She'd reached the wall again, and stopped to stare up at the clock. Five fifty-two. If she said it was an emergency, would his butler follow through? Would he light a lamp and wake him, put the letter into his hands? She could not know. She could only try.
Emma counted off twelve more turns of the hall before she finally lost her patience. She drew the cloak's hood up over her head and tugged on her thickest gloves and prayed that she could find a hack at this lost hour 'twixt night and day. Prayed that she encountered a servant with a heart or at least sharp eyes that could see her sincerity.
Fog crept up to Emma's ankles when she opened the door. No one could follow her path, at least; she lost track of her own body when she stepped into the mist.
If there were a hack anywhere near, she could neither see it nor hear it. In fact, nothing seemed to move in the world but Emma and the thick fog. She could only begin walking toward his neighborhood.
The fog parted for her, swallowed her, over and over again as she walked, like a giant, hungry mouth. Sounds jumped back and forth: her own footsteps and other, unidentifiable noises. She should have been afraid, but she simply walked. Her greatest threat had already appeared.
Matthew Bromley had been the closest thing to an appealing, unmarried man in her uncle's hamlet. And Emma had been a young woman with a body bursting with curiosity. He had chased her and she'd let herself be caught on several occasions. An innocent—or perhaps less than innocent— mistake. His interest in her had only grown focused and intense. He'd no longer been content with walks and kisses. He'd wanted everything, not just her body, but her soul as well. He'd wanted marriage, had demanded it, and she had refused.
Then during a beautiful Lenten moon, he'd asked her to walk with him again. She'd been bored and restless and she'd met him near the river that night though she'd shrugged off his embraces, and by the time she'd smelled smoke on the wind, they'd ventured far down the lane. Her uncle had died in the fire, alone because she'd snuck away.
Emma sighed and stopped to look around. The night was easing from black to gray. Surely the streets would begin to stir soon.
Matthew had been a friend to her at first. He'd hustled her to his father's home, had stood by her side through her grief and guilt. The Bromleys had taken care of her and provided a home, but Matthew hadn't forgotten his desire. Only short weeks after her uncle's death, he'd started tapping on her bedroom door, whispering of her duty and his love. He'd cornered her in hallways and stairwells, spoken constantly of their future and the gratitude she should feel for his devotion. Emma had been well and truly trapped.
But her uncle's will had finally been settled, and she'd received her inheritance. What a relief it had been to move out of the Bromley home. She'd let a room at the miller's rambling house, but her relief had been short-lived. Matthew had been furious and unrelenting in his pursuit.
Soon enough, she'd realized she must escape. From the rented rooms and intrusive neighbors. From the constant talk of when she would marry and who. She could not explain to Mrs. Shropshire, the miller's wife, why she had no interest in marriage. She'd grown tired of the arched looks of disapproval every time she'd turned down Matthew's offers. And she could not live her whole life on six hundred pounds.
A cart passed by her, splashing dirty water near her feet. Emma moved closer to the buildings, but it was no help. She stepped right into a deep puddle and cursed her bad luck. Another cart rolled by, a woman bundled up to her ears scurried past, and Emma realized that the fog had begun to lighten. Finally, Emma emerged onto a wide street and smiled. Three hackney coaches were lined up just one street down, seeming to float above the road, wheels vanished beneath the fog.
Ten minutes later she stepped from the straw-strewn floor of the hack and stared up at the green door before her. It was morning, finally, but the sun barely shone through the dull gray air. Emma smoothed her hair back and wiped her gloves over her face. She straightened her cloak, eased it back a little to show the fine fabric of the dress beneath. And then she walked up the steps and tapped the knocker.
A long while passed with no answer. The household must be waking, but they certainly weren't listening for a knock at the front door. If no one answered, she'd be forced to go to the back. Emma tapped harder.
Voices approached. She made very sure to straighten her spine and raise her chin to a haughty level just before the door snapped open.
The butler—a rather young butler—looked her over. He studied the dark blue silk of her dress and stared pointedly at her wet shoes before he nodded. "Madam?"
"I am in need of assistance. It is quite urgent. Would you take this to Lord Lancaster?" She held out the sealed note. The butler glanced at the paper, but did not take it.
"My lord will be at home this afternoon, madam."
"I am Lady Denmore, a friend of your master. He offered his support should I ever need it. I am in need of it now. Please take the letter to him."
"This is quite irregular."
"Yes. Yes, of course it is. I would not have left my own home so early if it weren't dire. Please. Wake him. Give him the note. I'll wait outside if you like. You can send me away if he refuses my plea."
The young, round-faced man looked from her face to the note. He was visibly torn between protecting the sanctity of a viscount's home and treating a supposed lady as she should be treated. And he had clearly not had much experience with this type of thing, if any; it occurred to Emma that this young man was the best butler that Lancaster could afford.
"Please follow me to the morning room, Lady Denmore. I'm sure Lord Lancaster would be happy if you warmed yourself with tea while you wait."
Emma let out a deep breath and felt the prick of actual tears at the thought of hot tea and a warm room. "Thank you."
The butler took the note as well as her cloak, and led her to a yellow morning room before he left to wake his master.
It would be quite a wait, and she was thankful for the time to
compose herself. Lancaster would need to be awoken, he'd need time to read the note and dress. Shave. Perhaps even brace himself with a cup of tea.
The maid arrived with tea and hot rolls. Emma devoured them, suddenly starving. She barely had time to wipe the crumbs from her mouth when Lancaster strode in.
"Lady Denmore?"
Emma was struck dumb by the sight of him. The man was normally the very picture of neat elegance. Not so this morning. He was dressed in boots and buff trousers, a wrinkled white shirt and black coat, but there the modesty stopped. His shirt gaped open to mid chest. His hair was a tousled, golden mess, lighter than the brown stubble that glinted against his jaw. And she could have sworn that there was a smudge of rouge on the collar of his shirt.