Was that an answer? Emma wondered. Did the man never say a simple yes or no?

Still, the knot in her heart eased just a little.

Lord Anthony strode to the window and flicked open the curtain, staring out at the garden awash in the glow of the late afternoon sun.

"I can offer you nothing." His tone was flat. "That will not change."

He could offer her nothing. At least he offered her the truth, refraining from giving voice to lies and pretty promises he had no intention of keeping.

"In order to offer you anything save a tawdry liaison, I must offer my heart on a platter, offer it to be shredded, betrayed." He looked back at her, watching her, eyes narrowed and unblinking. "That I will not do a second time."

A second time.

"Delia," Emma whispered, more to herself than to him, stunned that he had shared so much of himself. She had never expected that. In vivid detail, she recalled his anger that night in the portrait gallery, his pain. Again, her doubts surfaced, and she wondered what hold his dead wife had upon him, for she was no mere ghost. She was a solid wall, as real and true as mortar and stone, cold, hard, unyielding, circling Anthony Craven's heart.

Emma turned toward the door, desperate to be away from this room, from him, from dreams and wants that could never be. She drew up short when she saw Mrs. Bolifer's stout form filling the doorway. How long had the housekeeper been standing there and what she had overheard? Her expression was shuttered, providing no clue.

Wariness flooded Emma as she wondered why the housekeeper had sent her with a message, then come to the library herself.

"Mrs. Bolifer." The air stirred, and there was the shush of booted feet on carpet as Lord Anthony moved from the window. Emma felt him draw close behind her. "There is smallpox in Derrymore. Sally Gibbon's mother hails from there. You are certain there are none sick in Bosherton?"

"Yes, my lord. I asked Meg this morning. She said all is well. Even her mother seems to be feeling a touch better. Sat out in the sun for a bit yesterday. Though the day before that was bad. She coughed up enough blood to change her handkerchief red. Consumption's a terrible thing." Mrs. Bolifer skewed her lips to the side and then let out a quick huff of air.

Emma sidled toward the door, hoping to slip away undetected. At the last moment, she cast a wary glance over her shoulder and found Lord Anthony watching her, his expression unreadable. She slipped into the hallway and pushed her hand into the pocket of her dress.

Oh, dear. The key to the upstairs rooms. She had meant to return it to Mrs. Bolifer, but the task had slipped her mind. Turning back, she paused just outside the open door, waiting for a break in the conversation before announcing her presence.

"Send word that if there are signs of smallpox I am to be notified immediately," Lord Anthony said. "Was there anything more?"

"There is one thing." The housekeeper lowered her voice. "She met him. They spoke."

"Did they?" His tone was cold and clipped. "Here? He came to Manorbrier in my absence?"

"No, he did not come here. Miss Parrish was out walking one day and came across him quite by accident."

The sound of her name gave Emma a start. How odd. They were speaking of her, and after a moment she realized they discussed her brief interview with Dr. Smythe.

Lord Anthony swore softly. "There was nothing accidental about it, you may be sure. Not on his part. How did he know she would be out that day?"

"She was out every day."

"You let her roam about? Why was no one with her?"

"I could hardly lock her in her room," came Mrs. Bolifer's aggrieved tone. "She is a woman grown. There was little enough to occupy her in your absence. I suspect she was bored."

"Mrs. Bolifer," Lord Anthony's voice was silky, interwoven with a thread of steel, "do you take me to task for the governess' boredom?"

"No. I simply point out that she took up the habit of walking, and you made no mention of setting a watchdog at her heels."

"I a.s.sumed her injured ankle would keep her close to home," he replied. "I should have guessed that our Miss Parrish would not settle for a life of leisure." A brief silence followed, and Emma pressed her back to the wall as she agonized over the inappropriateness of eavesdropping on this conversation. She had not meant to, had intended merely to return the key, but she could not regret the situation. She was curious as to how they had known that she met Dr. Smythe. She had not hidden the fact, but neither had she had a reason to mention such an innocuous meeting to anyone.

