A Dangerous Love. Brenda Joyce
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other gadjos. But in truth, Edmund had been firm, but fair and compassionate, too. The adjustment to the English way of life had been so difficult that he couldn’t see it. He’d run away several times, but Edmund had always found him. The last time he’d stolen a neighbor’s horse, and he had been physically branded so that the world would see him as a horse thief before Edmund had appeared to take him home. He was hardly the first Rom to have a scarred right ear, and it was one of the reasons he wore his hair so long. Edmund had finally asked him to stay, telling him he would willingly let him leave when he turned sixteen, if that was what he still wished to do.
He had agreed—and in the end, decided on his own terms to stay. In the following years he had gone to Eton and then Oxford, excelling at both institutions. Yet their relationship had remained somewhat adversarial, as if Edmund never quite trusted his transformation into an Englishman. Emilian never quite trusted his father, either. Being Edmund’s son and heir did not change the fact that his mother was Romany, and all of society knew it—including Edmund.
The condescension and scorn from his youth remained, but it was disguised now. To the gadjos, even those warming his bed, no amount of manners, education or wealth would ever change the “fact” that his inclination was to steal horses and cheat his neighbors. Every supper party and ball, every business affair, every paramour, had proven that—and proved it, still.
Edmund’s death had been a tragic accident. Emilian had just graduated Oxford with the highest honors, and he had been traveling with the Roma. It had been his first visit to his mother, whom he hadn’t seen since his father had taken him from her ten years before. Edmund’s estate manager had written him. Upon learning of Edmund’s sudden death in a hunting accident, Emilian had instantly rushed home.
Shocked that his father had died without his having had the chance to say goodbye, he had gone from his grave directly to his desk. All he could think of was the opportunities of the past—and that he hadn’t ever thanked Edmund for a single one. He recalled his father teaching him how to ride, explaining every aspect of the estate to him, insisting that he receive the best possible education, and how Edmund had proudly taken him to every country affair, whether a tea, a supper party or a country ball, as if he was as English as anyone. He had sat down at his father’s desk and begun poring over every account and ledger until his tears had made it impossible to read the pages. And in the end, a very English sense of duty had triumphed. He had been aware of his father’s failures as the viscount; he had always known he could do far better. Now, he intended to set Woodland straight. Now, he intended to make Edmund proud of him.
And he had. In three years, he had managed to erase all debt from Woodland’s accounts. The estate was currently making a handsome profit. There were new tenants, and their produce was being exported abroad, as well as sold at local markets. He was a partner in a freight company. There were profitable investments in a Birmingham mill and a national railway, but the coup de grâce was the St Xavier coal mine. The export of British coal grew in tonnage annually and he was cashing in on it. He was the wealthiest nobleman in Derbyshire, with one exception—the shipping magnate, Cliff de Warenne.
Emilian pushed the ledgers aside.
He did not know de Warenne personally—how could he? He had scorned society ever since coming into the title and the estate. From his first advent into society as a boy at Edmund’s side, they had whispered about him behind his back, and nothing had changed except that he now expected it. He preferred avoiding all social intercourse, as it was nothing but a dull pretense for everyone involved. When he did sit down to a meal with Englishmen and their wives, it was with men who were important to him—the managers of his mine, his partners in the freight company, those who wished for him to invest in other ventures.
“My lord, sir?” His butler, Hoode, paused on the library’s threshold. “You have callers.” Hoode handed him a small tray containing several cards.
Emilian was surprised. Callers were rare. His last visitor had been a widow with four sons whose family had blatantly informed him she was a good “breeder.” Now, as he took the cards, he fought to avoid cringing. As wealthy as he was, it was inevitable that marriage prospects were pressed upon him from time to time. The candidates were all excessively unmarriageable daughters. The crème de la crème were sent elsewhere to look for blue-blooded English husbands. He didn’t give a damn. He didn’t want children. Childhood was synonymous with misery and fear—and therefore he had no need of a wife, English or not.
He glanced at the cards and became still. These cards were not from families seeking marriage. One card belonged to his cousin, Robert, the others from Robert’s friends.
“This is rich,” he murmured. There was only one reason why his cousin would call, as they could not stand each other. “Send Robert in, Hoode.” He stood, stretching his tall, muscular frame. He intended to enjoy the ensuing encounter, very much the way a basset would enjoy being locked in a small room with a mouse.
Robert St Xavier appeared instantly, smiling obsequiously, hand outstretched. Blond and plump, he boomed, “Emil, my God, it is good to see you, eh?”
Emilian folded his arms across his chest, refusing any handshake. “Shall we cut to the chase, Rob?”
Robert’s smile faltered and he dropped his hand. “We are passing through,” Robert said in a jovial tone, “and I had hoped we could share a good bottle of wine. It has certainly been some time. And we are cousins!” He laughed, perhaps nervously or perhaps at the absurdity that any familial affection lay behind the claim. “We’ve taken rooms at the Buxton Inn. Will you join us?”
“How much do you want?” Emilian said coolly.
Robert’s smile vanished. “This time I vow I will pay you back.”
“Really?” He lifted a brow. Robert had inherited a fortune from his father. He had spent every penny within two years. His life was dissolute and irresponsible, to say the least. “Then it would be a first. How much, Rob, do you need this time?”
Robert hesitated. “Five hundred, perhaps?”
“And that will last for how long? Most gentlemen can live off that sum for a year.”
“It will last a year, Emil, I swear it!”
“Don’t bother swearing to me.” Emilian bent and reached for his checking book. He should let him starve. Too well, he recalled how Robert and his father had scorned him as “that Gypsy boy.” They had called him a dirty savage. But it was only gadjo money—and it was his gadjo money. He ripped the note from its pad and handed it to Robert.
“I can’t thank you enough, Emil.”
He looked at him with disdain. “Have no fear—I will never collect anything from you.”
Robert’s smile, plastered in place, never wavered. “Thank you,” he said again. “And would you mind if we spent the night here? It will save us a few pounds—”
Emilian waved at him dismissively. He didn’t care if the trio stayed, for there was plenty of room at Woodland, enough that their paths would hardly cross. He moved toward the French doors and stared past his gardens at the rolling wooded hills that etched into the gray, fading horizon. He had a terrible sense that something was about to happen…. But it must be his imagination, he thought. Still, he looked at the sky again. Not even a thunderstorm was rolling in.
He turned at the sound of new voices. Two of Robert’s equally disreputable friends had joined him, and Robert was showing them the draft. His friends were laughing and slapping him on the back, as if he had just managed some terrific feat.
“It pays to have a rich cousin, eh? Even if he is half Gypsy.” The man laughed.
“God only knows how he does it.” Robert grinned. “It’s his English blood, of course, that makes him so wealthy.”
The third man leaned close. “Have you ever had a Gypsy wench?” He leered. “They’re at Rose Hill—I heard it from a houseman.”
Emilian stiffened in surprise. There