about a very private matter."
"Bite your tongue, Dick. That's not fair. I was here first!" Henry cried.
Claiborne whirled around and stabbed Henry's chest with his forefinger. "Sod off, Henry. I saw
her first."
A horrified suspicion grew in Justin's mind. Leaving the irate young gentlemen nose to nose, he lifted a lace curtain and peered out the window. Two more carriages had drawn up to block the drive. One of their occupants was hanging out his window, shouting insults at the man emerging from the other carriage. As Justin watched, the young swell thrust up his shirt-sleeves and launched himself past a stoic footman into the window of his taunter's brougham. The brougham rocked wildly. The driver grabbed the lamp
to keep his seat.
Justin groaned to find his mansion under siege. The snarls from behind him were becoming more rabid. He marched back to Simpkins and Claiborne, dragged them apart by their collars, and shook them like limp puppies.
"Cease this nonsense," he snapped. "I'll tolerate blood on my grass, but I won't tolerate it on my marble tiles."
He shoved them toward the door without loosening his grip.
Claiborne dragged his heels. "But, sir, I'd make a very good husband. Truly I would!"
"Thank you, Dick, but you're not my sort. Simpkins is looking for a mate. Perhaps the two of you can come to an arrangement."
He thrust them out the door. As they went tumbling down the shallow steps, a dead silence fell over the waiting carriages.
Justin waved cheerfully. "Do call again. I'd love to tell you more about my years with the cannibals. Charming tribe, the Maori. They've been known to pluck out the eyes of any man who offends them
and eat them whole."
Dusting off his hands, he marched back into the house. The frantic jingle of harnesses and bridles was followed by the gratifying clatter of galloping hooves. Justin leaned his back against the door, blowing
out a slow breath.
"A pity we're not living in the days when maidens were locked in stone towers."
Justin slowly lifted his eyes to find Emily sitting like an elf on the balcony above, her stockinged legs dangling through the balusters. It was obvious she had witnessed the entire spectacle.
His gaze traced the curve of her thighs as they straddled the thick post. A hoarse note touched his voice. "It wouldn't do me any good. I'd still have a key."
At that moment Lily and Millicent entered from the parlor, chattering about their opera dresses. When Justin looked up again, the balcony was empty.
* * *
For those seeking the drama of the bards, the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane was the favored choice, but those craving the loftier charms of opera flocked to the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden. The theater