Emma and the Earl

Chapter Two

Emma went back to her room, buoyed by the desk clerk’s compliment. Yes, perhaps he was just being nice. It was his job, after all. But he had such an honest face that she allowed herself to believe him. A lovely girl like yourself. Your friend will be very happy when he sees you, I’m certain.

She returned her thoughts to work and sat down on the bed to take her notebook out of her bag. As she leafed through her notes from the day, she realized that she’d been so distracted that she hadn’t even written complete sentences. She’d been more consumed with anticipation than she’d realized. Now she’d have to rewrite all the notes before she forgot what they meant. With a sigh, she looked at her watch and hoped she’d have at least a little time after she’d finished to get ready for dinner.

The task took a little more than an hour, and when she was finished her hand was aching, but her purpose in coming had been reinforced. Part of her had been so eager to meet John that she’d let the goal of going to the earl of Palliser’s estate slip to the back burner. Now she remembered just how important it was.

When she’d first seen John’s photo of the earl’s Sheldale House garden on Guernsey, she’d been so surprised she nearly spilled her hot coffee in her lap. For nearly three years she and her boss had been researching natural alternative painkillers for arthritis and had narrowed it down to Schilus mucre, or St. Paul’s Heart, a very rare plant related to Barren Wort, which was itself a rare English plant.

Yet there, plain as the grass in John’s picture, was what looked like a large patch of St. Paul’s Heart. They’d examined the photo closely and determined that it looked very similar. Then funding for the research had run low and they’d been forced to turn their priorities elsewhere. Until a month ago, that was, when a new benefactor had donated nearly one million dollars to them for medical research. Emma had volunteered to come to the symposium and stay on using her vacation time in hopes of researching the plants and conditions at Sheldale House.

It was a goal she shouldn’t lose sight of, no matter how excited she was about meeting John. In fact, she might even need John to help her with it. Much as she hated to do it, if she didn’t hear from the earl soon—like on her way out the door this evening—she was going to have to ask John if he could pull any strings to get her permission to visit Sheldale House. Heaven knew she didn’t want to do it. After their initial correspondence, she’d tried to keep business out of their relationship, but if she explained to him how important it was, maybe he would want to help. That thought boosted her optimism considerably.

She set her notes aside and went to the cupboard for a towel so she could get showered and ready for dinner. She bathed quickly and dried her hair. After trying three different “meeting John” outfits, she finally settled on a simple yellow sundress, cut in a classic forties’ style that created the illusion of a narrow waist thanks to a full skirt. It wasn’t one of her new “going to London” outfits, but it was an old favorite that she felt comfortable in.

Her hair, as usual, was proving to be a problem. It fell halfway down her back in a thick tangle of auburn curls. After trying several possibilities, she finally decided to let it hang in wild curls about her shoulders. Luckily all the latest fashion magazines were heralding that look as “pre-Raphaelite fabulous,” which she supposed was a good thing. She brushed some color on her cheeks and lips, the way the girl at the drugstore had taught her, and went downstairs to wait for John.

She went to the front step and sat in the balmy evening air, drinking in the sights, sounds and smells of London. The sky was deepening blue, with streaks of lipstick pink stretching across the horizon. Some of the birds in the leafy green trees were singing new songs, unfamiliar to Emma.

A small blue car pulled up outside the hotel. That, Emma realized as she looked at its tiny dimensions, must be what they call a Mini. There was a man in it, alone. Her heart tripped. It was almost certainly John. The time had finally come.

The man got out of the car and walked toward the hotel. He was tall, with a lean, muscular build. His dark hair, just a bit longish at the collar, gleamed in the amber evening sunlight, bringing Sir Lancelot to mind.

But nothing could have prepared her for the exquisite dignity of his face or, more specifically, her heart-pounding reaction to it. Even from a distance, she was struck by the masculine square jaw, and the sensual perfection of his curved mouth. His cheekbones were strong and noble-looking without being so high as to be “pretty.” As he drew closer, she could see that his straight dark brows framed pale, intelligent eyes. Eyes that made her feel, for one irrational moment, that she was home.

“Hello,” he said, nearing her.

“Hi,” she said, but it sounded like a question. Was it him? Was it really him?

He stopped before her and cocked his head slightly to the side. “Emma?”

