Chapter Three

osiah squirmed beneath Emma's perusal, straightening the lapels of his new coat, which had been delivered only this morning. The coat was perfectly-tailored, of a beautiful navy wool; a gift in advance of his upcoming interview for admission to Oxford—but it wasn't the unfamiliarity of the new coat that caused his restless shifting. It was simple nervousness.

It was something of an effort to resist the urge to smooth his hair in a gesture of affection, but he had achieved the grand age of seventeen and considered himself far too old for such things. So she settled on simple reassurance instead. "You look so wonderfully grown up, Josiah. I'm so proud of you." Still her voice had squeaked across a few octaves at the thought of losing him so soon; a sort of pain that was not unfamiliar, but that she did not want him to hear when he needed her reassurance instead.

"Thank you, ma'am." This was accompanied by a jerky bow, a bit stiff. He was Emma's oldest boy at present, though Peter was not so very far behind him. Josiah had come to her six years ago, now, after the loss of his mother. A solicitor had brought him to her door, still clothed in the somber black of mourning, and had surrendered him to her care along with a startlingly large financial contribution.

But she had learned how to manage children by then, and it had taken only a few weeks to draw him out from his shell of grief. He'd become a prize pupil in recent years, with a thirst for knowledge that eclipsed any child that had come before him.

"Josiah," she said, and settled for placing a comforting hand upon his shoulder, "I promise you, you've nothing to worry for. You'll do beautifully. Perhaps as many as ten percent of my boys show an aptitude for a formal education that would best be served by attending university—but I have never seen one rejected." And Josiah was the brightest of them all. He was going to do brilliantly; she hadn't so much as a single doubt on that account.

And she would be so very proud of him. He had grown into such an incredible young man, always ready to help with the younger children. He tutored them in mathematics and grammar as ably as did the governesses within her employ. The whole lot of them were the better for his presence.

But she couldn't keep him forever. She couldn't keep any of them forever, much as she might've liked to do so. The best she could manage was to love them while they were hers, and then to send them out into the world equipped to weather it.

Josiah fidgeted, his lips pursed around a question, his cheeks puffing with the words stuffed inside them. At last he blurted out, "Would you—would you sit with me, ma'am? For the interview? I don't know that I can do it alone."

"Yes, of course. I would be honored." Some boys preferred her company for such things, and some wished to go it alone. Whatever their wishes, she honored them.

"It's just that…ma'am, I don't see why Oxford should want me."

"Why should they not?" Emma canted her head. "Why should they not want such a bright student? Josiah, you are so diligent, so industrious—why should Oxford not want to claim a student who would be such a credit to their institution?"

"But I'm not anyone, ma'am."

"You are. Of course you are." Her fingers curled around his shoulder in what she hoped was a heartening pressure. "Oh, Josiah. You are going to be so much more than you could ever have expected."

He blinked back a wash of tears as his jaw clenched behind the tight line of his lips, and for just a moment she thought he might invite that fond hair-ruffle that had been such a staple of his youth.

But a throat cleared behind her, and she turned to see Neil there, standing in the doorway. "My lady," he said, as he held out a folded scrap of paper to her. "A message for you."

From Kit. It had to be. That was certainly his inelegant scrawl there upon the folded paper in Neil's hand. Her heart performed a strange little leap in her chest, though it was impossible to say whether it was anticipation or anxiety. Shifting just a bit to the side, she unfolded the paper, scanning the short note.

Midnight tonight. Tell your butler you're expecting company.

"I'm so sorry, Josiah, I'm afraid I have to—to attend to some urgent business," Emma prevaricated. "But we'll talk again in advance of your interview. Try not to fret too much in the meantime. You're going to do wonderfully."

"Thank you," Josiah said, his voice gone just a bit raspy. "Ma'am."

And as she turned to follow Neil, wondering how much or little she ought to tell him, she thought just a little on how very like mum the word had sounded.

∞∞∞

In the end, she had decided only to inform Neil that she was expecting a gentleman caller. It had surprised him, she thought. Probably because what little entertaining she did was limited to a few female friends—Diana and Phoebe, mostly, when Phoebe could bring herself to suffer the shrill sounds of children that tended to echo throughout the house in the daylight hours—or else the rare charity event designed to bring more attention to the plight of London's less fortunate children.

Other than Kit, whose connection to her Neil was well aware of, Emma had never entertained a man alone. But she had long been a widow, and widows were afforded significantly more freedom than were other women. Even affairs were permissible, provided they were suitably discreet about it—and provided that no illegitimate children came from such a liaison.