"You have been in my employ too long, Mrs. Bolifer. Your tongue has grown free, and your manner disrespectful." The subtle humor in Lord Anthony's tone softened his words. She recalled such wit from the night he had so irreverently, so accurately, mimicked Cecilia and Hortense.

"Someone must remind you that you are only human, my lord."

Emma stifled a gasp at the housekeeper's temerity.

"I know exactly what I am, Mrs. Bolifer. There is no need to remind me."

"My lord-" Mrs. Bolifer began.

"Tell Griggs to send word that if there are signs of smallpox I am to be notified immediately," Lord Anthony interjected. "I'll take the blood of the dead. The blood of the ill and dying, even better."

CHAPTER NINE.

Less than an hour had pa.s.sed since Emma had overheard the exceedingly odd conversation between the housekeeper and Lord Anthony, and her understanding of their dialogue was no clearer now than it had been then. Thrusting her hand into the pocket of her skirt, she curled her fingers around the key to the upstairs rooms, the cold metal ridges pressing into her skin. A convenient reason to seek out Mrs. Bolifer. An opening for a long-overdue discussion.

Closing her eyes briefly, she stiffened her resolve before rapping lightly on the closed door of Mrs. Bolifer's private apartment.

"Yes?" The housekeeper's voice sounded impatient.

Emma smiled. It was nice to know that some things would always be as expected.

"Mrs. Bolifer? May I speak with you?"

A rustling sound, the sc.r.a.pe of a chair along the wooden floor, then the door was pulled open a crack. Mrs. Bolifer glared at her through the thin opening, gray eyes narrowed in undisguised irritability.

"I am working on the household accounts, Miss Parrish. What do you want?" She opened the door a fraction of an inch wider, and a soft scent drifted into the hallway. Like freshly squeezed lemons, Emma thought, frowning. There was something familiar about the smell. A medicinal quality that made it less than pleasant.

"I should like to speak with you for a moment, if I may." Emma angled herself into the opening, hoping that the housekeeper would not slam the door in her face.

"Only for a moment." Grudgingly, Mrs. Bolifer stepped back, indicating that Emma might enter.

Emma stepped through, surrept.i.tiously studying her surroundings and finding them rather unexpected. She would have predicted the housekeeper's apartment to be drab and gray, not unlike the woman herself. Somehow, she had imagined that Mrs. Bolifer would live in a stark and dark environment, with heavy furniture and cheerless decoration. Instead she found a bright room painted b.u.t.tercream yellow, with curtains of a slightly darker hue adorning the windows. They were pulled back with ta.s.seled ties, letting the daylight stream through the gla.s.s panes.

A lovely embroidered settee was against the far wall, and a matching chair angled toward the hearth. On the mantelpiece sat a cut-gla.s.s vase with pale pink roses that had yet to reach their full bloom. Two small gilt-framed miniature portraits flanked the vase. Emma caught a glimpse of a stern faced man portrayed in one, and a young girl, her lips turned up in the hint of a smile, depicted in the second.

The housekeeper crossed to a small round table with two delicately carved high-back chairs. She sat down in the chair facing Emma. With unblinking gaze and taciturn mien she flipped the cover of her journal closed and rested her open palm against the dark leather jacket, her fingers splayed outward, as if holding in the secrets of the tome they rested upon.

Though the second chair stood empty, Mrs. Bolifer did not offer it.

"Well? What do you want?" The housekeeper drummed her fingers on the book as she waited for Emma's response.

"I came to return the key to the rooms on the upper floor."

The drumming stopped abruptly. Mrs. Bolifer's fingers hung frozen above the leather journal, curled like unsheathed claws. "Give it here, then."

Pulling the key from her pocket, Emma drew closer. The smell she had noted earlier grew stronger. Lemons. Only laced with something disagreeable and foul.

Her breath caught in her throat. She knew that medicinal scent, recalled it too well, for it had swirled around her when she had stood in the icehouse. 'Twas the scent of locked doors, of malice and cruel intent.

"You did not find any secrets there, did you?" Mrs. Bolifer rubbed her maimed shoulder through the cloth of her dress, and the pungent aroma grew stronger, surrounding Emma in a rank eddy, leaving her belly roiling.

