The Princess and the Pauper (18 page)

He pitched the cheroot into the grass and
started for the house. An iron lattice, secured to the brownstone
walls, served as a ladder, and he scaled the ironworks. When he
reached the balcony, he climbed over the rail and went straight for
the doors. Already unlocked, he pulled them apart and entered the
chamber.

“
What are you doing in here?” she
demanded
, her
eyes flashing. “Get out!”

He
headed toward her, his pulse pounding.
“It’s my house.”

“
It’s my room.”
She backed away from
him, bumping into the vanity. “And I did
not
invite you.”

His fingers
twitched to hold her, shuddered
with the need, and he fisted his hands to keep them at his sides.
“How long are you going to avoid me?”

“
Until judgment day, I
suppose.”

“
I am not your
enemy.”

“
I don’t know who you are
anymore.”

“
Are you really torn between
friend or foe? I did
not
kill your father.”

“
I know,” she shot back before
her gaze dropped. Her voice dropped, as well. “I still don’t trust
you.”

Some of the tension in his muscles eased.
At least she didn’t believe him the murderer. There was hope,
then.

Unclenching his fingers, he
gently
nudged
her chin upward with his knuckle. “Why don’t you trust
me?”

But she turned her face away, refusing to
look at him. “You promised not to investigate Papa’s
death.”

He expected as much. “I’m not sorry for
that, princess.”

“
You broke your word. How
can I ever trust you?”

His blood simmered
at the crack in her
voice, and he seized her cheeks, bringing her guarded gaze back to
him. “How could
I let the matter rest?” he countered. “I knew your father
had not died from madness, and I knew you had not caused his
madness. How could I let you feel the guilt of it, the pain of
it?”

Her lips trembled.

“
I know I made everything worse,
but I did
not
intend to hurt you. Don’t push me away, Emily. You don’t
have to be alone.”

She took in a sharp breath, her wide brown
eyes filling with tears. “I would rather be alone than live in
constant fear you might hurt me again.” And shoving his hands
aside, she walked toward the bed alcove.

Grey remained rooted to the
spot, unable to move, to b
reathe. Her bitter conviction disarmed him as
nothing else had, not even the moment she’d denied him five years
ago. Whereas her betrayal then had been borne of fear, her
calculated rejection of him now hurled him into an even grimmer
hell.

Slowly he turned around and found her
seated on the edge of the bed, her features composed,
spiritless.

The creeping hand of despair reached for
his throat. “Emily—”

“
Leave. Please.”

His
legs weakened. He girded his muscles
and hastened toward the door before he lost all his strength. “I’ve
an interview with your former butler in the morning. Nine sharp.
Come to the study.” Hand on the latch, he offered in a detached
voice, “I won’t trouble you again, princess.”

And h
e left the room, heart in his
belly.

~ * ~

Grey felt like shit.
His head throbbed.
His muscles ached. He had lazed the night in his armchair, downing
a bottle of Martel, but still her merciless remark haunted him . .
.
I would
rather be alone than live in constant fear you might hurt me
again.

As her words sliced ever deeper into
his soul, he cursed himself for being a ruddy fool and taking her
back into his heart.

He
snorted. Had he really ever closed his
heart to Emily? In the five years they had been apart, had he ever
stopped loving her?

Never. H
e had never stopped loving her. From
the moment he’d recognized her on the stage of the gentlemen’s
club, he’d trembled with that love, even if he’d denied it then.
But he should have known, with so many defeats in the past, he and
Emily were never destined to share a life together. He had changed.
Her world had changed. But their love had remained the
same—impossible.

His head lolled to the side. He narrowed
his bloodshot eyes on the clock. A quarter to nine, maybe. The
dials pulled in and out of focus.

His bond with Emily had been
reduced to a single thread—the search for her father’s killer. And
once the hunt was over
and that thread snapped, he’d return to the
Continent. Or go to America, perhaps. He’d leave Emily the house
and forget he ever reunited with her.

He doubted such a feat was
possible.

Pushing out of the armchair,
Grey
slogged
toward the study. He opened the door and found Harry seated behind
the desk, pen in hand. His heart dropped again. He had hoped to
find Emily waiting inside the room. And again he rebuked himself
for being an ass. Of course she wouldn’t be there a minute before
nine. Of course she wouldn’t come and spend any more time with him
than necessary. She loathed him.

“
Good morning, old chum.”
Harry cleared his throat. “I was just, um, organizing your
letters.”

Grey stepped deeper
into the room,
ignoring the stabbing pain in his breast. He absently examined the
envelopes he’d previously dumped onto the floor, now sorted into
three piles. “Why?” His head still pounded with drink, and he
hadn’t the lucidity to comprehend what his skiver-of-a-houseguest
was doing.

Harry colore
d and shifted from side to side
as if his arse hurt. “I thought I would be helpful.”

As Harry helped himself alone,
Grey frowned at the
obvious clanker. He looked more closely at the piles of
letters, thumbed through them, and noticed one stack was from
creditors, another from renowned concert halls, and the third
contained invitations to balls and other parties. It was the third
pile Harry seemed most interested in, for he’d opened every
letter.

Grey lifted his
cloudy gaze and
centered it on Harry. “What exactly are you doing?”

His
sheepish friend tapped the pen on the
desk. “I undertook the task of responding to your many invitations.
I know you’ve not the time or interest for them.”

