"It was not intended to be amusing." He reached up to pluck the absurd glasses from his nose. The green eyes glittered with a sudden intensity. "I wish to give you a monthly allowance. It will be large enough to ensure you can rent a house and even hire a proper companion to lend you all the respectability you desire."

Emma stumbled backward. It was not at all what she had been expecting. Good heavens, she would have been less shocked had he requested she help filch the crown jewels. That at least would have been in character with the Devilish Dandy.

But this ...

With an effort Emma drew herself up straight. She did not know how her father had deduced how best to tempt her. Before this moment she would have laid odds he did not even know the color of her eyes. But she did know that she was not about to sell her forgiveness for a few hundred pounds.

"No."

Her father remained unperturbed by her sharp refusal. "You needn't fear the money was stolen from some poor wretch, Emma," he drawled. "It is a perfectly proper legacy from a great-uncle."

Her lips thinned. She did not give a fig where the money came from. She would not be beholden to this man.

"I do not need anything from you."

"We have already agreed upon your competence, my dear. I do not offer the money because I fear you are too dull-witted to manage without me. I merely wish you to have it as a gift."

Visions of the Trojan horse rose to mind.

"Why?"

He gave a rueful shrug. "Because I have been a horrid father. Because I do not desire to see you hiring yourself out as a common servant. Because I wish you to have a home."

Oh, he was good, Emma had to acknowledge wryly. There were no arrogant commands. No embarrassing pleas. No ultimatums. Just sweet temptation dangled before her like a fine wine before a drunkard.

It was little wonder he had enjoyed such a brilliant career.

"I do not need your charity."

"Charity? Really, Emma, I hardly consider a father supporting his daughter as charity."

"Perhaps not among most fathers and daughters. But ours is hardly a common relationship."

The Devilish Dandy readily smiled at her accusation. "No, I have never been of the common variety, but that does not make me any less your father."

She heaved an exasperated sigh at his tenacity. "I do not wish to argue with you. I have made my decision."

Her father reached out to brush her cheek in a familiar motion. "I have no desire to argue either, Emma, but neither do I intend to concede defeat. Sarah warned me that I should find it easier to teach cows to fly as to convince you to accept my offer. Thankfully, I am quite as stubborn as you. I shall remain in Kent as long as necessary."

She instinctively stepped form his touch, a frown marring her brow.

"You cannot continue to stay with Mr. Allensway."

Solomon grimaced. "A most daunting prospect, I must admit. He is a ghastly bore. Still, my willingness to endure such company should at least assure you of the sincerity of my desire to make amends."

Emma remained unimpressed. "You do realize that Mr. Allensway is expecting you to offer him a position?" she pointed out. "It is hardly kind to raise his expectations, only to dash them."

"Any expectations he is harboring are nothing more than a figment of his pompous imaginings," the Devilish Dandy retorted without remorse. "The bishop made no mention of a position in his letter. He merely requested that I be his guest for a short visit."

Emma gave a click of her tongue. "There is no bishop. I know quite well that you wrote that letter."

Solomon slowly raised his brows. "I fear I must disappoint you, Emma. It was indeed a genuine bishop who wrote the letter. He is an old friend of mine."

"You expect me to believe a bishop would be friends with a notorious jewel thief?"

"Oh, the irony is not lost on me," her father admitted with a wry smile. "However, in his defense, Francis was not a bishop when we first met. Indeed, we were both grubby school-lads who were far smaller than the other boys and inclined to be routinely bullied. We formed an alliance more out of survival than anything else. Over the years we remained close despite the bishop's disapproval of my chosen profession."

Irony, indeed, Emma acknowledged with an inward sigh. Trust the Devilish Dandy to be hand in hand with a bishop.

"And this bishop agreed to deceive a fellow man of the cloth so you could follow me to Kent?" she demanded in disapproving tones. "Hardly what one would expect from a leader of the Church."

Her prim words did nothing more than widen his smile.

"Francis is not so easily influenced by my wicked charm as that," he denied. "When he wrote the letter, the genuine Mr. Winchell had every intention of traveling to Kent. Of course, it was not for the purpose the vicar presumes. He was coming to determine whether the nasty rumors surrounding Mr. Allensway's indifference to his flock were true. The bishop is a stern believer that the Church is duty-bound to succor those in need. Unfortunately Mr. Winchell fell ill before he could undertake the task, and knowing I had already made plans to travel to Mayford, he requested that I take the place of Mr. Winchell. It was my own notion not to reveal I was not the guest the vicar was expecting. I feared that you might bolt if you learned I was coming."

As well she might have, Emma inwardly acknowledged. Had she been given the opportunity to brood upon the arrival of the Devilish Dandy, she was not certain even her promise to Lord Hartshore would have prevented her from fleeing Kent.

"Well, at least your visit will not be entirely wasted," she forced herself to say. "The bishop should be told of Mr. Allensway's wretched behavior."

"Oh, he will be told. But not until I have assured myself that you are happy."

Realizing that her father was preparing to renew his insistence that she accept his charity, Emma gathered her scattered wits.

She should have walked away the moment he had approached.

It would have been far less disturbing to continue with her belief he had pursued her for the emerald necklace.

"I must return to Mayford. Lady Hartshore will be expecting me."

"Emma." Her father reached out to grasp her arm. "At least think upon my offer."

"I must go."

Shaking off his hand, Emma moved swiftly through the trees.

Think upon his offer? Not bloody likely.

Heavens above. She had assumed she had troubles before. Ghosts, pirates, fortune-tellers, and irresistible lords seemed enough for any innocent maiden to bear. But suddenly they were all but inconsequential.

How could they possibly compare to a father disguised as an emissary for the bishop, who also happened to be a wanted jewel thief?

