To Seduce an Angel (6 page)

Ruth nodded. “Or might as well be, since no one knows their proper names. Daventry's been searching the records of all the churches and workhouses to see if he can find their parents.”

“How did he find them?”

“Collected them from the streets.”

“But he dines with them?”

“Most nights, miss. He's teaching them to be gentlemen, like him.”

“What happened to the man who stole him?”

“Died, miss, of an apoplexy, just like that. That's how Daventry escaped.”

With the word
escaped
another darker thought came to her about those scars. Whoever had taken him had not killed him but kept him in captivity. She shivered, and Ruth bustled off to find a shawl for her shoulders.

She had asked for his story, just to know the facts, but some facts, once known, could not be unknown; they became white puckers on the smooth skin of memory.

“And how old was he when his family found him?”

Ruth tucked a pale gold-and-blue shawl around Emma's shoulders. “Well, he's twenty, now, so, he must have been sixteen or thereabouts. He went back to his family, and his mamma told them the truth about her marrying a marquess and all, so they went to court to get Daventry his proper title.”

“Did his grandfather accept him then?”

“Oh no. The old dragon fought every inch of the way. He put terrible things in the papers about Daventry and his mamma, poor lady. He hates them something fierce because . . . well . . . because the poor lady was not respectable, you know. Years and years it was in the courts until the old duke lost, and they gave Daventry this house, which was his father's house.”

“And when was that, Ruth?”

“Last November it was. All his father's people who had been in service before were called back. Some came like me mum, but most were too old or too afraid.”

“Do you fear him, the old duke?”

“Don't think about him much, miss. He's as old as a Roman and far away and not like to think about such as me.” Ruth stepped back. “Now look at you, pretty as a princess.”

The words jolted Emma. She had not looked in mirrors for a long time, and no one had done her hair except when she and Tatty had put the dye in theirs.

The face reflected back at her seemed not herself, but a startlingly vivid creature, almost a woman. She looked again, taking inventory of her own features, her blue eyes, her plain straight nose that neither tipped up nor turned down, her small tight mouth, her dented chin. Perhaps all released prisoners experienced such a startling moment of self-recognition, meeting themselves face-to-face in the mirror.

If a person looked every day as the years passed, she would hardly notice her face changing. Maybe Emma noticed now simply because of the shock of the gown, poppy-and-gold muslin as bright as a sunset. The gown and shoes and shawl were lies, but at least her hair was a truth with its endless waves like an unquiet sea. If Daventry looked closely at her, he would know she was not the woman she claimed to be.

When she didn't move, Ruth gave her a bit of encouragement. “The hall's a big old pile, miss, but ye'll soon get used to it. There's a stair at the beginning and end of each wing, and a long gallery on the ground and first floors to take you from north to south. There are footmen everywhere, and someone'll help ye, sure.”

THE dining room of Daventry Hall filled the southwest corner of the ground floor. Its windows from wainscot to ceiling looked out on the approach to the house over a tree-dotted lawn that stretched down to the lazy blue stream and the arched bridge over which Emma had come.

Daventry stood at the head of a long stretch of table gleaming with silver and plate and glowing from candles.

Whoever he was, warrior angel or lost boy, he was unrecognizable in his new guise as polite host. A black ribbon at his nape neatly tamed the overlong hair, like wind-darkened wheat, which had framed his face in loose waves. Fine black wool, white linen, and silk in subtle shades of gray and gold, like his eyes and hair, concealed his limbs and his scars. Again his age eluded her in spite of Ruth's story. Though he could be no older than Emma herself, everyone in the room moved at his command. One gray-eyed look quelled his young companions, as wild as Emma thought them. Tuned to his every expression, they stood behind their green leather chairs like carved figures as servants arranged dishes on a side table. Like him they were attired as gentlemen in coats and shirts and neckcloths.

Daventry's gaze met hers, a further reminder that he was a man skilled in concealing his true nature. His story, the story Ruth had told, lay like submerged wreckage in those lake eyes of his. What the elegant clothes could not disguise was his height and breadth of shoulder and the piercing look that made him formidable. Her own disguise of borrowed gowns, false papers, and fictions seemed inadequate.

Adam Digweed, a shadowy bulk in the corner behind Daventry, made a rough-hewn contrast to the display of rich columns and intricate plasterwork.

Emma turned to the boys. They separated her from Daventry and the lurking menace of Adam Digweed. The bigger boys were ranged on one side, the smaller boys with Emma on the other. The boys' eyes, both curious and hostile, flashed in her direction. Once Daventry nodded, they sat and two footmen began to serve.

One of them set a large flat bowl of creamy soup garnished with bits of green in front of her. She wanted to run her fingers around the smooth, unchipped rim of the lovely china bowl. The silver of her spoon gleamed softly in the candlelight. But when the rich steam from the soup reached her, it stopped her hand. She no longer saw the elegant dining room. Another time and place claimed her, and she could not lift her spoon. Emma smelled jail, smelled fish and salt and the stink of the sea, heard the ceaseless rush of water over the rocks.

“It's haddock, miss.” They all looked at her. She made the effort to lift her spoon and offered a polite smile. The boys lifted theirs, poised, waiting for her to begin. She made herself dip the spoon into the bowl and couldn't continue. The fish smell choked her.

All heads turned to Daventry. He nodded, and they began to eat.

“You don't like fish soup, Miss Portland?” her host inquired. He nodded to a footman who removed her bowl. At Wenlocke in the servants' hall no one had noted the peculiarity of her taste.

