Luck Is No Lady (18 page)

Emma did not see Roderick at all on Monday. Nor did she see him the next day or all of that week.

She reminded herself this was not unusual. She often went days without encountering him. There was no reason to think he might be avoiding her.

Still, a hard lump of disappointment lodged in her awareness.

She wanted to see him. If only to assure herself they could still be friends, as he had said.

Part of her feared that was not the case. Something had drastically shifted in their relationship. Something had shifted in her.

Since their night in the garden, she felt as though she had been bound by a winding cloth that constricted her lungs and limited the movement of her limbs. She felt as though she didn't fit anymore in her own skin. Her clothing felt too tight, her very manner too restrictive.

She tried her best to continue along with her work as though nothing had happened, pretending to the world and to herself that she hadn't been infinitely changed by her experience with Roderick.

At the end of the week, she came across an issue in her review of the club's accounts. After she triple-checked her calculations, there was no denying a discrepancy existed; the first evidence of Goodwin's perfidy.

Roderick had told her to advise him immediately upon discovering anything out of the ordinary. So at the end of the day, she scooped up the ledger and her notations and headed to his office. The doors were closed as they had been that morning when she arrived. She stood in the hall, undecided.

She straightened her spine and gathered her composure. She was a practical woman. The accounts had nothing at all to do with what had happened in the Lovells' garden. She could keep the two issues completely separate. There was no reason to feel such a fluttering in her belly.

She shifted the ledger to her hip and lifted her hand to knock on the door.

“He is not here.”

Emma jumped and turned to see Bishop leaning against the wall several paces down the hallway. He was dressed in his footman's garb and the amused gleam in his eyes gave her the impression he had been standing there watching her for quite a while.

“Excuse me?”

“Mr. Bentley is gone. He left London Sunday morning.”

He had been gone for nearly a full week, having left the day after the Lovells' party…and their interlude in the garden. The realization caused a tightening in her chest. She ignored it as she turned toward the footman. “Do you know when he is expected to return?”

Bishop shrugged. “Can't say. He's inspecting investment opportunities. Sometimes it takes weeks. Depends how far he had to travel.”

“I see.” Emma looked down at the ledger stuffed with loose sheets showing her work and itemizing what she had found. For a moment, she considered returning the books to her own room, but tomorrow was Sunday. If Roderick should return tonight or even tomorrow, he might want the opportunity to review what she had found.

Looking back at the footman, she tilted her head and gave a small smile. “I would like to leave this for Mr. Bentley in case he returns before Monday. Shall I put it in his office?”

The footman shrugged again in a way only young men could do without looking completely disrespectful. “Do what you like, miss. The door is never locked.” Then he pushed away from the wall and turned to saunter back down the hall, whistling between his teeth as he went.

After a moment, Emma lifted her hand to turn the doorknob. The door opened silently and she entered the office. The room was still and quiet without Bentley seated behind the large desk, but a hint of his scent hovered in the air. Feeling a pull at her center, Emma breathed deeply and forged ahead. She placed the ledger on his desk and withdrew a page of her notes. Taking an extra moment, she wrote a hasty message directing him to the pertinent pages of the ledger and her evaluation of the data, advising that she would delve more deeply into an analysis of the information when she returned to the office on Monday.

Setting the note on top of the ledger, she pushed the book into the center of the desk, then quickly made her exit. As she walked back toward her office to gather her personal things before leaving for the day, she acknowledged her frustration.

She was being ridiculous.

If she were smart, she would take her day off tomorrow to force the issue into proper perspective. Her virtue was intact. No real harm had been done. He had made certain of that.

By the time Roderick returned to London, she would have the whole incident firmly resolved in her mind and they could resume their professional relationship as though nothing had happened.

It was a good plan.

Besides, she had far more pressing issues to worry about than her confusing relationship with Mr. Bentley. Hale's last missive continued to weigh heavily on her mind. He still intended to obtain repayment of her father's loan. Emma just hadn't the slightest idea how that was going to be possible.

And if it wasn't possible…what would Hale do?

* * *

That night the Chadwicks headed for a grand ball hosted by Lady Griffith. It was expected to be an extremely extravagant event. Every year, Lady Griffith was determined to have the most talked-about party of the Season. Several hundred people had been invited, and the dancing would likely go on well into the morning hours.

On the drive over, Emma noticed something about her sisters that made her uneasy.

With the schedule she had been keeping at the club and the many events they all attended in a never-ending cycle, it had been difficult for Emma to spend much valuable time with Portia and Lily. She could not remember the last time they had all engaged in a really good talk.

In the years after their mother's death, when their father had most often gone out in the evenings, she and her sisters would spend hours discussing various topics. Emma didn't realize how much had changed over the last few weeks until they sat in the carriage together, making the thirty-minute drive to the Griffith mansion in silence.