Her thoughts ran in circles as she let herself into the quiet house. What she needed was a cup of hot tea and a few hours in her chambers to soothe her tangled nerves, she decided. Or better yet, a healthy sampling of the fine brandy Lady Hartshore kept beside her bed.

She certainly would not be the first person the Devilish Dandy had driven to the bottle.

Her feet were already leading her up the wide flight of steps, but even as she turned to continue up to her chambers, she discovered herself hesitating upon the landing.

It was odd, but the offhand thought of her employer had sent an icy chill down her spine.

An unconscious frown tugged at her brows as Emma attempted to dismiss the ludicrous sensation.

She had seen Lady Hartshore only an hour before, and she had been in high spirits. In fact, she had been happily chatting about her plans for the upcoming ball and her intention to spend the afternoon sketching her ideas for decorating the ballroom.

Still, she could not force herself to continue her path to the upper rooms.

Blast, she was being absurd, she told herself as she moved down the corridor toward the maid busily dusting a pier table. Her unease was no doubt a symptom of her confrontation with her father.

Unfortunately she knew she would not be able to go to her rooms until she had assured herself that Lady Hartshore was comfortably settled with her sketches.

"Sally, do you know where I can find Lady Hartshore?" she asked of the servant.

Pausing in her dusting, the maid gave a jerk of her head toward a distant door. "In the library, miss."

"Thank you."

Emma continued her way down the corridor, that icy prickle growing more pronounced the closer she came. By the time she reached the library, she was nearly running.

Muttering at her foolishness, she pushed open the door. She thoroughly expected to discover the countess seated at her delicate desk or even stealing a nap upon the chaise longue.

What she found instead was Lady Hartshore lying next to the fireplace with a trickle of blood running from a wound on her forehead.

For a moment Emma was frozen with shock.

Surely the good lady had not been attacked in her own home? It was unthinkable. And yet, what other explanation was there for the ugly cut and her state of unconsciousness? Unless she had fainted and hit her head . . .

Her rambling confusion was abruptly thrust aside as her wide gaze traveled over the limp form and came to rest upon the full skirts of Lady Hartshore's bombazine gown. Unexplainably, the grate had been removed from the front of the smoldering fire and the full skirts had fallen close enough to the coals to have been set ablaze.

With a cry of alarm Emma dashed to her employer and, falling to her knees, she began beating out the flames with her hands.

"Sally," she cried out, praying the maid was still working in the corridor. She had no way of knowing how badly Lady Hartshore was injured. The cut did not appear life-threatening, but any blow to the head was dangerous.

Thankfully the startled maid appeared in the doorway in bare moments, her gasp echoing through the silent room.

"Cor . . . is she dead?"

"No," Emma snapped, ignoring the pain of her singed hands. "But she is in need of a doctor. Have Mallory fetch one immediately."

The maid dashed away, and Emma returned her attention to the wound upon Lady Hartshore's forehead. Withdrawing a handkerchief, she carefully dabbed at the sticky blood.

Debating whether or not to fetch the brandy to clean the cut, Emma felt a flare of profound relief as Lady Hartshore's lashes fluttered, then slowly lifted.

"Emma?" she whispered in confusion.

"Do not move. You have had an accident."

"An accident?"

"I believe so-"

"What has occurred?" a dark, decidedly concerned male voice intruded into Emma's words, and she glanced up to discover Lord Hartshore crossing the room with vast strides.

Emma had never been so happy to seen anyone in her entire life. In fact, she might have jumped up and kissed him if her shaky limbs would have supported her. Instead, she waited for him to drop down beside her before flashing him a relieved glance.

If anyone could be trusted in an emergency, it was this gentleman.

"Oh, my lord, I found your aunt unconscious on the floor. She is injured."

"Aunt Cassie, can you hear me?" Lord Hartshore demanded, his countenance unnaturally pale.

"Yes." Lady Hartshore raised a limp hand to touch the bump on her forehead.

"Do you know what happened?"

Surprisingly, a weak smile tugged at the older woman's lips. "I am not certain I wish to confess," she said in rueful tones. "It is so silly."

Emma exchanged a startled glance with Lord Hartshore before he lifted his aunt's hand to give it a warm squeeze.

"We would never think you silly, my dearest."

"But it was silly," Lady Hartshore protested. "I decided that the room had grown a bit chilled, and rather than bother the servants, I decided to stir the fire myself. Only when I bent down to retrieve the poker, I hit my head on the mantel."

"An accident that could happen to anyone," Lord Hartshore said softly. "But we must have someone see to that cut."

"I have sent Mallory for the doctor," Emma assured him swiftly.

He flashed her an appreciative glance. "Quite right. I shall carry her to her chambers." Reaching out to scoop his arms beneath his aunt, he suddenly stilled, his gaze trained on the blisters dotting the palms of Emma's hands. "What have you done?"

With a hint of embarrassment Emma abruptly buried her hands in the folds of her skirt.

"The hem of Lady Hartshore's dress had fallen into the fire."

Lord Hartshore's gaze flickered down to the badly charred material before returning to her face in disbelief.

"And you put the flames out with your hands?"

Emma shrugged. "I fear I was not thinking clearly."

Lady Hartshore gave a loud gasp. "But, my dear . . . you saved my life."

Lord Hartshore's gaze never wavered from Emma's growingly pink countenance.

"She did, indeed."

Emma shifted uncomfortably. "Nonsense."

"That is the reason Fredrick sent you to me," Lady Hartshore babbled, only increasing Emma's embarrassment. "He knew you would save me. How ever can I thank you?"

The sharp memory of the unease that had sent her in search of Lady Hartshore flickered through her mind. Could it be true? Had Lady Hartshore's dead husband managed to reach out from the grave to steer her to the library at precisely the moment Lady Hartshore was in peril? Had he brought her to Kent for just this moment?