The Princess and the Pauper (13 page)

The bedroom d
oor rolled on its hinges, and
Harry poked his head inside the room. He looked behind the door,
then scanned the rest of the space.

“
She isn’t here,” said
Grey.

“
Jolly good.” His friend entered
the room and joined him at the fireside. “I didn’t want to
interrupt anything.”

“
Then knock. Or better yet, don’t
come round here a’tall.”

Harry settled in the opposite
chair and snorted.
“If you want privacy, lock your door.”

“
I’ll keep that in
mind.
”

Harr
y took another, more critical look
around the chamber. “You know, apart from this morning, I don’t
think I’ve ever been inside this room.”

“
Perhaps I’ve never invited
you.”

His friend
ignored the subtle suggestion he
wasn’t welcomed and continued, “It’s very . . .
artistic.”

“
In shambles, you
mean.”

And like the broken violins on
the ground, pile of childhood letters, and charred
nightstand,
Grey’s world
was
in shambles—ever since Emily had returned to it.

“
A maid might be helpful,
you know.”

“
What do you want,
Harry?”

“
Right.” He
bro
ught his
attention back to Grey—and the bottle of Martell. “A tipple might
be nice.”

Gre
y downed the remaining brandy in his
glass. “It is,” he confirmed.

Harry sighed. “Business it
is
,
then.”

“
What business?”

“
The chaos of last night,
of course.”

“
I’m sorry about what
happened with Lady Hickox.”

“
Pshaw! All affairs peter out
eventually. Mama will find herself a new beau in no time. Oh,
sorry, old chap. I didn’t mean to suggest you were
disposable.”

“
Not at all, Harry. I’m not
pining after her. And I sincerely hope she’s not pining after
me.”

“
Mama isn’t one to pine,
a
nd since I’m
here, cut off from her purse strings, and you’ve no furniture in
any of the bedrooms . . .”

Grey waved an assenting hand. He had to
furnish the house anyway, now that Emily was in residence. A woman
needed more than a bedroom to look after, especially his princess.
She needed a house and a household, for she’d been raised from
girlhood to rule another man’s roost.

His friend beamed. “That’s jolly
good of
you,
me old mucker. I’ll just get a few necessities. Don’t want to rob
the vault or anything, especially after you spent a pretty penny on
that filly. By Jove, she’s a looker! I’ve never seen such dark red
hair on a woman. And her eyes! As bright as fireflies. She’d lead
any man to ruin.”

“
She would, indeed.”

And Grey ha
d proof of it. His body, though
battered and bruised, still burned with the memory of her
passionate kiss. Even now, he tasted her, sensed the pressure of
her mouth over his. The brandy had dulled the ache in his chest,
but it had failed to blunt the impression of her demanding
lips.

“
Not that I pity you,” from
Harry.
“She’s
a real gem, you lucky bugger.”

“
She’s not my
mistress.”

“
What’s that?”

“
I said she’s not my
mistress?”

“
Eh?”

Grey glared at him.

“
You don’t meant to say . .
.
?” Harry
trailed off, dumbfounded. “
Why
did you spend ten thousand pounds on her?”

H
e shrugged. “She and I were once
friends.”

“
You mean
lovers?”

“
I mean friends, you
blockhead.”

“
Well, why on earth would
you be friends with a woman? How do you keep a friendship with a
woman? Especially a woman with crimson hair and burning
eyes?”

“
She was in trouble, is
all. I helped her.”

“
How very noble of
you.”

“
What are you insinuating?” Grey
growled.

“
Me insinuate? Here.” He
stretched out his hand. “Pass me that bottle of Martell. I think
you’ve had too much to drink.”

Not nearly enough,
thought
Grey,
and poured himself another glass.
“I trust you’ve found an agreeable place
to sleep?”

Harry sighed again and dropped
his
empty
hand. “The divan in the study will have to do for now. But I, um,
do have another question. When will your ‘friend’ be
leaving?”

Grey
stilled. “What do you
mean?”

“
We
ll, she can’t live here with two
bachelors. I expect you’ll put her up in her own apartment. By and
by, she doesn’t look like she grew up in the streets.”

“
I
didn’t grow up in the streets.”

“
But Mama said she found
you—”

“
Forget
it,” he snapped, realizing he’d said
too much about the past.

“
Well, where did you grow
up?” wondered Harry, his brows pinched together in obvious
confusion.

Damn his
friend’s hounding tongue. Another
flurry of memories stirred inside Grey. An old shop in Clerkenwell.
An old man hunched over a table, humming, whittling violin
shells.

Grey had loved to watch his grandfather
work, more than going to school or romping about the streets
between the breweries, printing and clockmaker shops. And when, at
the age of four, he had picked up a violin for the first time and
heard the startling cries of music, he’d believed the instrument
alive and his grandfather a sorcerer.

“
It doesn’t matter where I
came from,” murmured Grey.

“
And the woman? Is she a
lady?”

“
No.
She’s not a lady. She’s—”

Grey was damn near tempted to say
“everything,” and cursed himself for resorting to childhood
monikers whenever he thought of her.

A familiar pressure welled
inside his chest. And then a beat puls
ed in his head. He would usually take a
violin and express the music, a frantic, fractured piece. Later,
he’d stitch together a composition. The process tormented him,
exhausted him. As a boy, the music had come to him without
opposition or pain. How he yearned for those lost days . . . in
more ways than one.

