The Princess and the Pauper Page 5

  Her body tensed, but she went over to the bed and sat down.

  “No!” he snapped, rougher than he’d meant, but he’d been alarmed by her choice of the bed, that she’d assumed he’d ravish her. He wouldn’t even kiss her on the mouth—their last kiss had almost destroyed him.

  He grabbed a high chair with a round backrest and no armrests. “Sit.”

  Her brows puckered, but she obeyed and moved to the chair. When she hesitated, he placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her down into the seat.

  The heat from her flushed skin very nearly scorched his fingers, and he jerked his hands away. Her lavender scent rose up to seduce him, wrapped around him even as he stepped away and retrieved one of the many violins.

  He handed her the instrument. An edge in his voice, he said, “Play.”

  She eyed him, puzzled.

  “Play for me.”

  At length, she took the violin.

  Grey turned down the gas lamps until a soft glow remained in the room, then settled in an upholstered winged chair, facing her.

  She held the instrument for a time as if unsure what to do with it. Had she forgotten how to play? But soon she lifted the violin to her chin.

  When bow connected with string, the sound that came forth set off a storm in his soul. She had not forgotten how to play, the opposite in truth, the music more powerful than he remembered. And as more notes followed and a melody formed, he was wracked with pain and sorrow and anger. Loss, too. The loss of his grandfather. The loss of her.

  The loss of himself.

  CHAPTER 4

  Emily slowly opened her eyes and looked through the window at the grey morning light. She smiled as her hazy vision cleared and hugged the crisp white pillow. How she loved to sleep and dream. But Papa would expect her for breakfast so she sighed and pushed off the comfortable bed.

  Her chemise, twisted around her legs, fluttered to the ground. She walked over to the large window, almost as tall as herself, and gazed out at the industrious city, every rooftop piping smoke. Her hands went to her arms and she rubbed them, shrinking the gooseflesh, wondering where she had left her robe.

  As she turned around, she noticed a figure in a chair and started. The man was slouched in the seat, his shirt half opened, his unruly locks tousled across his brow. Dark eyes watched her with sharp focus, and her smile faded away.

  “Rees.”

  Her world turned on its ear and she remembered everything—that Papa was not waiting for her in the morning room, that Papa was dead, and Rees now owned her.

  “It’s almost noon,” he said in a tempered voice, his features inscrutable.

  Since boyhood, he had guarded his heart from her. It was only when he played the violin he unleashed his true feelings. He couldn’t contain them, then. But there was no instrument between them now, and she couldn’t imagine his thoughts.

  Her heartbeat quickened. “Is it noon? I can never tell when I’m in Town. It’s always so grey.”

  “Did you sleep well?”

  She glanced at the bed and the rumpled sheets, then back at him. He had stayed in the chair all night and let her sleep and sleep and sleep. Had he watched her dream the entire time?

  “I did,” she returned, flustered.

  She wasn’t sure why she had slumbered so well, not when her circumstances hadn’t improved. She had hoped to take refuge with an unknown gentleman, but Rees was her pan, her fairytale musician, her greatest secret. And deepest regret. How she’d managed to sleep a wink was a wonder, and she could only assume exhaustion was the cause.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “Famished.”

  Her hands ached, too, and she flexed her fingers.

  Rees suddenly lifted from the chair and approached her. Where there had once been a rough tenderness in his manner, there was now a virile, even predatory charge in the air. And she was the prey.

  She stepped back, heart racing, and bumped into the window.

  He stilled.

  She had never shied away from him in the past, but so much had changed—he had changed —and she could only guess his intentions toward her, all of them unpleasant.

  After an indecisive moment, he advanced again until his six foot frame loomed over her. He reached for her wrists and pulled them down. Her fingers splayed, revealing blisters.

  “You haven’t played for a long time.”

  He held her firmly, his thumbs pressing over her frantic pulses, and she shivered at the shift in his voice, more gravelly.

  She corrected, “I haven’t played for so long a time.”

  She had played for more than two hours last night before he’d cut her off and ordered her to bed.

  “You will play in shorter sessions hence forth,” he said in a detached tone. “A half hour at a time.”

  She would play for him again?

  Emily had sold her own violin a month ago, the last of her assets. She had played the instrument during her darkest moments, when loneliness and regret had nearly strangled her, and after Papa’s downfall, turned to it even more. She understood its healing power—and its ability to cause pain, to rouse memories better left buried.

  She wondered what Rees wanted from her when he asked her to play for him.

  His gaze lifted, locked with hers. To look into his deep brown eyes and not find the light, the warmth that had once lived there stabbed at her heart.

  The man in front of her wasn’t the boy she remembered. The broadsheets had published tawdry stories about his wicked music and immoral behavior. She hadn’t believed a word of it. Gossip, she’d thought, spread by gossipmongers. She knew Rees. She knew the soulful boy and his healing music. But now . . . now she realized the chill in the room wasn’t coming from the drafty window, but from him.

  As soon as he released her wrists, she brought her hands to her chest and rubbed them, but she wasn’t able to chase away the cold—the cold he had created.