She looked up, feeling Daventry's alert scrutiny in spite of the mild tone of the question. It was she who should be noticing what he ate and did not eat, not the other way about. “I don't care for it, L . . . Daventry.”

One of the boys spoke up: “I'll eat it if you won't, miss. I'm Finch. Mrs. Wardlow doesn't let us waste 'er cooking.” She remembered him, the thinnest by far of all the boys. He had an anxious look and held one hand in front of his mouth as he spoke.

“I hope I haven't offended Mrs. Wardlow.”

“Maybe you like a fried bloater better'n soup, miss. The best fish is a good bloater,” offered Robin, the rosy-cheeked boy with hair like curling straw, who had been her first questioner.

“No, thank you, Robin.”

The oldest of the boys spoke up. “Well, are we going to talk about the soup all night because she don't care for it?” He had sullen good looks with dark reddish hair, a full mouth, and knowing eyes.

Daventry turned to him. “Choose a topic, Lark.”

A boy with chubby cheeks and a mop of glossy brown hair wanted to know: “Can we ask 'er questions?”

Daventry looked at Emma. “You may ask, but she's our guest tonight, so introduce yourselves.”

“But she's not a guest, is she?” Lark immediately challenged. “If she takes your money.”

“To put up with you lot. You weren't uncivil to Hodge, so I'll thank you not to be uncivil to Miss Portland.” It was a clear command with a snap in it.

For some moments tense silence ruled the table, but as the boys continued to eat, the food seemed to restore their ease.

The next speaker had coffee brown hair that fell in a straight line across his brow. He was the one who had admitted earlier that the boys didn't read. “Beg pardon, miss, I'm Swallow. What will ye teach us?”

“Reading, mathematics, and maps.” A footman served Emma a portion of fowl. Something she could eat.

“Wot's the point of reading, miss?” The skeptic was Lark with his haughty profile and long lashes.

“To know things for yourself and not to have to depend on another person's report.” Emma could see that her answer was not what he'd expected.

“How long does it take to learn reading? We'll have to sit in the schoolroom all day, right?”

“What schoolroom hours did you keep with your previous teacher?” Emma asked.

A snort was the only reply. The hostilities had begun, and Daventry had not curbed them. It occurred to Emma that he was testing her to see if she had the experience to know how to handle her student's resistance.

 

 

AFTER the meal the big man, Adam Digweed, took the boys to play at games. Daventry led Emma to an elegant drawing room like the inside of a jewel box. Its walls, covered with gold brocade, displayed mellow-hued paintings of past lords and ladies in heavy gilt frames. The furnishings, saber-backed chairs and long settees, all silk and damask covered, were equally rich in rose and pale blue and gold. A carpet of deeper blues and reds in oriental patterns swirled underfoot.

Daventry offered her a seat on a long gold silk settee by the fire and took a seat on the opposite sofa. A footman hovered, setting out a tea tray. Emma sat as she'd first learned to sit at five or six in a room only a degree more ornate than the one around her. Her spine was straight. Her hands rested lightly in her lap. She studied her employer from under her lashes.

He arranged his cuffs over his wrists, no sign of the warrior angel in his appearance, as if the past he covered up had no hold on him now. He seemed an aloof gentleman, resigned to the task of making after-dinner conversation with an unwelcome guest. The footman left them. The silver teapot sent a fragrant vapor into the air.

“I read your papers. Tell me, were you educated at home or at a school?”

“I had a governess and later a tutor.” That was one way to describe Tatty.

“Your former employers praise your remarkable scholarly achievements for one so young.”

“I devoted hours and hours to study.” Because Tatty refused to waste a moment of their jail time. Because prisoners become experts in counting and storytelling.

“And chose to leave your family. Did they have other expectations for one so young?”

“My parents and my brother were gone. I had to provide for myself.” She looked down and found her hands clenched.

“No property remained?”

“Without a male heir it went elsewhere.”

He stood to pour her a cup of tea with an awkward carefulness of attention to the business like a man remembering the steps in a dance. Watching his studied care with the teapot, Emma remembered his easy, careless wielding of the huge sword.

When he handed her the cup and resumed his seat, he seemed almost bored, looking at her out of heavy-lidded eyes. Emma balanced the delicate cup and saucer in her palm. She wanted to tell him something shocking, something to make him really see her.
You know how it is when a foreign army invades your nation and traitors sell you to save their skins or line their pockets.

Golden clocks on the mantel suddenly tolled the quarter hour with sweet chimes, and Emma allowed herself an inward laugh. She should be glad he found her false story boring. He was not supposed to look too closely at her fictions.

He stirred himself enough to ask another question. “Tell me about your previous school. A foundling school, was it?”

“The Grimston School.” As soon as she said it, she detected a change in his expression. He remained at ease, leaning back in his chair, but the gray eyes were no longer remote, but sharply alert.

“In Grimston?”

Grimston was wrong somehow, and she did not know how, nor could she change it now. She had to carry on with the story as it came to her. She was careful neither to confirm nor deny the name of the place. “Mr. and Mrs. Robert Merton ran the school until Robert became ill, and Mrs. Merton devoted herself to his care. Naturally, she had to close the school.”

“What became of the students and the other teachers?”

“Mrs. Merton found situations for the older students. The younger ones went to orphanages.”

“And the teachers?”

“It was a small school, just myself and two others. We parted. They, too, are seeking positions.” Emma ventured to take a sip of the tea.