Emma sat beside Angelique, facing her sisters, who were both determined to keep their gazes trained out the windows. As an intentional deterrent from conversation?

Emma suspected so.

The Season was wearing on all of them.

Even for Emma, the passing of ladies and gentlemen in their finery blended together in an endless flow of elegantly embroidered silks, satins, and lace. The small talk which was so vital at the start of the Season as introductions were made and acquaintances established had grown tiresome and rehearsed. The facade was sliding away.

Though perhaps it was more accurate to say Emma's perspective had shifted. Life within the
ton
had not maintained the same appeal she had envisioned when she decided to see her sisters married.

Anxiety and an uncharacteristic doubt sat heavily in her stomach. She studied the two younger Chadwicks in the changeable light of the carriage as they passed between street lamps.

Portia was in an obvious sulk. Emma recognized the sullen mood in the girl's slightly hunched shoulders and the way her black-winged brows curled low over her eyes in a thoughtful frown. Portia had been rather disappointed in her debut Season from the start, and it seemed things were not getting any better. Emma had hoped her sister would find the experience to be an exciting adventure.

Judging by the girl's often morose attitude over the last couple of months, that did not appear to be the case.

And then there was Lily. Usually the first to notice when Portia was getting into a mood, she was often the only person able to shift her sister's perspective. But tonight, she didn't even seem to notice anything amiss. Lily's focus was turned so far inward, Emma wondered if she even recalled where they were going.

Possibly as disturbed by the odd silence filling the carriage as Emma was, Angelique started telling one of her fantastical tales about a party she had once gone to at a Russian tsar's palace. Emma was forced to shift her attention out of politeness to her great-aunt, since it seemed neither of her sisters had any interest in joining the conversation. Even when Angelique's story entered into some risqué descriptions, Lily and Portia remained uninterested.

Upon arrival at the Griffiths' mansion, Portia appeared determined to avoid interaction with her potential suitors. She spent the next several hours doing her best to waste her time with the irreverent Lord Epping and his set. Emma was annoyed with the girl's rebellion, but it was Lily who provided the greatest cause for concern that night.

It occurred well into the evening, while Lily was gathered with a group of other young ladies not far from where Emma stood. The girls were all giggling and leaning close to whisper confidences and share secrets. Emma noticed her sister still carried an uncharacteristic air of distraction. As the girls around her erupted in laughter at something one of them said, Lily only smiled absentmindedly as she cast her gaze out over the surrounding crowd.

And then Lily tensed, her attention forcefully ensnared.

Emma followed her sister's gaze and immediately saw the dark and somber figure of Lord Harte making his way along the edge of the ballroom. Moving through the crowd, but not a part of it. His stride was long and confident, his posture painfully rigid, and the angle of his head disdainful, though his attention seemed to be focused inwardly rather than on anything around him.

The few times Emma had seen Lord Harte out in society, she had wondered why the man bothered. His demeanor was so stony it was nearly hostile. He did not seem the type to cultivate friendship, yet he was often sought out by other gentlemen. Perhaps it was the air of aristocratic command that drew others to him. Emma couldn't be sure. Regardless, he certainly did not appear particularly to enjoy socializing.

As she watched him, he lifted his gaze and noticed the group of young ladies ahead of him. His shoulders stiffened and a look of irritation crossed his face.

Then his visage darkened even more. For a moment, he looked almost angry.

He stopped his progression and stood for a long moment, completely unmoving. Then he turned in place and disappeared through the crowd in another direction.

Emma frowned at the offensive maneuver and looked back toward Lily.

The young ladies around her seemed oblivious to Harte's insult. But not Lily, who stood with a painfully stiff posture, her hands fisted in her skirts, still staring at the place where the angry lord had stood.

Emma's anxiety peaked with painful sympathy. Part of her wanted to walk over to her sister and wrap her arm around her, but another part of her told her to remain where she was, biting her lip with concern.

Lily was nearly as adept as Emma at concealing her deeper emotions. Emma could only hope she had misread the longing she had seen in her sister's gaze.

Mason Hale knew he created an intimidating sight as he strode down the dimly lit street at the gritty edge of Covent Garden. He did it on purpose.

His glowering stare and exceptional size dissuaded most from approaching him, but there were the occasional fools and reckless thrill seekers who knew of Hale's reputation in the bare-knuckle boxing ring and somehow thought challenging him was a good way to prove themselves.

Those fools fell heavily under his fists.

Hale never sought violence, but violence had a way of finding him anyway. He had accepted it long ago and found a way to capitalize on it. His ability to exploit circumstances for his own financial gain was just as strong as, if not stronger than, his right hook.

