A Scandalous Proposal

“Oh, but you don’t understand!” Humiliation deepening, she forced herself to add, “I’m afraid the profits of shopkeeping are vastly overrated.” She managed a weak smile. “I cannot even predict when I should have sufficient funds to repay you.”

He smiled back. He had, she noted despite her distress, a singularly engaging smile that dimpled the skin beside the lean mouth and brought that devilish sparkle to his deep blue eyes. “Ridding the streets of such vermin constitutes something of a civic duty. And, as you doubtless know, I’m a wealthy man. Think no more of it.”

“But I could not be under such an obligation—”

“Please.” He put one finger to her bleeding lip. “I should consider protecting you a very great honor.”

She ought to protest further, but his touch seemed to tangle her already tattered thoughts. As she sat speechless, he slowly traced his gloved finger around the circumference of her swollen lip.

The soft brush of chamois against her stinging skin mesmerized her, sent little ripples of sensation throughout her body. Her startled gaze flew to his.

His finger stopped its tracery. He drew in a sharp breath and met her eyes with a glance so intense she felt herself drawn almost physically closer. The steady pulse of his warm finger quivered against her lip.

When at last he removed his hand, the only thing she could think to stutter was, “Y-you have soiled your glove.”

Cheverley looked at the bloodstain on the fawn surface. He raised his finger and kissed the spot. “I shall treasure it. Don’t worry, Madame, that villain will trouble you no more. You have my word on it.”

Evan whistled as he walked back down the street, a bounce in his step. He breathed in deeply, his nostrils still filled with the enchanting scent of lavender, his senses still heightened by the heady euphoria of holding that slender arm, touching those delicate lips.

He’d roust his solicitor from the tea table and ensure the runners were dispatched immediately. The mere thought of that slimy little villain putting his foul hand on Madame Emilie’s perfect face sent a blistering rage through him. He would check back personally to make sure guards were posted this very day.

But he shouldn’t be too angry at the fellow who had provided him such a perfect opportunity to act the rescuer, he reminded himself as the rage cooled. Surely the divine Madame would look kindly on him for intervening. Be she ever so virtuous, surely she could imagine a way to repay his concern, one that might be immensely gratifying to them both.

Not that he would so much as hint such a thing. Indeed, doing so would relegate him to the same crass category as the unspeakable Mr. Harding. The Earl of Cheverley normally had only to express interest, and the chosen lady hurried to do his bidding. The impossibly beautiful Madame, however, seemed reluctant to accept even protective assistance from him, despite the real danger in which she stood.

Vividly he recalled that sizzling glance, her smoldering touch. She was aloof, and yet undeniably responsive.

Winning her would not be easy, he recognized, his instincts piqued by the challenge. Once she was won, however, he could imagine no more enjoyable a task than lifting every burden from her slim shoulders and sheltering that exquisite body close.

A discreet little house in Mayfair, perhaps? With furnishings in the first stare of elegance, a loyal staff, gowns, jewels, carriages, whatever she wished. He would move heaven and earth to grant her every whim. He imagined dressing her in amethysts and deep plum satin to match those incredible eyes. Imagined even more vividly undressing her….

Excitement tingled in his veins, and something else tingled lower. Not for months had he felt so alive, so buoyed with anticipation.

He would ensure her safety, of course, whether she smiled on him now or not. But sooner or later, he vowed, she would.

Chapter Two

Emily saw the man immediately after she unbolted the shop door the next morning. As she stared through the fog-wisped air, shocked into immobility, the burly figure lounging in a doorway opposite snapped to attention and gave her a jaunty wave. The bright red waistcoat under his buff frieze jacket proclaimed him a runner, apparently detailed, as Lord Cheverley had promised, to protect her.

Her immediate rush of relief was succeeded by a worry that gnawed at her all morning as she fashioned her bonnets and waited on customers. His lordship was obviously a man of his word. Could he, as he claimed, construe it his public duty to ensure private citizens such as herself were not molested in their homes and businesses? And the wages of the watchman now loitering on the street outside—did she truly, as he insisted, have no need to concern herself over the matter?

Her thoughts went round and round, but always returned to the same point. Despite his lordship’s promises, she could not deem it prudent to permit him to fund her protection.

For one thing, the very thought of accepting so great a boon from one entirely unrelated grated against every principle upon which she’d been raised. More ominously, as bitter experience had taught her twice over, rich and influential men like my lord of Cheverley did nothing without calculation. Debts owed would be called in sooner or later, generally when most advantageous to the lender. Worse yet, she thought with more than a touch of annoyance, the earl’s immediate, high-handed action—taken without any consultation as to her preferences—had stuck a spoke in the wheel of Josh Harding’s game, a curb that villain was unlikely to forgive or forget.

She recalled the strength of the bully’s rough hands jerking her close, the stench of his wet tongue assaulting her mouth. An involuntary shiver skittered down her spine. She had few illusions as to what sort of vengeance he would choose if he could get her once more in his power.