For a moment she thought Mrs. Bolifer spoke of the icehouse, openly acknowledging what she had done. But, no, she referred to the rooms on the third floor, Emma realized. She swallowed. "No. I found nothing save a thick film of dust and heavy, stale air."

Her gaze fastened on Mrs. Bolifer's hand, working her shoulder round and round, and the smell growing ever stronger. Had the housekeeper locked her in the icehouse, intending for her to fall? Did Lord Anthony know, and was that the reason for the odd conversation she had overheard?

The thought seemed ludicrous, as did the possibility that Lord Anthony would countenance his housekeeper stalking governesses like prey.

Anxious now to be away, Emma dropped the key on the table and quickly crossed to the door. She heard the rustle of Mrs. Bolifer's stiff black skirt as she adjusted her position, and the faint creak of the chair. With her hand resting on the bra.s.s k.n.o.b, Emma spoke over her shoulder, spurred by some inexplicable need to know for certain just who her enemy was.

"Do you smell lemons?" she asked.

When no reply was forthcoming, Emma turned toward the glacial silence of the room. The housekeeper sat with quill poised midair over the journal. Her cheeks were flushed and her brows drawn down in a scowl.

"My liniment. Cookie swears by it. She obtained the recipe from the village doctor, and she mixes a batch for me every few weeks. Goose grease melted with horseradish juice, mustard, and turpentine. And a grated rind of lemon with the juice added just to cut the smell." Mrs. Bolifer grunted. "I use it for my arm. The one that is gone."

From the village doctor? Did she mean Dr. Smythe? "Does it pain you still?" Emma asked, a flutter of sympathy tugging at her heart.

The housekeeper laughed mirthlessly. "Not as much as the deed itself. Less than two minutes it took. But the longest two minutes of my life. Sometimes, I wake at night and think it's still there. I reach for the gla.s.s beside my bed. I can feel my fingers close around it. But, of course, they don't. The fingers are gone, and the gla.s.s is left standing on the table."

Emma made a soft sound of sympathy. "How terrible."

"Terrible? Maybe. But it was either this, or a shroud and a cold grave. So he cut it off. I begged and screamed, but there were none to save me. My man was dead. My arm was worse than dead. Rotten to the core, stinking worse than a rancid meat pie..." Mrs. Bolifer's voice trailed away, and she stared at a spot on the ceiling, her eyes glazed and distant.

"Dear heaven." The images wrought by the housekeeper's words were appalling, and the ghastly sensibility made Emma light-headed. She moved to the table and sank into the empty chair, uninvited.

"You would think a person would forget after seven long years. But there are nights when the pain is as fresh as yesterday. And today, well, today I'm glad for Cookie's liniment."

"Have you mentioned this to Lord Anthony? Perhaps he has some cure...."

"Oh, aye. He has a cure." Mrs. Bolifer gave a sharp squawk of laughter, the harsh sound grating on Emma's nerves. "He's the one who cured it in the first place, and faster than any he was."

Emma pressed her fingers to her lips, her eyes stinging with tears of empathy, and then the horrifying understanding of Mrs. Bolifer's implication set in, leaving her thoughts spinning and her heart racing. "Lord Anthony cut off your arm," she whispered.

"And paid a price for it himself. He wanted to spare my suffering, and worked faster than the wings of a hummingbird, so I've been told. But his own hand got caught in the blade and he carved himself at the same time as he did me. Didn't stop him. He finished the deed, and only when it was done did he tend to his own wound."

The words slammed into Emma and a dark haze narrowed her vision as bitter bile clawed its way up her throat. The room spun and swayed and a shadowy tunnel narrowed her sight.

"Don't you go and faint on me, girl. I don't keep smelling salts." Mrs. Bolifer slapped her lightly on the cheek.

"No. Of course not," Emma murmured, then continued in a stronger voice. "I have never fainted in my life."

"Well, if you didn't just fall into a faint, my girl, then what would you call it? A nice nap?" Mrs. Bolifer laughed, a short, sharp sound. "What set you off? My story of how His Lordship lopped of my arm?"

