Miss Fortescue's Protector In Paris. Amanda McCabe
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party at a very secret, very exclusive club, one which high-ranking German and Russian diplomats favoured.
Laura laughed and perched on the edge of his desk. ‘Too engrossed in all those fascinating reports, I see. Well, there is plenty of time. It’s better if we give them time to find the claret, then they’re easier to talk to. And we must appear to be carelessly late fribbles, anyway, yes?’
‘Fribbles we must be.’ Chris went to the wardrobe in the corner where he kept his extra evening clothes for just such emergencies. He glanced back at Laura, who was sorting through her beaded reticule and humming a little waltz to herself. She had been widowed for many years, left almost penniless by her titled older husband. Was she ever lonely? Did she ever regret the work? ‘Laura...’
‘Yes, darling?’ she answered, tucking a strand of dark red hair into her beaded bandeau.
‘Have you never considered marrying again?’
She gave a startled laugh. ‘Why, Chris! Are you proposing to me?’ She laughed even harder when he was afraid he looked rather alarmed. ‘Oh, don’t look so frightened. I know very well you are not. If there is anyone who is less the marrying sort than I am, it’s you.’ She slid off the desk and planted her gloved hands on her hips. ‘Why? Have you met someone and are having second thoughts about this work?’
‘No, not at all. I was just—just thinking about Will, I suppose.’
‘Oh, William.’ Laura waved her hand. ‘He is different. He works above-board at an embassy, he must have a spouse. One would just get in the way of our kind of work. You know that.’
‘Of course I know that.’ He had always known that, that being rakish was part of the importance of what he did. It was only lately that he felt himself changing, changing in ways he did not understand. ‘But have you not ever felt, I don’t know—felt alone?’
‘Oh, Chris, darling.’ She gave him a concerned frown and stepped forward to press his hand. ‘I confess I do. My marriage was not all it should have been, but still it was nice to know someone was there if I stumbled. But I am so much better off now and so are you. We are too good at our work to give it up.’
Chris nodded. He did know the score, he always had. He just had to shake away those wistful feelings and get on with what he was so good at doing.
‘Tonight’s party should be just the thing to chase the glooms away!’ Laura said, handing him his silk cravat. ‘Just think of all the lovely ladies who will be there, ready and eager for you to sweep them off their feet and learn all their little secrets...’
Emily was running...running down the same endless dark alleyway lined with towering bales of cloth stretching so tall and so out of sight that she was sure they reached up into the sky that was always night. She couldn’t even see the starlight, only splashes of hazy, haloed gaslight that came from unseen lamps. She heard voices, but they came from so far away they only seemed like an echo of mocking laughter.
But the footsteps behind her were very clear. Slow, stately, unrelenting. Not hurried at all, not a panicked run like hers, but always moving closer.
Her lungs ached, her breath was strangled in her throat. Her hair tumbled into her eyes, blinding her.
She tried to run faster, but the alley was now choked with cobwebs, wrapping around her ankles, pulling her back. Making her trip. The footsteps grew louder and she fell, toppling towards the ground. He would surely catch her now and she was helpless, cornered like a fox pursued by baying hounds.
She was falling...
‘No!’ Emily cried, sitting straight up. For an instant she was sure the cobwebs had trapped her, holding her limbs immobile. Then she realised it was only the blanket, tangled around her. She was on her bedroom chaise, where she had gone for an afternoon rest, safe in her own chamber.
It was only that nightmare again.
With a cry of frustration, Emily pulled the blanket free and tossed it on the green-and-white-flowered carpet. She lay back on the tufted velvet cushions and closed her eyes.
For a time, after the event, the dream had plagued her almost every night when she tried to sleep. It had got so bad, she would just stay up every night and go over all the business ledgers in her father’s library. Her hard work, and begging pleas, had finally convinced her father to let her stop with her social Season and go into business full-time with him. With work, lots of work, the nightmare stopped and she almost forgot that one stupid event.
But it seemed it didn’t want to be forgotten. Not entirely.
She had been a foolish girl, thinking a man like Gregory Hamilton—handsome, highly connected, known for being something of a rake—would be truly interested in her. Yet it had been her first Season, fresh out of school, and she had wanted to dance and flirt, to laugh. Then he’d got her out on the terrace at that ball and she’d realised how foolish she really had been.
She had got away then and Gregory had gone away to Ceylon. Work had made her forget that cold fear, but still the dream came sometimes.
It was the last time she would ever be foolish over a man, Emily had always vowed, and she kept that promise to herself now. She’d had lots of suitors, some of them just as handsome and rich as Gregory had been, all of them quite dull. None of them could tempt her. She threw herself into her work, into making her father’s business even more successful than before.
Except whenever she saw Chris Blakely. When he came near, her vows to be sensible seemed to just fly out the window. They quarrelled every time they met, the last time at Alex’s wedding to Malcolm Gordston, and then Lady Rippon’s garden party. Chris was quite hopeless, given up as a wastrel by everyone. But when he kissed her...
‘No more,’ she cried, kicking at the blanket.
‘Miss Emily,’ she heard her maid Mary call out, as Mary knocked at the door. ‘Are you quite all right? Edna thought she heard you cry out while she was dusting down the corridor.’
‘Oh, yes, Mary, I’m fine,’ she answered, reaching for the dropped blanket. ‘It was just a bad dream. I must have fallen asleep.’
Mary hurried in, Emily’s dinner gown of blue silk and chiffon draped over her arm. Emily glanced at the half-curtained window and saw that the light was dark amber now, almost evening. Her father would be expecting her soon for their shared meal.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep so long,’ Emily said, trying to smooth her rumpled hair.
Mary laid out the dress on Emily’s green-brocade-draped four-poster bed and searched the wardrobe for the matching shoes. ‘It’s no wonder, Miss Emily. You were gone before breakfast this morning.’
‘I had to check that the Gordston’s shipment was ready to go,’ Emily said. Alex’s husband, the owner of two, soon to be three, very successful department stores, was one of their best business partners.
She sat down at her dressing table and reached for her silver-backed hairbrush. She tried to pull out the knots in her thick, chestnut hair, but it was hopeless.
‘Here, let me do that, Miss Emily,’ Mary said, taking the brush with a tsk. ‘You’ll have no hair left if you keep on like that. And then what would we pin your hats to?’
Emily laughed, some of the tension of her dream dissipating. She thought of the rows and rows of hats that sat on their own shelf in the dressing room, feathers and bows and fruit on straw and velvet and silk. It was part of her job now to be always super-stylish, to advertise the latest fashions, and she had to admit it was a part of her job she rather enjoyed. ‘True. I leave myself in your capable hands, Mary, as usual. Is my father already downstairs?’
‘He’s