He turned down a narrow side street where anonymous bodies rutted in shadows as the desperate molls who walked the streets sold a quick tup to anyone with the right coin.

He clenched his teeth against the anger that had filled him since he learned Molly had relocated to this part of town.

Approaching a dark brick building, he took the steps two at a time to the front door. The building looked dark and uninhabited, courtesy of the thick, drawn curtains covering the narrow windows. Hale wasn't fooled and entered without knocking. Inside, dim candlelight spread throughout the lower rooms.

The man guarding the door lunged forward, throwing a thick arm out to stop his progress. Hale sent him a deathly glare, and the flash man showed a rare bit of intelligence and stepped back again. Hale continued into the common rooms, stalking the shadows for a glimpse of pale-colored hair.

Couples, threesomes, or more, lounged about in various degrees of carnal activity. They eyed his passing warily but did not interrupt their games. This was not an establishment that provided privacy or discretion. Tricks were turned anywhere there was space—sofas, chairs, against the wall. All the better to keep the clientele moving along to make room for the next round.

Having spent his life in the gin alleys and back rooms of London, Hale had witnessed far worse in his twenty-eight years.

Hale finished his tour of the ground floor and caught no sight of Molly. A cold panic ran through his veins. His sister claimed to have heard some disturbing things. He hoped most of it was false, but a sick feeling in his gut told him to expect the worst.

Circling back around, he headed up the narrow stairway, intending to open every closed door if necessary.

Just as he got to the top of the stairs, he saw her. She was exiting a room and hadn't seen him yet. On feet far swifter than most expected for a man his size, he swept down the hall and grasped her arm. Her gasp of surprise deteriorated into a whimper as he shoved her back into the room she had just vacated.

Gratefully, it was empty save for a bed, no larger than a cot, covered in stained and rumpled blankets. He shut the door behind him, locking them in with the scent of stale sex, sweat, and the sickening sweetness of opium smoke.

“What are you doing? You've no right.” Molly twisted her arm violently from his grip, nearly sending herself sprawling when she lost her balance.

He grasped her arm harder to keep her upright, knowing his grip would likely cause her bruising, and not particularly caring at the moment.

“I've got every bloody right, damn it,” he growled through clenched teeth. “What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were going to go back to my sister's.”

“Your precious sister wouldn't have me.” She twisted her arm again and this time he released her.

She took a few stumbling steps toward the bed and sat down. She was barely clad in a gown that had been trimmed back on the hem and bodice until little was left to cover her body. Her pale blond hair, which had once given her the look of an angel, was twisted into a messy knot atop her head with limp strands falling over her crystal-blue eyes. Those eyes were glossy, unfocused, and dragged down by dark circles as she looked up at him with a mixture of anger and wariness.

He was glad for the fear. People were much easier to manage when they feared what he might do.

“She'd take you if you left off the opium.”

Molly snorted in derision as her gaze rolled unnaturally about the room.

It was worse than he had thought. Molly was lost. But she wasn't his main concern.

He took a menacing step forward. “Where is she?”

“Not here,” she replied with a sneer, pushing the dirty strands of hair out of her face.

He crossed his arms over his wide chest, fighting the nausea in his gut. “If she were, I would likely kill you. Where is she?”

“I've got a friend watching her.”

“Tell me where,” he growled, fury rising at her evasion.

Molly's blue eyes lifted to him then and he saw a hardness there like cold flint. He could practically see the calculating thoughts tripping over themselves in her wasted mind. A chill raced down the back of his neck.

“I need money.”

“Of course you do,” he said coldly. “How much this time?”

Back when he had spent his waking hours trading blows in the ring, he would get a feeling just before a particularly hard hit. A swift drop in his stomach that told him to brace for the punch. He had that feeling now as his former lover licked her dry lips before speaking.

“Do you really want to help me, Mason?” she asked in a quiet voice. “Would you give me enough to get out of here? Find some real work?”

“You know I would.” He would do whatever it took. “I've told you to come stay with me.”

She shook her head. “Suzanne knows of a place we could rent together, near the milliners' shops. I could get some work there. I used to know about such things.” She waved a hand through the air. “A lifetime ago, it seems.”

“It would be better to get out of town altogether. I could get you a place in Devonshire.”

She laughed. It was a shaky, unsteady sound. “I am not going back there, Mason. Not ever. God, what would I do in the barren wilds back home? No. I am staying in London, but you can still help me.”

“I will do whatever I can. Now tell me where she is. I have to see her.” He struggled with the hard knot in his throat.

Molly's face hardened again, her glassy eyes frigid. “You can see your daughter when you bring me the money to get out of this hellhole.”