Emma cringed. "The notion is rather unsettling," she conceded, though in truth the concept so horrified her that she felt ill. Yet, Lord Anthony had saved Mrs. Bolifer's life and been hurt himself in the process. She thought back to their conversation in his study, when he had told her that Delia had hated his maimed hand. He had saved Mrs. Bolifer's life but paid for his good deed both with his own blood and with his heart.

Mrs. Bolifer stared at her for a protracted moment.

"The notion is rather unsettling," she mimicked. Then to Emma's overwhelming astonishment, the woman threw back her head and laughed, loud and full, no restraint to her mirth. And then as she settled back, the housekeeper pulled a small tin from the pocket of her voluminous black dress. She held the tin in her palm, and used the tip of her thumb to flip the lid off, with amazing dexterity. "Lemon drop?"

"No, thank you." Emma eyed the sweet with revulsion. Never again would she regard anything with a lemony scent or taste in quite the same way as she had in the past.

Placing the open tin on the table, Mrs. Bolifer helped herself, tucked the candy in her cheek, and spoke around it.

"I was burned in a fire," she said matter-of-factly, answering a question Emma had not dared to ask. "My man was dead from the smoke. I only thank G.o.d he didn't live long enough to burn. My arm was charred blacker than coal, and the pain was worse than any I ever thought could be. No wonder there are fires in h.e.l.l. Don't think there is a worse pain a body could suffer." Mrs. Bolifer fell silent for a moment, her eyes focused on some distant vision of the past. "Except, maybe, the pain of loneliness."

"How terrible for you," Emma whispered, reaching over to place her hand over Mrs. Bolifer's, intent on offering comfort. Her own unsettled stomach seemed a paltry discomfort in the face of the other woman's suffering. To be burned in a fire, and lose her husband that self same night....

"No wonder then," she murmured. At the housekeeper's blank look, Emma explained, "The night I first arrived at Manorbrier, you warned me never to leave a candle unattended. And most of the house was dark. The whole thing was a bit unsettling, but now it makes perfect sense."

"Hmm. Does it now?" Pulling her hand away from Emma's gentle grasp, Mrs. Bolifer stood and crossed to the hearth. She took one of the miniatures from the mantelpiece. After gazing at the picture for a long moment, she then moved to Emma's side and held it out for the younger woman's inspection.

"My husband," she said, a wealth of emotion buried in those two simple words. Pain, loss, and heartbreak, softened only slightly by the intervening years. Mrs. Bolifer's marriage had been a love match, Emma realized with surprise.

"He buried it under the rose bushes."

"I beg your pardon?" Emma breathed, disoriented by the housekeeper's disjointed statement.

"I could not bear the thought of my arm being tossed out like refuse. And I do love roses."

"Your arm is buried under the rose bushes?" Emma glanced at the window, appalled. She walked beside those bushes almost every day.

"Not here," Mrs. Bolifer snapped. "Under my rose bushes. I had a small cottage on the outskirts of London. My daughter's husband rebuilt it after the fire. She lives there now, with him."

Emma had always imagined Mrs. Bolifer to be a lost soul, alone in the world, trapped in Lord Anthony's employ.

"Were you in Lord Anthony's employ before the fire?" she asked.

"No. No. I never knew Lord Anthony before that day. But his offer of a position is what kept me sane. Gave me a purpose where I had none." She paused. "My daughter was married by then, with a little one on the way. And her husband is a decent sort but not fond of my company." Mrs. Bolifer jerked her chin toward the miniature that remained on the mantel. "So there you have it."

Gave me purpose where I had none. As he had done for Emma, offering her a home, a place, a child to love. She saw it now, the glittering thread of good that wove through his actions. He took those scarred by life and loss, and he offered them hope. "And Griggs? And Cookie?" she asked. "Did he give them purpose where they had none?"

"Aye."

"Where are Cookie's scars?" Emma asked softly, barely daring to ask, but certain she wished to know. They were there. Hidden where none could see.

"In her heart. Her son died."

"Ohhh... Oh, how terrible." Emma felt the salt sting of tears p.r.i.c.k her eyes. Poor Cookie.