Feeling well enough to speak without his teeth chattering but not strong enough to stand to greet them, Grey sipped his tea to heat his vocal cords, then shouted, “Where is my damnable heir?”
Thirty-six
Eleanor
Churning with so many emotions, she couldn’t identify them all, El abandoned the professor’s side once he’d recovered enough to shout.
Watching a brilliant, caring gentleman knocked into the river to drown had taken years off her life and quite simply turned her inside out. She had shrieked like a thoroughly useless banshee until men had started pouring from the shrubbery and ran for the rowboat—and Andrew had crushed her shoulders to shut her up. She’d inexplicably wept over a man who should only be her employer and nothing more. The shock had shaken her so badly, she still hadn’t fully recovered her sensibility.
When Greybourne had climbed out of the river and knocked the miserable wretch on the bridge flat—she’d discovered that the baron was far more to her than an employer. She’d wanted to shout and run to help him pummel the dastard, even though she had no idea who Grey was trying to kill or what he’d done. She’d completely lost her wits.
But for just a little while, the indomitable professor had seemed to need her, if only to set things in order. She reveled in that for as long as she dared. Now that he was back to himself. . .
She needed to start thinking about finding other employment. Realizing she had foolishly fallen in love with her employer, she had to put him out of sight. She wasn’t witless enough to believe a wealthy baron had any interest in a skinny nobody he thought of as an efficient utensil.
With Grey’s shouts setting off accusations and arguments in the parlor, El returned to her usual unobtrusiveness, slipped into the hall, and entered the kitchen to speak with the bewildered cook, who was wringing her hands in such wide-eyed terror that she didn’t look twice at El’s masculine attire.
She wasn’t in any humor to ask questions about the cook’s prior life, not while the parlor threatened to erupt into warfare. “Sorry, this is not a civilized household quite yet, but if we give them food and drink, it will settle down. Is there anything at hand?”
Given something to do, the little cook swung around to ponder shelves and cabinets. She set a fresh brandy decanter on the kitchen table, produced the odd crackers the captain enjoyed and that kept well in the cupboard, set bread slices to toasting, and began chopping cheese and smoked ham.
“Did the Mister Bradfords do something wrong?” Miss Fields asked fearfully.
“We think so. I’m sorry. Did you like them?” El began plating the food.
“No, but they weren’t about much, and my family needed the coin.” Apparently choosing to forget her former employers, the young cook vigorously set about feeding her new ones.
Except if Grey left, the cook would be out of employment again. El would make certain she had good references, because Grey would leave, possibly sooner than later after this fiasco.
“This is brilliant, thank you.” El praised the cook as the food platters filled. “Have Andrew and Silas serve. We don’t need to be out there with all those angry gentlemen.” El set another kettle on for tea.
She wanted to be out there with the men, however. As the intensity of the roars in the parlor rose, she feared it would come down to pistols and swords. If any of the prisoners escaped their holds. . .
The mention of Grey’s heir had raised her hackles and sent shivers down her spine. That hadn’t been Grey she’d seen on the bridge, but the lion-maned man who looked like him. Stupid Stew had tried to push Greybourne back in the water! What was wrong with him? Grey had given his heir everything and that wasn’t enough? She’d like to slice and dice the murderous wretch like the ham Miss Fields was hacking.
But now that Grey was back to himself, she couldn’t return to the fray in her damp men’s clothing. He had dripped all over her, and now that she looked, her linen was practically plastered to her breasts. She’d attract the wrong sort of attention, if she believed anyone noticed her existence at all.
She had another set of shirt and trousers. If she wanted answers, she could slip up the stairs, change, and ease into the room. She wasn’t a particularly conspicuous personage. No looks, no name, no title, no use to anyone except the professor.
And, despite his howls of outrage, El knew Grey needed her assistance. In battle mode, men behaved as if they were invulnerable giants. . . but they weren’t. Despite his lion-like presence, the baron was human, quite capable of catching his death of cold. He ought to be in a hot bath and heading for bed after his shocking ordeal.
As an invisible entity eclipsed by Grey’s aura of wealth and power, El had no means of stopping conflict without stabbing people or whacking them with her walking stick—generally not the best solution.
Invisibility had been useful for breaching male sanctuaries. But if she meant to stay in Gravesyde. . .
She had to stay in Gravesyde. She could no longer follow Greybourne about as part of his toolbox, even if he asked. She simply wasn’t that self-destructive.
If she stayed here, in this village, where they knew she was female, she’d have to dress as one. Women might easily blend into a crowd too. The servants at the manor in their black woolens were practically indistinguishable unless one got to know them. She could become one of them, for a little while, at least.
But now. . . she realized going unseen really wasn’t who she was or wanted to be. She had done so in Edinburgh because it gave her what she wanted, entrance to schools and libraries. But she didn’t have that need here.
She could be herself, whoever that might be. It was time she learned.
With the help of the dress shop ladies, she might discover how to look her best and stand out in a crowd.
Right now, however, she wanted to stand out like a warrior with a battle ax.
Leaving Miss Fields to prepare food and drink for the angry beasts, El slipped into the hallway and raced up the stairs. Peg was waiting for her, ready to help her hastily shed bulky garments. In minutes, she was hooked and fastened into her new yellow silk gown again. Miss Morgan was quite correct. It was really hard to ignore yellow. Or a gown with almost no front to conceal that she was a woman.