She gave a slight nod—the best she could do, considering the fact that his looks had practically paralyzed her—and only then realized that she’d been holding her breath.

He smiled, extending his hand. “I’m John Turnhill.”

It was him. Had she ever even imagined he would be so handsome? That old familiar self-consciousness about her own looks resurfaced. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand.

He held her gaze easily as he took her hand in his. “You are exactly as I imagined.”

Something about the way he said it put her at ease. She believed him, and it was okay. “Am I?”

“Exactly.” He let go of her hand and they started to walk side-by-side to the car. “So how do you like London so far, Emma?”

“I really love it,” she said, hoping he couldn’t hear her thundering heart. It had to be nerves, she told herself. After all, this was John. She knew him already, there was nothing to be nervous about.

“Good. I’ve chosen a little place for dinner just around the corner in Hampstead Heath.” His voice was low and rich, with a perfectly measured English accent. That part of it was as she’d imagined. “I hope you like French food?”

He had once mentioned in his letters wanting to take her to the famous Thames Gate Restaurant. Had he changed his mind? She had the unwelcome thought that perhaps he was embarrassed to be seen with her since she wasn’t beautiful. But he wasn’t like that, she knew he wasn’t. It was probably just because he was on a budget, like she was. It was all well and good to say you wanted to take someone to a fancy restaurant, but it wasn’t so easily done. “Yes, I love French food,” she said. “That sounds great.”

“I realize it’s not typically British, but the food is quite good, and it’s in one of London’s most Dickensian spots. I thought you’d prefer that to boiled potatoes in the business district.”

She laughed. “You made the right call.”

He led her to the Mini and opened the door for her. She smiled and, as gracefully as possible, folded her five-foot-eight-inch frame into the car. John had to be at least six feet tall, probably taller. The Mini seemed like an odd choice of car for him, though he had less trouble getting in gracefully than she had.

Driving it was another story. After he ground the gear into first and lurched the car out into the street, they drove in silence for a couple of miles before John said, “I have to admit, this is a bit awkward for me.”

“It is a funny little car,” she agreed, wondering why the car struck her as so discordant with the man.

He gave a brief laugh. “No—well, yes, but I meant meeting this way. After all this time.”

“Oh, that. Me, too.” She glanced at him, but her self-consciousness surged again, and she decided it was best to concentrate on the passing scenery so she could actually get a few sentences out without being dazzled by his looks. “You know, suddenly I feel like we don’t really know each other at all.” She glanced back at him.

He gave a sober nod. “I think it’s safe to say there are a lot of things we don’t know about each other.” He glanced over at her as he drew to a halt at a pedestrian crossing. “Quite a lot.”

A tremor buzzed through her. Excitement? Or trepidation? She couldn’t say. “Sounds like someone’s got some skeletons in the closet. Or the tower.”

“The tower?” He glanced at her, then put the car back into gear and edged forward.

“You know, the Tower of London.” She laughed nervously, immediately embarrassed at the lame joke and wishing she could take it back. “Sorry, I’ve had the aristocracy on my mind for the past few days.” That didn’t come out right either. “I mean, it’s impossible not to in a city like this. It can really make an ordinary person feel like a peasant.”

“Ah.” He watched the road in front of him, but she noticed his grip adjust and tighten on the steering wheel. “Well, chimney sweep or…or earl, isn’t it what’s inside that counts?”

She breathed a sigh of relief. He was picking it up instead of just letting her comment fall with a thud. “I’ve always thought it only mattered what was on the inside.” She looked at his handsome profile and smiled to herself. Nothing wrong with that outside though, she thought. “As long as you’re honest about it.”

He stiffened and kept his eyes fastened on the road. “Right.” He turned the car into a sleepy Georgian block just north of Hampstead Heath. The street was lined with tall trees, and narrow alleys with tiny shops: booksellers, herbalists, boutiques. Several pubs that they passed had tables set up outside. “Although sometimes people have very good reasons for not telling the truth.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know that there’s ever a good reason to lie to someone you care about and trust.” She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. Several months ago, she’d finally told John about an incident which had nearly destroyed her career and had wreaked havoc with her emotions.