Grey
placed the bottle of brandy on the
table, still out of Harry’s reach, and resisted the urge to play,
for even with his bloated fingers, the desire was great.

His
expression thoughtful, Harry leaned
back in his chair. “She is a lady, isn’t she?”

Grey ignored the last bit, said
instead, “And if I don’t put her up in an apartment?”

“
Then I’m afraid you’ll have to
marry the chit because she’s
not
your friend.”

“
The hell I will,” he
grumbled.

“
Would you really ruin her? Make
her a fallen woman? It’s not your style, chum.”

Grey
rubbed his brow, unnerved that a
larker like Harry should think him so honorable. “I’ll not ruin
her.”

She was
already ruined.

“
Right, then,” said Harry.
“I know of a
splendid little flat in Haymarket.”

But the thought of sending Emily
across town, to her own damn bedroom down the hall,
knotted his innards.
She had upturned every aspect of his life. It would be better for
them both, the separation, but he couldn’t imagine being parted
from her again. Not even by a short distance.

Grey
downed what was left in his glass,
then simply said, “No.”

After a pause, Harry folded his
arms across his chest.
“You know, I resent you at times. You’ve no
imagination.”

At that
, Grey lifted a brow.

“
I’m not talking about music,”
said Harry.
“I’m talking about life. You’ve all the money in the world,
yet no imagination on how to spend it. I’ve a thousand different
ways to spend it, if it were mine.”

“
I’m sure you
do.”

“
I’m serious. I know how to
be happy.”

Grey roll
ed the empty glass in his hand, his
voice low. “And I don’t?”

He snorted. “This house. The girl. It
could all shine. And you’d be the envy of every gentleman, titled
or not. But you’d sooner live in the shadows than the light. Damn
unfair, if you ask me.”

“
I didn’t ask
you.”

“
Yes, well—”

“
Good
night, Harry.”

“
But—
”

“
I said good
night.”

“
Night, old
chum,
” he
murmured and headed for the door.

As soon as Harry
left the room, Grey
set the glass on the table, his heart and head beginning to pound.
Harry was becoming a nuisance. Emily was already a torment. He
still felt her intoxicating lips on his mouth, still yearned to
feel them again. Her kisses were dangerous, though, inspiring
promises that would never be fulfilled. He knew that. He knew he
should push her away, give her her own life so she wouldn’t break
apart his . . . but his soul ached at the thought of it.

As Harry had so
officiously
suggested, perhaps Grey didn’t know how to be happy.
Perhaps the trouble was—and always had been—the hard-to-swallow
truth. Emily was his anchor. She both steadied him
and
drowned him. And
perhaps it was time he stopped giving a damn if she took everything
from him.

Maybe then he’d be free.

~ * ~

Emily pulled the fleece wrapper
tighter around her c
hest. Her new suite of rooms were drafty. For three days,
workers had stripped paper and repapered. Soon the furniture,
drapes and rugs would be delivered. And after that, well, after
that she would have a comfortable life. Rees had promised to look
after her earthly needs, and she believed him there. She would tend
to his house, for the servants had welcomed her guidance in
domestic matters. And she would play for Rees.

Nothing more.

You will not break me
again.

She had broken him five years ago, hadn’t
she? She had broken her father. Perhaps herself. Some days she
wondered what might have been if she hadn’t been so afraid to admit
her true feelings for Rees? Papa had admired him for looking after
his grandfather’s debt. He might have admired him in other ways, if
given the chance. Or he might have killed Rees.

She sighed. She could feel nothing for
Rees and hurt him. She could love him and hurt him just as much.
She didn’t want to hurt him anymore, but no matter which way she
turned, she inevitably caused him pain.

Her
thoughts returned to the rough and
tender boy on the roof of her townhouse, playing his beautiful
lullaby, and she could almost hear the soft melody crying through
the freshly papered walls.

Wait!

Emily
raised her head and listened with
intent. It
was
music. Yes, a violin. She had not imagined it.

She approached the glass doors
and struggled with the lock and latch. At last the doors separated,
and she stepped out onto the balcony. T
he melody strengthened. She had not
heard it before and closed her eyes to better listen to the notes
tangled together with the hubbub of the city.

In a little while, the
din from horses and
carriages and pedestrians
weakened, and she heard the music alone, a
lullaby, like from long ago, that rocked the soul in comfort, but
twined with sadness—the sadness of a broken heart.

Her own heart swelled and tears
formed in her eyes, her nose, her throat. Soon she cried
a flood of tears.
Sob after sob wracked her chest and soaked her cheeks. How she
yearned for days past! A time when her father protected her and a
mysterious violinist befriended her. A time when she wasn’t so
alone.

At length, she tired from the
tears. She wiped the wetness from her face with the cuff of her
sleeve and realized the music had stopped.
There was an end to all good things,
she reflected.

She stepped
back into the room. Her eyes
lifted toward the door. A longing filled her to be with Rees. He
had rebuffed her, but he needn’t know she was there, on the roof
with him. She just wanted to be near him, to watch him play. It had
been so long since she’d seen him play.

Without another thought, she
left the bedroom and made her way to the top floor.
Having already
explored the house at her leisure, she knew where the entrance to
the roof was located. In minutes, she had climbed the winding
stairs leading to the terrace and opened the door.