“
I see” he drawled, then reached
over the desk. His musical fingers light, even in his inebriated
state, Grey outmatched Harry’s reflexes and snatched the
correspondence.

Harry’s
features turned grim.

As Grey skimmed the handwritten
lines, his brow furrowed. He read a portion of the dispatch aloud:
“
As I am
otherwise engaged, I regretfully decline the generous invitation to
supper, however, if it pleases your lordship, I will send my
delegate and closest friend in my stead.
”

Harry shrugged.
“
It’s
tiresome being alone in this empty house. If you’re not going to
attend any of the parties, why shouldn’t I?”

The word “alone” triggered an unwelcome
pressure on his chest, and Grey tossed the letter back onto the
desk. “I don’t care if you impersonate me, Harry. Go to as many
parties as you like.”

His eyes brightened. “Thank you, old
chum. That’s mighty good of you.”

“
Not a
’tall. And after you’ve replied to
every social invitation—” he waved his fingers over the remaining,
untouched piles “—you’ll respond to the rest of the
mail.”

“
What’s that?”

“
You’re my new secretary, Harry.
So long as you live under my roof, you’ll look after the
entertaining and dull correspondences alike.”

“
But I—”

“
Thank you for being so
helpful.”

Harry closed his lips,
then
sighed
through his nose. “Right, old chum.”

A knock at the door.

“
Come,” said
Grey.

H
is butler, Furze, entered the room. “A Mr.
Pearson is here. He claims a nine o’clock appointment with you,
sir.”

Grey
glanced at the clock. Five minutes to
nine. “Show him in, please.”

“
Will there be anything
else, sir?”

“
No, thank you,
Furze
. Enjoy
your day off.”

With a
bow, Furze left the room.

As it
was Sunday, a traditional holiday for
servants, Grey had invited Pearson to the house. Well, his “hound”
had issued the invitation, making it a summons. The priggish
Pearson might have declined the meeting, otherwise. And Grey
couldn’t risk his refusal. He needed as much information as
possible before approaching the police. If the investigation was
bungled in any way, and the killer eluded justice, Emily would
remain tethered to her guilt, in agony. Forever.

Grey walked toward the window.
The light burned his sensitive eyes, but he refused to
turn away, letting
the sharp pain skewer right into his brain. He had tried coaxing
Emily from her nightmare, but she’d resisted his outstretched hand.
She would hold fast to her misery, even if it destroyed her. And he
couldn’t bear to watch her fall. He would see her father’s killer
hanged for her sake, and hers alone. It would bring her some
measure of peace, he hoped, for he, clearly, had none to offer
her.

The door opened
again.

“
Thank you for coming, Mr.
Pearson,” said Grey, maintaining his position beside the window. He
didn’t even look over his shoulder to confirm Pearson had entered
the room. He just knew it wasn’t Emily. “Harry, fetch us some
tea.”

“
Tea?”

“
Yes, tea,” confirmed Grey.
“Be a good chap, will you?”

After a moment of cold silence,
a
surly “Of
course,
sir
”
was bit out, and Harry stalked away, slamming the door behind
him.

Grey grimaced. He waited for the spasms in
his head to subside before turning to confront his former
overseer.

As
soon as the colorful spots cleared from
his vision, he found a portly old man holding a pompous,
beaver-felt hat. Pearson had a large head with bushy curls. His
white brows, just as bushy, pinched together as he surveyed the
study in critical fashion.

He had not changed
in five years,
thought Grey.

“
Have a seat, Mr.
Pearson.”

“
No, I shan’t stay long.
What is the meaning
of this . . . this . . . ?”

“
I
nterview. At the behest of Miss
Wright.”

Pearson’s
flushed cheeks turned an even
ruddier shade. “And what have
you
to do with Miss Wright?”

No, the old man had
not changed a’tall.
To him, Grey was still a serving boy, a ‘chimney sweep,’ and now,
as then, his daring to reach for Miss Wright was beyond the
pale.

The door
suddenly opened.

Grey lost his bearing as Emily
gracefully entered the room. She was dressed ever the same in a
simple day dress, her crimson hair pulled back in a knot, but she
looked lovelier than a real princess covered in jewels and satin.
She held her poise like a real princess, too. He already knew the
breadth of her spirit and the depth of her love for her father, and
now he knew the measure of her strength as she approached Pearson
with firm resolve, revealing none of her
bitter heartache.

“
Good morning, Mr.
Pearson.” She
extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. Thank you for
coming.”

Pearson
appeared discomfited about taking the
hand of his former mistress, but it would have been rude to remain
unmoving, so he reluctantly accepted the greeting. He offered a
short bow, too, as was his usual custom, then glared at Grey with
pure condemnation.

But his censure was
misplaced,
thought Grey, for though it appeared he’d taken advantage
of Emily’s plight by keeping her under his roof,
he
was the servant
here, not Emily.

As ever.

“
Will you sit with me,
Pearson?”

“
No, thank you,
Miss.”

With a flounce, Emily settled on
the
divan,
keeping both men at attention.

“
Pearson, I would like to ask you
a few questions about my father.”

“
If I can be of service, I’m
honored, Miss.”

“
Thank you
.”

She folded her hands in her
lap
, demure
and prim, so unlike her true nature. And that Grey
knew
her true nature so
well made their separation all the more intolerable. She was an
indelible part of him.