Eight years back, when she’d been working at a pharmaceutical laboratory, her supervisor had helped himself to the inventory after hours using a magnetized identification card that was linked to Emma, just in case he got caught. He’d been careful to use the duplicate card only late at night, when Emma wasn’t likely to come in with her original card. He’d viewed her as a plain Jane, correctly guessing that she would have little or no social life, and thus no alibi for her late-night hours. She’d been the perfect person to frame. Indeed, when the crime was detected, Emma had been under heavy scrutiny for the first several weeks of the investigation.

When all was said and done, the worst part of it for Emma was knowing that her supervisor had been stealing for months and lying to her all that time. She would never have dreamed he was betraying her that way.

“I know you feel strongly about telling the truth,” John said, parking in front of a charming restaurant called La Fontaine du Mars. He got out of the car and came around to open Emma’s door for her. It was a small gallantry, but still appreciated. “I do, too, really. I only meant that sometimes people lie with good intentions.” He took a bracing breath. “Anyway, this is a nice little place to eat. Usually they have tables set out in the morning and people come for coffee and to watch the world go by. It’s a good place for that.”

“I can imagine.”

They walked toward the ivy-clad front door. Emma thought of the help she needed from John in getting to Brice Palliser and wondered if he would find it dishonest of her to ask for that kind of help. “It is all in the intention,” she agreed, deciding it would be best for her to mention the favor before they ate, rather than running the risk of appearing to butter him up first.

The restaurant was as charming inside as out. The walls were made of weathered brick, and a huge fireplace sat dormant at one end of the room. The red-checked tablecloths were worn but clean, and the unlit candles on each table were secured in various old, mostly inexpensive, wine bottles. It was quietly intimate, and she was suddenly glad he hadn’t chosen a more famous and probably austere place instead. This was comfortable and comfort was definitely helpful right now.

“John,” she said, after they were seated and had studied their menus for a few minutes.

He didn’t answer.

“John,” she said again, louder.

There was another moment’s hesitation before he made a small exclamation and said, “Sorry. Did you say something to me?”

“Yes.” She gathered her nerve. She really hated to ask this of him, but she had to, and she had to do it now and get it over with. “I’m afraid I have a favor to ask of you. A big favor, that is.” She sucked air in through her teeth. “A really big favor.”

“Of course. What is it?”

Three solid heartbeats passed. “I need to meet Brice Palliser.”

Was it her imagination or did his face pale? “Why do you need to meet him?”

He sounded stung. “Actually, I don’t really need to meet him,” she said quickly. “I just need to talk with him. Specifically, I need permission to go to his estate and dig around in the gardens a little.”

“Sheldale House.” His voice was monotone.

“That’s right.”

The restaurant lights dimmed and the waitress came to the table to light the candle. “Would you like some wine with dinner?” she asked.

“Please. Could you bring a bottle of Dom—” He stopped, cleared his throat. “How about a sparkling wine of some sort?” He looked to Emma for approval.

“Great.” She nodded.

He looked at the menu, and pointed one out. “This is from a good region.”

The waitress made a note on her pad, then asked Emma, “Are you ready to order?”

Emma hesitated, unsure of the budget. Though he’d never specifically said, she guessed from his job description that John wasn’t much better off than she, so she looked down the right-hand side of the menu for the least expensive dishes. She was about to order the grilled chicken breast when John spoke.

“How about the filet mignon with bearnaise?” he suggested. “The beef is local and quite good.”

“Filet mignon? Really?” Emma couldn’t even remember the last time she’d had real steak instead of hamburger.

He raised an eyebrow. “Does it not appeal to you?”

“I’d love it, but…” She lowered her voice and spoke through her teeth. “It’s kind of pricey…”

“Don’t worry about that. If it’s something you want, you’re certainly worth it.” He smiled, and his eyes lit a flame in her heart.

“Well, it does sound good—”

“Then it’s settled.” He slapped his menu shut.

“The filet for both of us,” he said to the waitress, keeping his eyes on Emma.

“Are you sure about this?” Emma asked, when the waitress had gone. She was warmed by the idea that he was trying so hard to make it a memorable evening for her, but worried that he was overextending himself to do it.

“Absolutely,” he said, without a trace of doubt. “Now. Where were we?”

“Brice Palliser.”

He looked startled for a moment, then his expression relaxed some and he said, “The garden.”