Another subtle stab and twist of the knife within a wound that had never healed. There would be no children, legitimate or otherwise. In all three years of her marriage, she had never conceived. Even before she had been widowed, she had come to understand the increasing likelihood that she never would. Not that her heart had wanted to accept it, as such, but that she had had to face certain facts, as unpleasant as they were. As devastating as they were.

But to truly embark upon an affair…

She swallowed down her disquiet with a sip of brandy, stilling the trembling of her fingers with the smoothing of her skirts. She hadn't known what she was meant to wear, and so she had decided on a simple lilac gown. Really, all of her gowns were simple these days, and all in such unforgiving, mournful shades. Black to purple to lavender—perhaps her early predilection for bombazine and crepe had been left in the past, but the meaning of the gowns had not.

Was it poor form to enter the arms of a potential lover whilst still clad in mourning attire for one's deceased husband? Pity there wasn't advice on this sort of thing to be found in any of the etiquette books upon which the Ton raised its ladies.

There. The hands of the clock had at last reached midnight. Whomever it was that Kit had sent to her, clearly he wasn't a punctual sort—

"My lady?"

Emma felt her shoulders pin themselves back, tension leaping up and down every muscle at the unexpected intrusion of Neil's voice, which by all rights she ought to have expected.

Neil cleared his throat. "Your caller has arrived. Mr.—"

"Rafe." And then, there he was. The man that Kit had sent to her. He was tall, with dark, close-cropped hair. A strong jaw, angular, clean-shaven—or at least as near enough to it as a man could be expected to be at this hour of the night. Dark eyes, a deep, rich brown and thickly-lashed, and a nose that looked as if it might have been broken at some point. He was well-favored, she supposed, in a bland, ordinary sort of way.

He was also a stranger. One who had been summoned to her home for the express purpose of bedding her.

She squeaked out, "Thank you, Neil. That will be all for the evening. I have everything I require."

To his credit, Neil hesitated. "You're certain?"

"I am, thank you." It came out a little steadier. Not by much, but enough that she had almost—almost—convinced herself of it.

With a little bow, Neil turned and left, and then…

And then they were alone.

A burst of chill bumps slid across the back of her neck, and Emma snatched for her glass of brandy once again, hoping the burn of the liquor would warm her. She'd meant to sip, not glug, but her own anxiety had gotten the better of her, and she muffled a cough in the palm of her hand. "I do beg your pardon, Mr.—"

"Just Rafe," he said again, as he stepped fully into the room, and closed the door behind him.

∞∞∞

"Rafe." She spoke his name with an odd sort of hesitation, as though the very sound of it was unfamiliar. Which he supposed it might well be. Probably Diana had mentioned him a time or two, but she had never had a face to put to the name, so it would have held little meaning to her. She managed a small smile, as if she were unsure of herself. Of him. "It's—a pleasure to meet you."

Probably she was experiencing a second thought or two. Or several. "And you, Lady Emmeline," Rafe said. It wasn't a lie. It was just that he had never been quite so close to her. Had never expected to be. Had never permitted himself to be. Had, in fact, taken every precaution necessary not to taint her life with his presence. He had owed her that much.

Until now. Now, it seemed, he owed her more still.

"Emma," she said, when she had sufficiently recovered from another large sip of liquor. "That is, nobody calls me Emmeline." A light tinge of pink suffused her cheeks, contrasting sharply with the few cinnamon freckles dusted across them that Rafe could see even from the distance he had maintained. And still she was so beautiful—with large, luminous eyes of a fathomless blue and a wealth of strawberry blond hair which she had bound at the nape of her neck in a simple silk ribbon.

Easy enough to remove. Much like her gown, simple as it was.

"And you are…just Rafe," she said, her long, elegant fingers curling around her glass. "I suppose surnames aren't necessary?"

He didn't wish to lie to her directly if it wasn't utterly necessary. Lies tended to compound over time, tangling upon more and more of the same until one could never be certain which lie had been told, and to whom. Better, always, to dodge a question or redirect attention lest one be caught out by a lie, trapped within one's own web of falsehoods. "Not for this," he said, taking note of the sharp angles her shoulders made, of her white-knuckled grip upon her glass. "If you would like me to leave…" He would find another way to get his hands on the journal. It would be less convenient, perhaps, but still he could do it.

"I wouldn't." She forced the words out past a long, hard swallow. "It's only—I'm quite—" A queer little sound eked from her throat; nearly a growl of frustration. "May I be frank?"

