“What then am I? Come, come, do not keep me in suspense any longer, I beg you.”
“A knight errant, of course.”
“A white knight or a black knight, I wonder?”
“I wonder that too,” she said. Until she saw his eyes she would not be able to fathom the color of his character clearly, nor see the lamps to the soul. Then it occurred to her that the footfalls she’d heard dogging her earlier might just as likely have been this gentleman’s and not the dread gypsy fiend who’d attacked her. In which case he was not to be trusted after all. A black knight then.
“I see you are trying to make out my character,” he said.
“Yes, but it is hard to do so in the dark.”
“Some things are best done in the dark, Miss Rose.”
“That is just what a wicked monk would say.” If nothing else, she was grateful for the darkness that concealed the crimson flush overspreading her cheeks.
“Then allow me to play the knight errant and convey you safely home before I forget my manners again. We really ought not be dithering in the street like this…alone.”
“I should be most obliged to have your company, but only if you promise not to exsanguinate me.” Heavens, she really hoped she wasn’t flirting with the mad butcher himself! Only Emma Rose of Little Snoring would be that unlucky.
The bark of laughter that followed was unrestrained and engaging. “I vow, madam, for tonight at least, I shall behave like a good monk. Will that appease you?”
“I suppose it must. But to what name does this monk answer? I should very much like to know to whom it is I owe my life.”
“Of course,” he drawled. “How utterly remiss of me.” He bowed gallantly but did not remove his hat, which she was very sorry for because she’d been eagerly awaiting a glimpse of his features. “Markus Winterly. Rescuer of demoiselles and slayer of gypsy fiends.” His upper lip quirked slightly at the corner, affording her just the smallest flash of white teeth. “But, I own, a demoiselle in distress invariably requires rescuing from me.” There was an edge of warning in his tone, but, seeing as he had just prevented her brains from spilling across the street, she was disinclined to heed it.
Instead, she fell into step beside him. “I am not usually a benighted damsel, you understand.” She flicked a stray hair out of her face, imagining with a grimace the absolute chaos that had likely befallen her once respectable coiffure. “Nor do I make it a habit to flee from gypsies into oncoming traffic.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“You see, I seem to have misplaced my aunt and uncle in the fog.”
He gave a nod. “Misplaced kin, perilous gypsies, bloodthirsty carriages, and ruined spectacles—I fear this has turned out to be a penny novel romance of impossible nonsense, Miss Rose. Next you will tell me a vampyre escorted you home.”
“No,” she said, flushed, “a monk walked me home.” It was a good thing she heard her name being called and looked up to see her aunt and uncle hastening towards them, for, in another moment, she might have been in danger of regretting the reunion. She was having the strangest fun of her life! “There now” —she waved at her guardians— “my wayward kin have finally noticed my absence.”
“So they have,” he answered softly. “And not a moment too soon…”
Instead of relief, her uncle’s face was mottled with ire. “What the devil do you mean by dawdling on a night like this, Emma?”
It was Mr. Winterly, however, who answered him. “My dear sir, your niece has had rather a shocking experience.” He politely stepped aside as little Aunt Sophie threw her arms around Emma. “I beg you will not be wroth until after you have heard her tale.”
“Dear girl, do not tell me you are hurt!” Her uncle’s ire suddenly receded behind a wary glance that leapt from his niece to the stranger and back again.
“I am well, Uncle. I tripped onto the road as a speeding carriage approached, but Mr. Winterly happened upon me with timely expediency and managed to pull me from harm’s way.” She did not know why or when she had suddenly resolved to omit the exact cause of her precipitate fall in the first place, but she found that she rather preferred Mr. Winterly’s opinion that what she’d seen had been only a trick of the fog. Moreover, strange sightless gypsies might savor of madness and lend credence to her uncle’s emphatic belief that her love of gothic horrors, or the macabre conversations in the Stapleton drawing room, had led to a regrettably excessive and energetic imagination. And perhaps the poor gypsy was a blind mendicant who’d been frightened off by her screaming—his deformity was certainly no fault of his own. The poor wretch had likely only wanted a penny.
Heavens, she couldn’t think clearly with Mr. Winterly’s probing eyes upon her (she might not see them but she could certainly feel them). And what did he think of her sudden omission of the blind gypsy? She glanced up into that ever present smile, her cheeks warmed by his obvious amusement.
“What a devilish night altogether.” Her uncle gave her shoulder a reassuring pat, misunderstanding the deep color suffusing her face. “There, there, you are all right now, my clumsy dear.” To Mr. Winterly he bowed and said, “I heartily thank you, sir! For a moment I had feared…” The implication of the mad butcher’s reign hung palpably in the air yet went unspoken.
“Yes,” Mr. Winterly replied gravely, “you were right to fear.”
“My poor lamb,” Aunt Sophie cried, kissing her niece’s warm cheeks as the men proceeded with introductions.
“The Viscount Winterly?” Her uncle’s manifest surprise brought a thoughtful furrow to Emma’s brows. Not a knight after all, but a lord!
“The very same.” Lord Winterly grinned, but still did not remove his hat.
Show your face! If she’d possessed a tithe of her sister’s moxie, she might have knocked the hat from his stately head under the guise of that clumsiness her uncle had just charged her with.
“You must join us for a glass of cognac before you continue on your way, Lord Winterly. I simply must insist that you allow me to thank you properly. I am in your debt, you know.”
“I thank you for the invitation, Mr. Haywood—” again that chthonic grin appeared “—but I must decline the offer. Leastwise for tonight. Let me see your niece the rest of the way to your door and we shall consider the debt paid.”
Mr. Robert Haywood appeared delighted with the request and gave his assent most readily. Emma glanced back to see her aunt and uncle watching eagerly as his lordship escorted her to the door. But it was the hidden gaze of Lord Winterly that she felt most keenly. When at last they reached her uncle’s doorstones, Lord Winterly stood aside as her guardians ascended the stairs.
“Are you quite sure you cannot join us, my lord?” her uncle inquired hopefully. “I hope you will not question your welcome despite the late hour.”
“The invitation is duly noted,” he answered. “Another time, I assure you. I am late for dinner.”
Late diners, these great men.
Lord Winterly acknowledged their farewells with a confident flick of his brim and at once withdrew from the light pouring out the open door. The fog swirled around his tall frame for only a moment, lapping at his heels like hell hounds, before it closed about him. Hades himself could not have looked more frightening vanishing into the underworld mist than did that last glimpse of Markus Winterly. Nevertheless, Emma desired very much that it was not the last she’d seen of him.