She nodded, noting for the second time that he wanted to keep the subject off the man. Clearly there was discomfort there, and she wondered if John thought she’d rather meet the earl than spend time with him. “Right, the garden,” she said, trying to reassure him. “Frankly, I’m not sure I have much use for the man. You know, I tried writing to him for permission, but he didn’t even bother to respond. You’d think he could at least have had his secretary or someone write back.”

He looked pained. “We-ell. Maybe he didn’t get your letter. He may be out of the country. He travels quite a lot, you know.”

“But doesn’t he have a private secretary?”

“Not at home,” he said, then added quickly, “Or, uh, did you write to him at his office?”

“Home, I guess. Sheldale House on Guernsey.”

John clicked his tongue against his teeth. “I don’t think he goes there very often.”

Hope deflated. “There’s no way to get in touch with him at all? For permission, I mean.”

John laced his hands before him on the table and considered for a moment, before he said, “This is really important to you, I know.” He let out a pentup breath and raked a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I feel bad that I let it go this long. I should have arranged for you to go to Guernsey as soon as I got your letter.”

Emma reached across the table and touched his arm. “John, this isn’t your responsibility. There was no reason you should have made the arrangements for me, that’s my job.” She tried to lighten it with a laugh. “I don’t even think I mentioned Sheldale in my letter to you. I’m only asking your help now because it doesn’t look like the man is going to bother to answer a nobody like me, at least in his eyes.”

“Emma, it’s not like that—”

“Here we go,” the waitress called, reappearing with their wine. She set the glasses down, then opened the bottle, poured them each a glass, and left with a promise to bring their dinners along in a few minutes.

Emma watched her go, then said, “To be fair, I didn’t tell the earl of Palliser just how important this might be. I didn’t want to overstate it because if I’m wrong, I’m just a crackpot, you know? I didn’t want to make any grand claims that could later be called lies or exaggerations. Especially not to this fancy-schmancy earl, who would probably think I was just trying to rub elbows with the upper crust.”

He stiffened. “Why would he think that?”

“Well, I’m not, of course,” she hastened to amend. “You know that.” She took a sip of her wine, then gestured with the glass. “What I meant was, he’s rich and powerful. I suspect people are approaching him for money and favors all the time.”

“Not like this.” When she looked at him, he added, “Probably.” He smiled then, snatching her breath away.

She shrugged. “Maybe not, but he doesn’t know me from any of the rest of the masses.”

His smile faded slightly. “It’s definitely a tough situation.” There was weight in his words. Emma found herself trying to figure out why. After a pause, he went on, “But I think perhaps you’re underestimating him.”

“Really?” She was interested. “How well do you know him?”

He frowned, started to speak then stopped. After another moment, he said, “That’s hard to say.” He poured more wine into her glass. “Well enough to know that he really means well, but doesn’t always know how to juggle all of his responsibilities.”

“Does he really have that much to keep track of?”

“You’d be surprised.” He finished his wine in a gulp. “A multi-national company, several estates—there’s quite a lot, actually.”

“I see.” She wanted to believe it, but something told her there was more to it than that. “Then maybe he didn’t get my letter. Maybe, as you said, he’s out of the country.” A moment passed. “Then again, he may have got it and ignored it. There’s just no way of knowing.”

He appeared to consider that carefully. “If that’s the case, then I’m sure he had his reasons.”

Emma felt a twinge of guilt. She was starting to get the feeling that John’s friendship with the earl was closer than he’d indicated. She tried to lighten things up with a laugh. “Do you always play devil’s advocate?”

He smiled again, and she was relieved that the tension seemed to be broken. “Only when the poor devil isn’t able to defend himself. Listen, Emma, let me see what I can do about arranging some time at Sheldale House,” he said, then added, more to himself, “Though I don’t see how you could stay there.”

“Stay there?” Such a thought had never even occurred to her. “No, no, I don’t want to stay there, I just want to hunt around the grounds.”

“It’s holiday season,” he said, taking a sip of his wine. “It won’t be easy to find accommodations on Guernsey itself.”

“I’ll pitch a tent outside the estate, I don’t mind.”

He studied her for a minute, then said, “You’re very determined.”

Self-conscious, she tilted her head toward the window. “I am where this is concerned.” Outside, the sun was dipping behind the buildings into dusk, providing little light to compete with the candles in the small bistro. It was intoxicating.