"I'd prefer it."

"I'm ten years a widow as of two days past. I've no clothing that is not fit for, at best, half-mourning attire, and I've money enough to make me the catch of the Season despite my age, did I dare attend any more than the very occasional society event. I've no desire to marry again, but—widowhood is often quite lonely." Abashed, she directed her gaze to the glass in her hand. "Loneliness wears upon a person."

For someone like her, he could imagine it must indeed. "I'm sorry for your loss," he said, risking a few steps nearer. "It must have been difficult for you." The phantom of that terrible wail of sorrow echoed in his ears even now, as if the very walls of her home had swallowed it up, parceling it back out in tiny, chilling reminders of all that he had done, the pain and the torment that he had inflicted upon her.

"Thank you," she murmured. "Yes, it was difficult."

"You had a happy marriage, then." God help him, he didn't know if he wanted her to confirm or deny it.

"Say rather a pleasant enough one," she said slowly, as if it pained her to admit. "For the most part. As pleasant as a marriage could be, when the most I could ever expect of my husband was a sort of vague fondness. Perhaps the occasional show of some manner of affection. And I think—I would like to forget that. Just for a little while."

Ah. In the arms of another man. One she did not expect to love her, one she did not want to love her. One who could not disappoint her, for she would have no expectations to disappoint.

Which was damned inconvenient, when one considered that he had been desperately in love with her for more years than he cared to count. Dangerously close to half his life.

Emma blinked back the glassy sheen that had, however briefly, slid over her eyes. "Forgive me," she said softly. "I have been unbearably rude. Would you care for a drink?"

God, yes. Perhaps a drink or two would ease the tightness of his jaw. Then again, it might also loosen his tongue. He'd never been tempted to spill secrets of state, even when three sheets to the wind. But he'd also never stood quite so close to Emma while he'd been drinking, either. At the very least, a glass would give his hands something to hold other than her. "Please," he said.

She turned toward the sideboard, set with a number of crystal liquor decanters. "Have you a preference?"

"Whatever you're having. I'll not take offense should you desire another glass. I cannot imagine this has been a comfortable evening for you thus far."

An odd, crystalline laugh sparkled from her lips. "No," she said, but there was at least a tiny shred of true mirth in it at last. "No, it hasn't. I didn't truly think it would be, you see. I'm not quite certain what I expected." Some of that wretched tightness eased from her shoulders as she poured, first into his glass, then her own again. "I mucked it all up from the start, I suppose."

She had, of course, from the very moment she'd decided to meet him somewhere other than her bedchamber. It was always best to begin as one meant to go on. He took the glass she offered with a small nod of thanks.

"I wasn't certain what sort of man Kit would send to me," she said. "He never said, of course. Out of curiosity, may I ask…what is the nature of your association with my—with Kit?"

A minor stumble; probably she was not accustomed to discussing her half-brother with just anyone. He said, "A longstanding friendship," which was also not a lie. And then, to put her at ease so that she did not feel the need to guard her tongue quite so closely: "Your brother speaks highly of you."

She gave a small start at that, as if it had surprised her that he had some awareness of the nature of her relationship to Chris. "Half-brother, I think he would say," she offered with a wan smile. "To tell the truth, I find myself surprised that he speaks of me at all."

Strange. Chris had spoken of her for years and years. In the beginning, when they had first become acquainted, he had thought it an attempt to claim a connection, however nebulous, to the aristocracy. But eventually, he had learned that Chris had simply been fond of her in his own way. By the time Emma had had her come-out, Chris had already been a powerful, dangerous figure within London's dark underworld. He'd long used his influence to keep an eye on her, prying secrets and stories from those he'd placed within his noble father's household.

Rafe had fallen hopelessly in love with the girl from those stories that Chris had shared, long before he'd ever seen her.

They'd both thought Ambrose had, too.

"I imagine he guards the nature of your relationship rather closely," Rafe said. "Possibly he suspects that were it to become common knowledge, it would not reflect well upon you." With one hand he gestured to the couch some distance away. "Will you sit?"

Belatedly she must have realized that a gentleman did not sit while a lady remained standing. "Oh. Oh, yes, of course," she said, smoothing at her skirts with quick, nervous fingers as she took a seat upon the couch. Those watchful blue eyes observed as he took the seat beside her. Not too very near; not so near that a chaperone would complain of it, if one had happened to be about. But near enough, he thought.

