His eyes seemed to gleam as she looked at him. Then she smiled, a little. “I know.”
“I fear I’ve been less than subtle,” he said ruefully. “But neither of us know how the night will go, and I wanted you to know now.”
The carriage came to a stop outside Marlbury’s lodgings: a nondescript house set in a street of similarly nondescript houses. Each large house was split into a couple of apartments; the perfect bachelor houses for young men who aspired to avoid all responsibilities.
Oliver, too, had apartments in St James’s.
“This is it,” he said, looking at Emily. “Last chance.”
She met his gaze steadily. “I’m coming with you.”
He hadn’t expected anything else. As the coachman opened the door, he extended a hand and helped Emily down. Then he rang the doorbell.
Emily had expected something more openly salubrious from a street that was inappropriate for women to enter, but it appeared just the same as many other streets. Houses and shops and taverns—although she suspected these were gentlemen’s clubs. Nothing like the taprooms she was accustomed to.
Beside her, Oliver was still and quiet. He was not an especially large man, but he had an air of menace today that made her feel surprisingly safe. Marlbury’s actions had been a betrayal, and she had seen shame in Oliver’s eyes more than once.
When they had first met, she had tarred him with Marlbury’s brush. A man’s friends were a reflection of himself—and in some ways it was true. Marlbury was a reflection of Oliver’s worst traits: his propensity to avoid all responsibility; his selfishness; his arrogance.
Yet he had grown past that, demonstrating to her without doubt that he had left those traits behind him. No longer would he accept poor behaviour without question or examination.
No longer would he turn a blind eye to cruelty or injustice.
The fact he was here beside her now proved that. Yes, he was doing this for her, but she thought he was also doing it for himself. And that was far more important.
Oliver rang again. Emily steeled herself, her fingers tight around the handle of the pistol. If it were a smaller pistol designed for a woman, she might have fit it into her reticule, but this was too large for her to do anything but conceal it as best she could.
As satisfying as it would be to confront Marlbury with it, she was determined to use it only as a last resort.
Footsteps sounded and when the door swung open, a servant stood behind it. Emily blinked, but Oliver seemed entirely unsurprised to see him.
“Hello, Smiths,” he said. “I’ve come to see Lord Marlbury.”
“I’m afraid his lordship isn’t receiving visitors right now,” Smiths said, but before he could shut the door in their faces, Oliver stuck his foot inside.
“He’ll see me.” Without waiting for a response or permission, he barged inside. Emily followed on his heels, determined not to be left behind. “Marlbury!” Oliver yelled, his voice too loud for this time of night. “I know you’re here.”
There was movement in the doorway, then Marlbury emerged, a glass in his hand and his cravat undone. He wore a crimson robe over his shirt, and by the flush on his cheeks, he was more than a little drunk.
For a moment, Emily remembered all the things he had done to woo and hurt her. She had seen him at a distance, of course, since the day when he told her he could never feel anything for someone like her, but never this close.
Bile filled her throat at the sight of his dark hair and arrogant mouth. Once, she had thought him unbearably handsome, and now she found his smarminess repulsive. He walked through the world as though he expected to be applauded for existing, and he looked at women as though he expected them to fall to their knees before him.
How could she ever have fallen for such conceit?
At the sight of them both, his dark eyes narrowed. “Beaumont. And is that Emily Brunton?” He gave an unsteady, delighted laugh. “I ought to have known you would come here together. You know, Beaumont, your throwing that girl over in favour of her sister was cold of you. I applaud the gesture, although it did mean I was subject to her whining.”
Rage punched Emily in the chest; she hadn’t known she was capable of such anger until that moment. Her teeth clacked together audibly. “Where is she?” she demanded.
“Where is who? Be specific.”
“Marlbury,” Oliver said, his jaw clenched. “It’s over. Give her up.”
Marlbury sneered. “I really thought you would be more sporting, old chap.”
“Whereisshe?” Emily repeated. Her heart pounded in her chest, and although the fire had long since slumped into embers in the hearth, her palms dampened with sweat. Ignoring Marlbury’s self-satisfied smirk, she pushed past him. “Isabella!” she called. “It’s me, Emily. I’ve come to take you away from here.”
To her everlasting relief, when she reached the stairs, she found Isabella’s pale face looking back at her. She wore a white lawn nightgown that was draped around her in a positively scandalous fashion.
