Eve Silver (5 page)

After a moment, Lord Anthony withdrew to his own chair and sat watching her in narrow-eyed contemplation. His intent regard held a degree of puzzlement, and Emma wondered if he, too, felt the inexplicable current that pulsed between them.

He looked away as Griggs arrived with another warming dish. Emma wondered at the peculiarity of this household to have the coachman serve as footman, and heavens knew what else.

They each served themselves from the array of foods offered, with Lord Anthony helping his son to fill his plate. Emma noted absently that there was a boiled rice pudding dotted with currants and flavored with cinnamon and vanilla, an unusual breakfast choice unless one was a six-year-old child. Nicky was especially excited about it, demanding a huge scoop alongside his eggs and bacon.

Once seated, Nicky chattered to his father and sent Emma several uncertain glances, as if expecting some reprimand. She smiled reassuringly when she caught his eye, but refrained from entering the discussion. Still grappling with her inexplicable physical response to Lord Anthony, she felt unequal to the challenge of polite conversation. Moreover, she wanted to take this opportunity to simply observe Nicky and learn a bit about him. She had a strong suspicion that the child would come around to her fairly quickly, if this morning's experience was any indication. Had she been alone she would have laughed out loud at her recollection of Nicky galloping down the hallway dragging her behind.

Nicky stuffed a piece of scone smothered in strawberry preserves into his mouth, then gathered up a fistful of shirt from over his chest and rubbed it forcefully across his jam-stained lips. He stopped mid-action and turned a frozen stare in Emma’s direction, his mouth a little round 'O' of terror. Stomach clenching at the sight of his fear, Emma raised her serviette from her lap and blotted it delicately on her own lips. She held Nicky's gaze the entire time, then purposefully looked down at the serviette that lay on the table beside his plate. The child's eyebrows shot upward as he grabbed the linen square and enthusiastically scrubbed his mouth.

Glancing up, Emma found Lord Anthony studying her with a slow perusal that left her feeling as though her skin tingled in the wake of his regard. Then he nodded once, an action she read as silent approval of her handling of his son.

Again Emma felt that odd sensation of having her expectations turned upside down. She had assumed that all the previous governesses had fled from Lord Anthony's evil influence. Yet, given the conversation she had overheard in the kitchen coupled with Lord Anthony's evident concern for his child, she was faced with confusing and conflicting information. It was feasible that he had merely dismissed those women from his employ. She had barely formulated that thought when the words Nicky had spoken in the kitchen slammed through her mind.
Send her off in a pine box. Just like he sent Mrs. Winter
.

Before Emma had a chance to ponder further that chilling possibility, Griggs returned to the breakfast room and leaned over to whisper something in Lord Anthony's ear. Whatever news Griggs imparted seemed to cast an immediate pall over His Lordship's mood. No explanation was forthcoming. He simply placed his serviette beside his near-empty plate and stood.

“You will excuse me, Miss Parrish.” His gaze lingered on her for an unsettling moment before he strode from the room, pausing only long enough to ruffle his son’s dark hair.

Lord Anthony's exit brought the return of Emma's appetite and she proceeded to empty her plate with ladylike precision while discussing Nicky’s favorite topic — horses. Several times she glanced up to find Nicky watching her handling the utensils and copying her movements.

“Well, Nicky”—Emma placed her knife and fork together on her plate, and smiled when Nicky did the same—”we shall begin your lessons this morning.”

The child's expression took on a wary cast. Emma rose and crossed to the window. The sun peeked from behind a cloud, shining down on an expanse of manicured lawn.

“Could you tell me the normal schedule of your day?”

“Normal schedule?” Nicky echoed.

“Yes.” Emma glanced over her shoulder at him. “The things you do and the order in which you do them. I should like to practice our letters and numbers before luncheon. But the day is so lovely that perhaps we could spread a blanket and take our lesson outdoors. Do you have a slate?”

“Outdoors, Miss Emma?” He shook his head vehemently from side to side. “Miss Rust only let me outside for a walk in the afternoon. After lessons were done. And Mrs. Winter never let me out at all.”

“Not at all, Nicky?” Emma asked with a hint of laughing suspicion in her tone. “Not even to play?”