Which meant, unless she were prepared to relocate her business—a financial impossibility—she was likely to need protection for some considerable time. Yet more reason to stand alone now, for who could predict how long the quixotic Earl’s interest in her welfare would last?

Perhaps it would be possible to have his solicitor maintain the defensive policies already set in motion. She should consult the man immediately. And determine safety’s unpalatable price.

That unpleasant conclusion reached, she instructed Francesca to take over the shop, and embarked on the long walk to the offices of his lordship’s counselor.

The bored-looking young clerk who answered her knock subjected her to an insolent inspection her glacial manner did nothing to discourage—until she stated that her business concerned the Earl of Cheverley. Instantly the clerk turned respectful, ushering her to a seat and announcing he would immediately inform his master of her presence.

Yet another indication of the Earl’s power, she thought uneasily as she leaned back to rest her tired shoulders. The chair on which she sat was luxuriously appointed in leather; heavy damask drapes hung at the windows, and a Turkey carpet graced the floor. The entire establishment reeked of exclusivity and expensive cigars.

Suddenly she was transported in memory to a room very like this, where a lifetime ago a defiant young lady had informed her sire she intended to embark, not on the London Season planned for her, but on a vessel bound for the Peninsula, as the bride of Lieutenant Andrew Waring-Black. When she remained steadfast in the face of her father’s adamant disapproval, he alternately mocked, threatened and finally raged he’d see her dead first. “Where do you think you would find yourself, missy, when that impertinent jackanapes got himself killed? Destitute in some heathenish land, that’s where, earning a living upon your back!”

“Mr. Manners will see you now.” The clerk’s deferential words startled her out of reverie. Clenching her fingers on her reticule, Emily followed him.

Behind a huge desk sat a thin man with spectacles perched on his narrow nose. Shelves of legal tomes lined the walls; a leather armchair astride another tasteful carpet poised before the desk. A lamp glowed, adding the piquant scent of its flaming oil to the melange of cigar and lemon wood polish. The heavy curtains were drawn, as if the occupant did not wish even the daylight to intrude into his sanctum. The polite but piercing look he fixed on her said he resented her intrusion as well.

“That will be all, Richards,” Mr. Manners said. The clerk, who had been staring at her again, hastily bowed himself out. “A chair, Mrs. Spenser?”

Emily sat. This forbidding man did not seem likely to trouble himself over one such as her. More than ever, she sensed the excluding wall that barred all that was weak and womanly from the world of male privilege and power.

An old, familiar resentment revived her flagging spirits. “Mr. Manners, Lord Cheverley consulted you about me. A matter of attempted extortion, you may remember.”

“Yes, Mrs. Spenser, I’m fully cognizant of the details. Has there been another…incident?”

“No, sir, the, ah, guard his lordship promised has been dispatched. There have been no further threats. I just wished to inquire as to the normal procedure in such situations.”

“There is no ‘normal’ procedure, ma’am. I don’t usually prosecute matters of this sort, but as his lordship refers all his legal business to me, I have of course undertaken a full investigation. You need have no further concern for your safety, I assure you. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Emily resisted his clear dismissal. “Oh, but I wish—”

“Mrs. Spenser, I am sure his lordship, at his convenience, will acquaint you with any details he deems appropriate. I simply cannot discuss a pending case with other than my client.” This time, he rose and indicated the door.

“And if I were your client?” Emily persisted, rising, but refusing to let his obvious annoyance intimidate her.

“I see no need for that. His lordship already retains me, and as I’ve informed you, everything needful is being done.”

“I am sure it is, Mr. Manners. You must not think I doubt your competence, or that I am not grateful for his lordship’s intervention. But if this…situation should recur in future? Sadly, there are always rogues only too ready to prey on the honest. As a woman alone, I would wish to be informed of my alternatives.”

Mr. Manners tilted his head and tapped at his chin. “’Tis true, ma’am, that despite taking appropriate action now, one cannot rule out the possibility of future difficulties.” He looked her up and down. “You are a widow, I understand. You have no near relatives, yours or your late husband’s, to see to your protection?”

“If I had, would I be here now?” she replied, an edge of anger in her voice.

To her surprise, the humorless face creased in what might be construed as a smile. “Excuse me, I meant no disrespect. Please, sit back down, Mrs. Spenser. What is it you wish to know?”

Emily felt some of the tension leave her. “How does your office handle such a matter? Should I report any future threats to the authorities? And what…” She faltered. “What fee would you require, were I to retain you?”

“First, I would not have you contact the authorities—not initially. Come to my office first. Most of the magistrates are honest folk, but from time to time a bad apple falls into the basket, as it were. My contacts would ascertain the background and intention of the perpetrators and proceed from there. And my normal fee would be two hundred pounds, plus the expense of hiring runners if I thought the need justified.”

Emily tried not to gasp. Lord Cheverley was laying out two hundred pounds, plus expenses, to thwart Mr. Harding? And she had thought another ten pounds a month exorbitant!

She forced herself to rise on shaking legs. “Th-thank you for the information, and for your time, Mr. Manners.”