  He studied her hands again, then moved across the room to the wardrobe and retrieved a woolly black robe. He returned to her side, holding up the garment.

  She eyed the wide expanse of black fleece, needing its warmth, but she didn’t want to be buried under his clothes, under him.

  His expression revealed she had no choice.

  Slowly she turned around and slipped her arms into the sleeves. The thick wrapper, too large for her figure, overwhelmed her as he did.

  Emily tied the stays and faced him again, but he walked away with a cursory, “I’ll fetch breakfast,” and left the room.

  Her shoulders dropped.

  Rees.

  She knew she wouldn’t receive a warm welcome from him, not after what had transpired between them all those years ago, but she was still dismayed by his dramatic transformation. Was there even a remnant of the boy she’d once known?

  Emily looked away from the closed bedroom door and to the room itself. The walls were papered in a bold print, gold and plum paisleys. The bed was large with four soaring posts and an impressive headboard.

  Moving over to the other doors, she found a dressing room behind one and a water closet with modern plumbing behind the other. She took advantage of the water closet before returning to the bedchamber. Finally, she examined the violins. A dozen, at least. She’d avoided them for as long as possible, but she couldn’t walk a straight line without tripping over an instrument.

  She bent down and picked up the nearest one, tossed aside like soiled laundry. Her heart skipped a beat as she fingered the familiar construction. She collected another violin and soon realized each instrument looked like the one his grandfather had made him with a slight variation. Each one was close, but not one was a perfect replica.

  A sharp pain in her chest, she set the instruments back on the ground. She gathered the music sheets next. Notes were scrolled in haste, then scratched out. She thought he couldn’t “see” music if it was printed on paper . . . but so much had changed about him, she reminded herself, and it appeared his music d
idn’t come to him as easily as it once had.

  Rees opened the door and carried in a large silver tray with an assortment of sweet smelling fares. He set the food on a small round table near the window.

  “Come,” he said. “Eat.”

  She let the music sheets fall to the floor. He pretended not to notice, but she saw his side-eye glance when he heard the rustling papers.

  He said nothing about the music or the violins, only retrieved the chair from the middle of the room where she had played for him and placed it beside the table.

  Her stomach instantly responded to the invitation, and she accepted the offered seat. “Thank you.”

  He remained quiet. He also didn’t join her at the table. Instead, he went back to the winged chair and settled in it, watching her from afar.

  Emily didn’t want to devour the food under his scrutiny, nor did she feel like nibbling it as a proper lady. Asking him for privacy was moot. The man owned her. If he wanted to watch her eat, he could. If he wanted to watch her sleep, he could. If he wanted to hear her play, he could. Her preferences were not to be considered anymore, and she had best grow accustomed to her new position. One with no choices.

  She reached for a scone, halved it, then lathered it with butter and strawberry jam. “What will we do now?”

  “I’m not sure. You were an unexpected expense.”

  He spoke about her like she was a piece of furniture he’d frivolously purchased, and she ignored the sting in her breast.

  She bit into the warm scone, ate half of it before replying, “I’m sure you can afford an ornament like myself. Although I don’t know how well I’ll fit in with your garish decor.”

  He smiled, and the way it lightened his hardened features took her breath away. He looked like the boy she remembered, the friend she . . .

  No. She pressed the sentiment deep down in her soul. He wasn’t a boy anymore. And he surely wasn’t her friend.

  “It is garish, isn’t it? My mistress thought it vogue and transformed the entire house. You can remodel it, if it pleases you.”

  She lowered her gaze. Talk of his mistress and her housekeeping put her in an unfamiliar position. One she didn’t much like.

  “What do you want with me, Rees?”

  It was the crux of her troubled thoughts, the uncertainty of her place in his new life. She desired a formal contract, detailing their expectations. She especially wanted her title clarified, whether it be mistress or maid.

  He sobered. “I want you to play for me.”

  “I am to amuse you, like an organ grinder’s monkey?”

  “You are to gratify all my needs. Isn’t that our business arrangement?”

  She would have preferred making the arrangement with a stranger. She could have closed herself off to a stranger. To be wounded by an intimate was far, far more destructive. If he thought to teach her that lesson, he needn’t bother. She had learned it long ago.

  Her stomach tensed and she hadn’t room for any more food. She poured herself a cup of tea, but even that upset her constitution.

  “You must keep up your strength,” he admonished.

  “I’m tired.”

  “Then rest.”

  He remained in the chair, watching her, guarding her. Was this her new home or prison?

  “What’s the matter, princess?”

  Her heart ached to hear him call her that again, brought forth bittersweet memories. “You must know.”

  “You keep saying that, but I don’t know. I cannot guess your intentions.” He paused, then, “I’m rather poor at that game.”

  Did he think her situation a game? An amusing turn of fortunes? Whatever he felt, it wasn’t sympathy for her plight.

  “I will rest, I think.”

  She left the table and returned to the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. She was warm under the blankets and velvety robe, but a startling pang gripped her heart, a longing for comfort no soft fabric could bring.

  She wanted to ask him to play for her, a lullaby to put her to sleep. She wouldn’t, of course. He treated her with scorn. But the need was so overwhelming, tears filled her eyes.