Nicky huddled against the back of his chair. “Mrs. Winter said play was evil. Sometimes, she left me alone in the nursery. She told me to kneel and recite my prayers. Then she would go away for a very long time.” He cast a quick glance at Emma, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “If I thought she'd be gone long, I would sneak out to the stables to see the horses. But one time she caught me and switched my legs until they bled. Then Papa sent her away. In a coffin that was nailed up tight.”

Emma winced at this horrifying tale, even as a dull thud of anger pulsed through her. She thought that if Mrs. Winter were here, she, too, might be tempted to send her away in a pine box.

“Oh, Nicky,” she whispered, turning fully and kneeling by his chair, touched beyond measure that he had trusted her with this ugly tale. Slowly, she reached out and laid her hand on his head. “I do not have a switch. My mother was a governess. She was very kind, and she taught me that if you work very hard, then you must play very hard. That way you keep a balance in your life. Play is not evil, Nicky. It is a child's way of practicing for the future.”

“Your mother was a governess?” Nicky asked. “What was your father?”

The unexpected question caught her off guard, digging at an old wound. A nobleman, she thought. A cad. A man who promised a young girl the world, then left her ruined, pregnant, without so much as a good-bye.

 “My father died a long time ago.” That much was true. He had been crushed to death when the carriage he was racing overturned.

“Oh. So did my mother.” He glanced at the window and heaved a mighty sigh. “There is Papa now. I wish he had stayed a little longer.”

Emma rose and turned, her heart doing a strange little dance when she saw Lord Anthony crossing the long drive. The sun glinted off his dark hair as he strode briskly toward Griggs, who stood waiting in the shadow of the tower.

There's death in the Round Tower, miss. Death in the very air. You stay away from that tower
. It seemed that Griggs did not heed his own advice, for there he stood not an arm’s length from the very thing he so feared.

 “Nicky,” Emma said, an inexplicable chill creeping along her spine. “Do you know what is in the tower at the end of the drive?”

“Yes, Miss Emma.”

Something in his tone made her turn.

“Can you tell me?”

He stared up at her in a way that made her uneasy, his eyes grown wide and wary. Clearly, Griggs was not the only one afraid of the Round Tower.

“No, Miss Emma,” Nicky said tremulously, then finished in a whisper, “and you cannot make me.”

Her heart wrenched at the fear that shadowed his eyes.

“Come show me the nursery,” Emma said brightly, moving toward the door. She held out her hand, waiting as Nicky cautiously clasped his small fingers around her larger ones. “We will find the things we need, and we will take our lessons outside in the sunshine today.”

Her mood lightened as he gave her a shy smile and then pulled ahead to lead the way. Still, she felt disconcerted by the child's revelations, wary of things unspoken.

Moments later, Emma and Nicky settled on the grass, having gathered all they needed from the nursery along with a blanket from a sullen-eyed upstairs maid who bobbed a curtsy but hurried off before Emma could ask her name.

One hour spun into the second and the third, and the morning fled past. Nicky was bright and sweet, soaking up everything she offered, and then asking for more. She had hoped he could count to twenty, but she quickly found he could go even further, treating the lesson like a game. Emma was pleased that he seemed to so enjoy learning, and again she wondered at his experiences with his previous governesses. With the resiliency of childhood, he had quickly left behind his initial reticence, and now embraced her company with obvious affection.

Emma found that she, too, could forget some of her initial apprehension of the previous night, and for this morning at least, Manorbrier seemed fine indeed. In the bright light of day, she could see tiny flowers poking through the chinks in the ancient wall. The stone of the manor house glowed a soft, warm gray and the many windows glinted in the sun. A gentle breeze drifted past, carrying the subtle scent of roses from the garden. Even the grass beneath her was soft and inviting.

Lessons complete, Emma and Nicky flopped on their backs to study the great blue expanse of sky.

“A sheep. That one is a sheep, Miss Emma.” Nicky poked his finger at a fluffy cloud directly overhead. Emma thought it looked more like a rabbit with floppy ears, but she allowed Nicky to take the lead.

“That one looks like a fancy carriage, with four horses in front,” she said.

“And that one looks like a fox.” Lord Anthony’s deep voice joined their banter.