Near enough that he caught just a hint of the fragrance of her perfume. Lemon verbena, tart and bright. Like all the warmth of summer bloomed there in the hollow of her throat, where she must have placed the drops. A lovely contrast to the chill of winter that sat heavily over the city.

"I think," she said softly, bending her head over her glass, a lock of her vibrant hair drifting free from its ribbon and sliding down over her shoulder with the motion. "I would have preferred to weather the scandal if it had meant I might have had a brother in truth. Children shouldn't be held responsible for the circumstances of their birth."

Rafe wasn't surprised. Perhaps he ought to have been, since the aristocracy at large seemed to be eminently more comfortable pretending that the baseborn offspring of their ranks did not exist at all. But for the girl whom Chris had first described so many years ago—no. "I'd wager you've harbored more than a few by-blows within your home over the years," he said, letting his arm drape across the back of the couch they occupied.

"I couldn't begin to speculate," she said, though a tiny smile nudged at the corners of her lips. Probably, he thought, she could speculate well enough—she just wasn't uncouth enough to do so in anyone else's hearing.

"How many children have you got at present?"

"Twenty," she said, and relaxed a fraction more. "Do you know, nobody has ever asked me that."

"Truly? It seems the sort of question one ought to ask." But then, Rafe had the sneaking suspicion that no one cared about the children quite as much as Emma did. She had established her home as a charitable organization of sorts, and there were always those willing to contribute monetarily.

But they did not wish to be troubled with the minutia of Emma's works, nor with the details of rearing children that they considered to be beneath them. The scratching out of a bank draft was the work of a moment, while Emma—Emma spent the vast majority of her time caring for the children she had taken in. Teaching them. Nurturing them. Loving them.

"They don't, however," Emma said, and there was just the slightest tinge of regret to the words. "I am fortunate to count many members of the aristocracy as…patrons of a sort," she allowed. "Even the King himself has generously contributed to the care and keeping of the children. But for most, I expect, it is simply something to which they do not give much thought. Charity for charity's sake alone." It comforted her somewhat, he realized, to speak of this area of her life, the one to which she had dedicated herself so thoroughly. At the very least it had driven away the bulk of the restlessness, the anxiousness which had plagued her. Her spine had softened, fitting itself to the back of the couch, and her shoulder rested but an inch or so from the very tips of his fingers.

And this was, after all, meant to be a seduction of sorts. A guaranteed one, but a seduction nonetheless.

"Which are your favorites?" he asked. "The boys? The girls?"

That dark blue gaze sheared to his, and she blinked as if she had not quite understood the question. "They are all my favorites," she said. "Every child. Every one."

"But there have been so many."

"Yes," she said. "One hundred and seven, to be precise. And I recall them all; every child who has passed through my doors. Every child who has stayed with me, however long their residence, has been loved. They are all my favorites." Her fingers fluttered in a tiny gesture toward the closed door. "Neil was the very first."

Rafe had thought there had been something vaguely familiar about the man. But it had been damned near ten years since that night, and the child he and Chris had delivered to her had grown into a man in the intervening years. Probably the man had not recognized him—though he doubted it would present much of a problem if he had. Emma knew already that he and Chris shared some manner of acquaintanceship, even if he'd been vague on the details thereof. He said, "I thought he was a bit young for a butler."

"He is," she said. "Two and twenty, or thereabouts. But I doubt you could find finer in the whole of England." She drained the last of her glass and gave a little shrug of her shoulders as she set it aside, as if embarrassed. "My apologies," she said with a small, rueful smile. "I suppose I've quite forgotten what polite conversation is meant to be."

"Don't apologize. I've enjoyed listening." He'd have enjoyed only the sound of her voice; sweet, clear, soft. Probably she'd acquired that tender tone through comforting countless children, patching up skinned knees and drying tears and perhaps even issuing gentle reprimands for mild infractions. But he had never been close enough to her to hear it before.

Emma lowered her gaze to her hands, which she had folded properly in her lap. "However, you did not come for conversation."

Rather, it wasn't conversation that she desired of him. And still, whatever scraps of honor to which he might have laid claim compelled him to once again offer her an easy escape: "You can still change your mind."

That vibrant skein of hair bound in ribbon slid across her back as she shook her head. "No, I think—I think now it will not be quite so awkward as I expected. Thank you," she said, in that same soft, gentle voice, "for being so very patient with me. I think Kit did send the right man, after all."

Yes. And for that—and so many other things—Rafe had likely earned a spot right next to Chris in Hell.