  He moved away from the chair. As his soft footfalls neared, she buried her face in the pillow and sheets.

  His shadow spread across her body. She squeezed her eyes shut when she sensed his hand reach for her, but he pulled it away and retreated, the door closing behind him.

  Emily peeked at the door to make sure he was really gone, then closed her eyes again and let the tears fall.

  ~ * ~

  Grey surveyed the bruiser standing in the middle of the study, cap in hand, long whiskers slicked with Macassar oil. It appeared Mr. Woodward wanted to make very sure he received his agreed upon sum and had sent his most intimidating creature. Grey doubted a fool existed who would turn the behemoth away . . . and that brought an idea to his mind.

  “Ten thousand, was it?”

  “Aye, sir,” the man returned with a stoic expression, but there was no mistaking his indifference for passivity. If unsatisfied, he would break a man’s skull with equal indifference.

  Grey rounded the desk and completed the cheque. “Here you are, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Smith,” he answered, reaching for the payment.

  “A moment of your time, Mr. Smith.” Grey held firm the funds. “I’ve a proposition for you.”

  The man’s meaty hand remained open while his voice dropped, dangerously low. “The sum is not negotiable.”

  “I’m sure of that. No, I’ve another proposition. This is for Mr. Woodward.” He placed the cheque on the desk. “And this is for you.” Grey laid a five pound note beside the cheque. “If you do your job well, there’s another fiver in it for you.”

  Mr. Smith stared at the funds, unmoving.

  “I assure you,” said Grey, “your work for me will not interfere with your work for Mr. Woodward. I’ve a simple enough task, but I need a man with your persuasive character.”

  Another uncertain moment passed before Mr. Smith gathered the cheque and banknote, neatly folded both papers and placed them in his inner breast pocket. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to make inquiries into a Mr. Augustus Wright. It seems he lost his fortune a few years ago, just before his death, and I want to know what happened to him—every fact and every piece of gossip. Is that clear?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  As soon as Mr. Smith left the room, Grey turned toward the window and gathered his arms across his chest, observing the bustling street life through the sheer drapes.

  What had happened to Augustus Wright?

  Grey knew the miser would never risk his daughter’s security by speculating, much less gambling and risking “more than he could afford to lose,” but Emily refused to admit the truth behind her father’s demise. Evasive without being deceitful, she protected a dark secret. And Grey would have it. Her false tears would not distract him from finding the truth.

  Even now, his impulse was to comfort her. It had taken all his strength to pull back his hand and walk away from the bedside. She had no reason to weep. She was safe. And he resented her orchestrated tears. He resented even more how powerfully she still controlled him—though she would not for long.

  ~ * ~

  Thunder boomed in the distance as dark clouds rolled over the city.

  Emily stood beside the large window and looked out at the tempestuous horizon. She had bathed and dressed and braided her hair, organized the bedroom by rearranging some of the furniture, gathered all the violins and music sheets, and still she felt as restless as the growing storm.

  Sighing, she turned away from the glass and flexed her fingers. It was nearly night, and Rees had not yet returned. She wanted to explore the rest of the house but worried about being mistaken for an intruder. Had Rees informed the servants about her stay? If so, who had he announced was living in his room? And how long would she remain here? Would she ever have an apartment of her own? A stipend? Any freedom a’tall?
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  She dropped into the winged chair, which she’d pushed toward the window earlier in the day, and pressed her cheek into her palm, ruminating. It was her duty to gratify all his needs, he’d said. But what were his needs, other than to hear her play? He’d a mistress to look after his physical wants, servants to tidy his house, and if he truly desired music, he could create his own. She really had nothing to offer him.

  So why had he purchased her?

  Of course, she thought grimly. He hadn’t purchased her, per se, but a woman. He couldn’t have recognized her on the stage of the gentleman’s club, for she’d taken particular measures to conceal her features. Had he wanted another mistress? How many had he acquired in such a distasteful manner?

  But then she remembered he’d called her an “unexpected expense,” suggesting he hadn’t been trolling the club in search of a new mistress. Had he simply been carried away by the frenzied bidding? He had jumped from two to ten thousand pounds, after all. Unexpected, certainly.

  And still distasteful.

  Emily shivered. She had always known her benefactor would be an ignoble sort. She’d not harbored any misgivings about a man’s honorable character when he procured vulnerable women from brothels. But she’d never imagined Rees capable of such a thing.

  The door opened and Rees finally appeared, balancing a tray on one hand. He filled the room with his presence, and she focused on him alone, pushing aside her troubled thoughts.

  He’d once risked his life to stop her falling from the roof. He had always protected her, comforted her. She would not let go of that boy, even if he didn’t exist anymore. She would not forget him—or what she had done to him.

  Though low light created shadows across his face, she still noticed his confounded expression when he tried to place supper on the table and found the furniture missing.

  “I organized,” she explained.

  “I can see that.”

  He walked over to the table’s new location, near the coal-burning fireplace, and set down the fare.

  Whatever his intentions toward her, they were not to starve her. The roasted meats, vegetables and boiled puddings looked better than jewels.