‘What in damnation did you think you were about, creeping out of the house behind my back?’ Bernard looked as though he might raise his hand to his daughter, and Harley stepped closer, as though to intervene on her behalf.
‘We can discuss it all later, in private, Papa.’ Emma gave her father a cautioning look that made him press together his crinkled lips. The Waverley family were used to keeping secrets and this certainly fell into that category. ‘Mr Harley might like some tea before leaving.’ She issued her barbed hospitality, hoping he’d just go and imagining he wanted to do exactly that. He was probably offended by her father’s conduct and hers, too, although he certainly wasn’t showing it.
Harley met her expectations, gesturing that no such trouble was necessary on his account. His hand travelled on to his mouth, discreetly suppressing a yawn. He’d been vigorously engaged for most of the night, largely pleasurably, until he’d heard this minx scream while struggling to keep hold of her reticule. After that he’d expended what remained of his energy in a bare-knuckle scrap. A corner of his mouth twitched. She’d been putting up a good fight before he stepped in to take over; he’d seen her land a couple of blows on the felons.
‘Will you return me the courtesy and introduce yourselves?’ He was alert enough to be curious as to who she was.
‘You’ve been alone with my daughter and not even bothered to enquire after her name?’ Mr Waverley looked aghast.
‘I might not know her name yet, but tell it to me now and I’ll not forget it, that I promise.’ Houndsmere’s penetrating blue gaze settled on Emma, capturing her eyes for a moment before she broke his hold. He wasn’t just being polite, Lance realised. He would remember her, although he couldn’t understand how she was getting beneath his skin so quickly when they’d barely spoken or touched.
It seemed that her father was feeling too indignant to introduce them so she blurted, ‘My name is Emma Waverley and my father is Bernard Waverley.’ She noted at once the gleam of interest raising Harley’s weighty, black-lashed eyelids. He didn’t appear nearly so bored by proceedings as a moment ago. But at least there was no contemptuous curl to his lip as had often been the case with others on learning their identities. Even the local shopkeepers still talked about them behind their backs, yet the scandal that had bankrupted her father was many years old.
Now Houndsmere knew who he was dealing with he was more inclined to believe she’d been in the mean streets of London not by folly, but by design. He’d not asked her business there, but he had asked her name and enquired where she lived. She’d only answered part of his question, directing him to Primrose Square in Marylebone. Then, once she’d dutifully thanked him, she’d kept her face averted for the remainder of the journey. There had been gossip years ago about a Bernard Waverley being sent to the Fleet. Lance recalled some salacious jokes in the gentlemen’s clubs about a fellow being so mired in debt that he had nothing left to sell but his daughter. He now knew who she was and wished that he’d taken more notice of it at the time. But he rarely bothered with tattle doing the rounds.
Mr Waverley was obviously still on his uppers and wouldn’t want last night’s events worsening his family’s lot. There were spiteful cats aplenty who had nothing better to do than shred the reputations of young ladies so their own offspring could race ahead in the popularity stakes. Her father had been right about that.
From her modest cloak and bonnet the Earl had imagined she was a high-ranking servant, in the area visiting humble relatives, when he’d first come upon her. Her breeding had become apparent after they’d exchanged a few words. He’d assumed she’d had a tryst with a feckless swain lacking the decency to escort her home. There were an abundance of cheap lodging houses crowding the vicinity where impoverished clerks and apprentices lived. But perhaps he’d got the wrong end of the stick and she’d been with somebody prepared to pay for her company.
The East End of London was home to commerce of every description. Bawdy houses and gambling hells rubbed shoulders with office buildings bearing brass nameplates of the educated fellows trading from within. After dark, gentlemen sought diversion in the neighbourhood. He was one of them, although he housed his mistress in a superior street to that in which he’d spotted her. It wouldn’t be the first time that a genteel woman, fallen on hard times, used whatever assets she possessed to stay afloat. And without a doubt Emma Waverley had something worth selling. For all his outrage, it was possible her father was aware of what she got up to, because he had survived bankruptcy courtesy of it.
Emma was aware of the subtle change in him. She’d encountered that shrewdness before in the faces of gentlemen ruminating on her unenviable situation of shabby gentility and fast-approaching old maidhood.
‘I see no reason to detain you further, sir,’ she said crisply. ‘My sincere thanks for your assistance, but it is still uncommonly early and my father should get back to his bed.’
He was being dismissed and that made the Earl of Houndsmere’s smile deepen. Only his mother and sister had ever sent him away when he upset them.
He picked up the pistol from the table. ‘If you intend to threaten somebody again with an unloaded gun, avoid pointing it into the light. A military man will know you’re bluffing.’ He returned the weapon to its owner.
Mr Waverley’s cheeks became puce. He wasn’t used to being corrected in his own home, in front of his child. He turned to her. ‘You have some explaining to do, miss, and I would hear it directly.’ He stomped to the door, gun in hand. ‘If what you’ve said is true, you do owe him a debt of gratitude.’ He jabbed the gun in emphasis. ‘I see no reason to stand on ceremony now you have already been private with him. Oh, see the fellow out, then I will expect you in my study.’ The door was banged shut.
Emma was aware that it wasn’t only her father who wanted to know what she’d been up to. For all his air of ennui Mr Harley was also curious about her risking her life and reputation in a slum in the early hours of the morning. She did owe him more than her thanks and her apology. But that was all he would get. She couldn’t tell the whole truth to anybody she didn’t trust. And she didn’t trust anybody other than her father with this news. He would be shocked to the core when she told him why she had gone to a squalid lodging house at dead of night.
‘I believe you will do me the courtesy of keeping this episode to yourself, sir.’ Her edict emerged rather more forcefully than she’d intended.
A dangerous spark lit his night-blue eyes. She imagined nobody told him what to do. Worryingly, he looked as though he’d shaken off his weariness and was paying great attention.
‘And I believe you will do me the courtesy of telling me why I should,’ came his drawled response.
She swung to face him. ‘Common decency springs to mind, Mr Harley.’
‘Common decency appeared to be sadly lacking in your behaviour earlier, Miss Waverley. What were you doing in that dive?’
‘I might ask you the same thing,’ she shot back. ‘I’m sorry...that was very impertinent. It’s none of my concern why you were in a neighbourhood populated by low life.’
His mouth twitched at that backhander. ‘I wasn’t in that neighbourhood. I happened to pass close by when I heard you scream and drove into it. Do you go there regularly?’
She sent him a fiery-eyed look. If he believed her to be a harlot who’d got out of her depth, then let him say as much.
‘Are you going to answer me?’
‘I’ll tell you this, sir, and no more. I was not in the neighbourhood on business, but to meet somebody.’
‘I believe it amounts to the same thing, my dear.’
‘A relative,’ she snapped, hating him for his lazy sarcasm.
‘Distasteful...but not unheard of, so I understand,’ he returned in the same mordant tone.
‘My