Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(6)

“Nervous condition?” she repeated softly.

Luke didn't want to talk to her any longer. He hadn't intended to discuss Emma's problems with a stranger. But as he met her clear gaze, he was compelled to go on, as if the words were being squeezed from his chest. “She cries easily. There are occasional tantrums. She's nearly a head taller than you, and she despairs at the fact that she hasn't finished growing yet. Lately it's been impossible to talk to her. She claims I wouldn't understand if she tried to explain her feelings, and God knows—” He broke off, realizing how much he had told her. It wasn't at all like him.

She filled the silence immediately. “My lord, I think that to call this a nervous condition is nonsense.”

“Why do you say that?”

“When I was younger, I experienced something similar to what you've described, as did my female cousins. It is normal behavior for a girl Emma's age.”

Her quiet conviction almost convinced him she was right. Luke wanted desperately to believe it. He had gone through months of dire and mysterious warnings from physicians who had prescribed tonics that Emma refused to take, special diets she wouldn't follow. Worse, he had suffered the end-less hand-wringing of his elderly mother and her gray-haired cronies, and the pangs of his own guilt for not having remarried. “You've failed her,” his mother had said. “Every girl needs a mother. She'll grow up to be so impossible that no one will want her. She'll be a spinster, all because you never desired anyone but Mary.”

“Miss Billings,” he said brusquely, “I'm glad to hear your opinion that Emma's problems are not serious. However—”

“I didn't say they weren't serious, my lord. I said that they were normal.”

She had breached the uncrossable line between employer and servant, talking to him as if they were equals. Luke scowled as he wondered if her insolence had been unconscious or deliberate.

The room was smothered in silence. Luke realized he had forgotten the Ashbournes were there until he saw Alicia fidgeting with the needlepoint pillows on the settee. Charles, meanwhile, appeared to have found something extraordinarily interesting to watch through the window. Luke looked back at Miss Billings. Having excelled for years at the art of staring people down, he waited for her to blush, stammer, erupt into tears. Instead she returned his stare, her eyes pale and piercing.

Finally her gaze dropped, traveling down the length of his arm. Luke was accustomed to such glances from people…some startled, some repelled. There was a gleaming silver hook in place of his left hand. The hand had been injured nine years ago, and amputated to save him from a life-threatening infection. Only his stubborn nature had been able to keep him from wallowing in fury and self-pity. If this was the lot that life had given him, he would do his best with it. He had become accustomed to it, made the thousands of adjustments in his life that it required. Many people found the hook threatening, a fact he didn't mind using to his advantage. He watched for Miss Billings's reaction, hoping he made her uncomfortable. She showed nothing except a detached interest that stunned him. No one looked at him that way. No one.

“My lord,” she said gravely. “I have decided to accept the position. I will collect my belongings now.”

She turned and walked away from him with a crisp rustle of gray muslin skirts. Alicia beamed at Luke before hurrying after her protegée.

Luke stared at the empty doorway with his mouth half-open. He slid a disbelieving glance to Charles. “She's decided to accept the position.”

“Congratulations,” Charles said tentatively.

A dark smile crossed Luke's face. “Call her back.”

Charles looked at him in alarm. “Wait a moment, Stokehurst! I know what you're planning to do. You'll tear Miss Billings to shreds and have my wife in tears, and leave me to deal with the aftermath! But you must take Miss Billings for a few weeks until I can find another situation for her. As a friend, I ask you—”

“I'm no fool, Charles. Tell me the truth. Who is she, and why must I take her off your hands?”

Charles folded and unfolded his arms and paced around the room. It was rare to see him in such a state of agitation. “She's in…well, let's call it a difficult situation. The longer she stays with us, the more danger there is for her. I'd hoped you would take her this afternoon and keep her safely in the country for a while.”

“She's hiding from someone, then. Why?”

“That's all I can tell you.”

“What is her real name?”

“It's not important. Please don't ask.”

“Don't ask? And you expect me to allow her around my daughter?”

“There'll be no danger for Emma,” Charles said hastily. “Not one damned bit. Good Lord, knowing the way Alicia and I feel about your daughter, how could you think we would expose her to any harm?”

“At the moment I don't know what to think.”

“Just for a few weeks,” Charles begged. “Until I can find something else for her. Miss Billings really is qualified to be a governess. She won't harm Emma. She may even do her some good. Luke, I've always been able to count on you. I'm asking for your help.”

Luke was about to refuse when he remembered the strange, searching look Miss Billings had given him. She was in trouble, yet she had decided to trust him. Why? And who was she? A runaway wife? A political refugee? He couldn't stand mysteries, couldn't leave them alone. He had the typical Englishman's passion for organizing and making sense of things. The urge ran too deep to be denied. There was no temptation greater than an unanswered question. “Damn,” he said under his breath, and gave Charles a brief nod. “A month, no more. After that, you'll take her off my hands.”