“I did not hear you approach, my lord,” she said, pressing one hand to her chest as her gaze met his. His eyes were a deep, rich green, bright against the frame of black lashes. The most stunning eyes she had ever seen.

Unnerved by such personal and inappropriate thoughts, Emma recalled herself and scrambled awkwardly to her knees. She made to rise, acutely aware of her disheveled state and unladylike pose, aware, too, of the lure of her beautiful, dangerous employer. Lord Anthony motioned her to remain where she was.

“Papa!” Nicky cried. His eager gaze scanned the heavens. “That cloud there with the bushy tail? You think it looks like a fox?”

“I do.” Lord Anthony smiled at his son. He wore no coat and the white cloth of his shirt outlined the breadth of his shoulders. His sleeves were rolled back, revealing strong forearms defined by ridged muscle. Emma wet her lips, wondering that he walked about like this, so uncaring of convention and formality. Wondering if his skin would be warm to her touch, his muscle solid and hard.

He turned his head and caught her staring at him. Emma’s heart gave a hard thud, and she dropped her gaze, a flush of embarrassment heating her cheeks. Dear heaven, what was wrong with her that she thought such unsuitable things and stammered and blushed each time this man drew near? Her life had been neither sheltered nor protected. She knew much of the truths between man and woman, though she had never experienced such for herself. She was no schoolgirl caught in the throes of childish infatuation. Yet never before had she felt this restless unease, this fascination. There was something unsettling about Anthony Craven, something dangerous. Even the briefest encounter left her breathless, with her thoughts in turmoil.

“A fox, Papa?” Nicky squirmed on the blanket, twisting his head this way and that as he searched out the shape in the clouds. “Are you certain? That one there? Looks like a big, fat toad to me.”

Emma laughed, and when she glanced up, Lord Anthony was still watching her, his eyes hooded.

The hard line of his lips curved in a small smile as he reached down to ruffle his son’s hair, and Emma found herself wishing she could see him smile in truth, unfettered, hear him laugh without restraint. “A toad it is, Nicholas mine.”

“Stay with us, Papa,” Nicky pleaded, his eyes sparkling.

Emma watched the easy affection between father and son and felt her perceptions tilt off kilter once more. This was a child who loved his father. Felt safe with him. Secure.

How, then, to explain Mrs. Winter and her dreadful switch? Had Lord Anthony condoned such treatment as so many of the Quality were wont to do? Yet he had forbidden Emma to so much as raise her voice to his son. She could not imagine he had condoned a whipping as just punishment.

Shaking his head, Lord Anthony said, “Not today, Nicky. I have business that will not wait. But tomorrow I shall take you to the paddock.” He turned his gaze on Emma, his perusal intent, and she had the sudden insight that he had not stumbled upon them by accident. He had been watching her at her duties, assessing her.

“Please continue,” he said softly, gesturing to the blanket. “I did not wish to intrude on such lofty study.”

She could have read his words as condemnation, but something in his eyes made her think he approved of her methods.

“Miss Parrish.” He inclined his head in farewell.

“Lord Anthony,” she replied, feeling awkward as she continued to kneel before him on the grass. He turned and strode away, his lithe muscled form moving with perfect grace.

Heart thudding in her breast, she faced the disturbing and disconcerting truth.

A large part of her was relieved to see him go.

A tiny part of her wished he had chosen to stay.

CHAPTER THREE

“I think, Master Nicholas, that we deserve ice cream as a treat,” Emma whispered conspiratorially to Nicky as they sat in the nursery some days later. Her heart swelled as Nicky's eyes widened with glee. His smiles brought her untold joy, and his laughter was like the finest piano concerto playing across her soul.
I will make a difference in this child's life
, she had vowed, and she had begun to fulfill that solemn promise to herself.

“Oh, Miss Emma! Ice cream? Truly?” Nicky ran his sentences together, bouncing up and down in his seat. Each bounce jarred the cadence of his speech, making him sound as though he were sitting in a wagon on a very bumpy road, rather than at the small desk in the nursery.

“It is not every day that a boy can print each word on his spelling list without a single mistake,” she pointed out.

“So I suppose I do deserve ice cream,” Nicky agreed. “But Cookie will be cross when we tell her. She says that it is too much fuss and bother, and she will only prepare it for very special occasions.”