Emma and the Earl

Something about the way he said it put her at ease. She believed him, and it was okay. “Am I?”

“Exactly.” He let go of her hand and they started to walk side-by-side to the car. “So how do you like London so far, Emma?”

“I really love it,” she said, hoping he couldn’t hear her thundering heart. It had to be nerves, she told herself. After all, this was John. She knew him already, there was nothing to be nervous about.

“Good. I’ve chosen a little place for dinner just around the corner in Hampstead Heath.” His voice was low and rich, with a perfectly measured English accent. That part of it was as she’d imagined. “I hope you like French food?”

He had once mentioned in his letters wanting to take her to the famous Thames Gate Restaurant. Had he changed his mind? She had the unwelcome thought that perhaps he was embarrassed to be seen with her since she wasn’t beautiful. But he wasn’t like that, she knew he wasn’t. It was probably just because he was on a budget, like she was. It was all well and good to say you wanted to take someone to a fancy restaurant, but it wasn’t so easily done. “Yes, I love French food,” she said. “That sounds great.”

“I realize it’s not typically British, but the food is quite good, and it’s in one of London’s most Dickensian spots. I thought you’d prefer that to boiled potatoes in the business district.”

She laughed. “You made the right call.”

He led her to the Mini and opened the door for her. She smiled and, as gracefully as possible, folded her five-foot-eight-inch frame into the car. John had to be at least six feet tall, probably taller. The Mini seemed like an odd choice of car for him, though he had less trouble getting in gracefully than she had.

Driving it was another story. After he ground the gear into first and lurched the car out into the street, they drove in silence for a couple of miles before John said, “I have to admit, this is a bit awkward for me.”

“It is a funny little car,” she agreed, wondering why the car struck her as so discordant with the man.

He gave a brief laugh. “No—well, yes, but I meant meeting this way. After all this time.”

“Oh, that. Me, too.” She glanced at him, but her self-consciousness surged again, and she decided it was best to concentrate on the passing scenery so she could actually get a few sentences out without being dazzled by his looks. “You know, suddenly I feel like we don’t really know each other at all.” She glanced back at him.

He gave a sober nod. “I think it’s safe to say there are a lot of things we don’t know about each other.” He glanced over at her as he drew to a halt at a pedestrian crossing. “Quite a lot.”

A tremor buzzed through her. Excitement? Or trepidation? She couldn’t say. “Sounds like someone’s got some skeletons in the closet. Or the tower.”

“The tower?” He glanced at her, then put the car back into gear and edged forward.

“You know, the Tower of London.” She laughed nervously, immediately embarrassed at the lame joke and wishing she could take it back. “Sorry, I’ve had the aristocracy on my mind for the past few days.” That didn’t come out right either. “I mean, it’s impossible not to in a city like this. It can really make an ordinary person feel like a peasant.”

“Ah.” He watched the road in front of him, but she noticed his grip adjust and tighten on the steering wheel. “Well, chimney sweep or…or earl, isn’t it what’s inside that counts?”

She breathed a sigh of relief. He was picking it up instead of just letting her comment fall with a thud. “I’ve always thought it only mattered what was on the inside.” She looked at his handsome profile and smiled to herself. Nothing wrong with that outside though, she thought. “As long as you’re honest about it.”

He stiffened and kept his eyes fastened on the road. “Right.” He turned the car into a sleepy Georgian block just north of Hampstead Heath. The street was lined with tall trees, and narrow alleys with tiny shops: booksellers, herbalists, boutiques. Several pubs that they passed had tables set up outside. “Although sometimes people have very good reasons for not telling the truth.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know that there’s ever a good reason to lie to someone you care about and trust.” She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. Several months ago, she’d finally told John about an incident which had nearly destroyed her career and had wreaked havoc with her emotions.

Eight years back, when she’d been working at a pharmaceutical laboratory, her supervisor had helped himself to the inventory after hours using a magnetized identification card that was linked to Emma, just in case he got caught. He’d been careful to use the duplicate card only late at night, when Emma wasn’t likely to come in with her original card. He’d viewed her as a plain Jane, correctly guessing that she would have little or no social life, and thus no alibi for her late-night hours. She’d been the perfect person to frame. Indeed, when the crime was detected, Emma had been under heavy scrutiny for the first several weeks of the investigation.

When all was said and done, the worst part of it for Emma was knowing that her supervisor had been stealing for months and lying to her all that time. She would never have dreamed he was betraying her that way.

“I know you feel strongly about telling the truth,” John said, parking in front of a charming restaurant called La Fontaine du Mars. He got out of the car and came around to open Emma’s door for her. It was a small gallantry, but still appreciated. “I do, too, really. I only meant that sometimes people lie with good intentions.” He took a bracing breath. “Anyway, this is a nice little place to eat. Usually they have tables set out in the morning and people come for coffee and to watch the world go by. It’s a good place for that.”

“I can imagine.”

They walked toward the ivy-clad front door. Emma thought of the help she needed from John in getting to Brice Palliser and wondered if he would find it dishonest of her to ask for that kind of help. “It is all in the intention,” she agreed, deciding it would be best for her to mention the favor before they ate, rather than running the risk of appearing to butter him up first.

The restaurant was as charming inside as out. The walls were made of weathered brick, and a huge fireplace sat dormant at one end of the room. The red-checked tablecloths were worn but clean, and the unlit candles on each table were secured in various old, mostly inexpensive, wine bottles. It was quietly intimate, and she was suddenly glad he hadn’t chosen a more famous and probably austere place instead. This was comfortable and comfort was definitely helpful right now.

“John,” she said, after they were seated and had studied their menus for a few minutes.

He didn’t answer.

“John,” she said again, louder.

There was another moment’s hesitation before he made a small exclamation and said, “Sorry. Did you say something to me?”

“Yes.” She gathered her nerve. She really hated to ask this of him, but she had to, and she had to do it now and get it over with. “I’m afraid I have a favor to ask of you. A big favor, that is.” She sucked air in through her teeth. “A really big favor.”

“Of course. What is it?”

Three solid heartbeats passed. “I need to meet Brice Palliser.”

Was it her imagination or did his face pale? “Why do you need to meet him?”

He sounded stung. “Actually, I don’t really need to meet him,” she said quickly. “I just need to talk with him. Specifically, I need permission to go to his estate and dig around in the gardens a little.”

“Sheldale House.” His voice was monotone.

“That’s right.”

The restaurant lights dimmed and the waitress came to the table to light the candle. “Would you like some wine with dinner?” she asked.

“Please. Could you bring a bottle of Dom—” He stopped, cleared his throat. “How about a sparkling wine of some sort?” He looked to Emma for approval.

“Great.” She nodded.

He looked at the menu, and pointed one out. “This is from a good region.”

The waitress made a note on her pad, then asked Emma, “Are you ready to order?”

Emma hesitated, unsure of the budget. Though he’d never specifically said, she guessed from his job description that John wasn’t much better off than she, so she looked down the right-hand side of the menu for the least expensive dishes. She was about to order the grilled chicken breast when John spoke.

“How about the filet mignon with bearnaise?” he suggested. “The beef is local and quite good.”

“Filet mignon? Really?” Emma couldn’t even remember the last time she’d had real steak instead of hamburger.

He raised an eyebrow. “Does it not appeal to you?”

“I’d love it, but…” She lowered her voice and spoke through her teeth. “It’s kind of pricey…”

“Don’t worry about that. If it’s something you want, you’re certainly worth it.” He smiled, and his eyes lit a flame in her heart.

“Well, it does sound good—”

“Then it’s settled.” He slapped his menu shut.