He slanted a steely gray gaze in her direction and took a long swallow of his drink. His face gave no indication of his emotions other than the hint of amusement she saw in his eyes before a shuttered look took its place. It made Isabella furious.
“So the earl did not harm you,” Mr. Braun stated reflectively. He was certainly in a very delicate position. Since she was his employee, Mr. Braun felt he owed a measure of loyalty to Isabella. After all, she was an unprotected female living in his household and clearly his responsibility. However, Mr. Braun was not unaware of either Damien's fierce reputation or his social stature. The man was an earl, and although he had a somewhat tarnished reputation, he was still a member of the English aristocracy.
True, Mr. Braun had heard about the mysterious death of the Countess of Saunders several years ago, but he also remembered hearing about Damien's obsessive insistence that his wife was not dead. Then there were all the wild rumors inferring that the countess had committed suicide, while some of the more sordid stories even hinted at murder, with the earl as the chief suspect.
Mr. Braun considered all that ancient history at the moment. Damien St. Lawrence had stated his case this afternoon, before Miss Browning had been summoned, in a very calm, very persuasive, and very civilized manner. It truly did not matter if Mr. Braun personally thought the idea that his children's governess was the missing wife of an earl was completely preposterous. He was certainly not about to disagree with a man who by every account was his superior. Mr. Braun had not earned his vast fortune by being a fool.
“As you can plainly see, Mr. Braun, my wife has reacted precisely as I predicted she would when I first explained this bizarre situation to you,” Damien stated smoothly. “I ask only that you allow me to escort Emmeline to Lord Poole's house in Grovesnor Square. After she has seen and spoken to her brother, I believe she will be more reasonable.”
The room remained silent as Damien pressed on. “Afterward, Emmeline will naturally be free to return here, if she wishes.”
“That seems very fair, my lord,” Mr. Braun replied slowly, pleased the earl had given him an easy choice. It was a reasonable request, asking Miss Browning to accompany him to Lord Poole's. And it left room for the possibility, if the earl was somehow mistaken, then Miss Browning would be free to return, although nothing in Damien St. Lawrence's attitude or tone suggested there was even a remote possibility he was wrong.
“Fair?” Isabella repeated in a voice that sounded far too loud, even to her own ears. “You honestly think this man has devised a fair solution to this absurd situation?”
“The earl is only requesting your cooperation for a few hours,” Mr. Braun insisted. “It can do no harm for you to visit Lord Poole this afternoon. He will be able to verify your identity.”
“I don't need anyone to verify my identity,” Isabella replied tensely, unable to believe what she was hearing. She sat very still while she considered the best course of action. Belatedly she realized her hands were trembling. She folded them in front of her. “I am sorry, Mr. Braun, but I must refuse to accompany
the earl
anywhere.”
A charged, furious silence greeted Isabella's announcement. She could feel the resentment of both Mr. and Mrs. Braun, but it was the earl's fury that truly frightened her. His face was a taut mask of controlled anger. His steely gray eyes glittered with terrifying intensity and the whiteness around the edges of his mouth testified to his barely restrained emotion.
“You will accompany me, Emmeline.”
Isabella flinched at the cold-blooded tone of the earl's deep voice. “I will not,” she declared stoutly.
“I think it would be best for all concerned if you do as the earl requests, Miss Browning,” Mr. Braun injected.
“I have already made my feelings quite clear about this,” Isabella insisted softly. “And I must add that I would not feel comfortable working for someone who had so little regard for my personal feelings, Mr. Braun,” Isabella added a trifle recklessly. She knew it was a gamble, but she also knew her only chance to avoid being hauled away by the earl was to convince Mr. Braun to support her.
Isabella waited tensely for Mr. Braun to make his decision, beginning to experience a ray of hope when he did not immediately answer.
“If that is truly the way you feel, Miss Browning,” Mr. Braun said with a regretful sigh, “perhaps it is best if you terminate your employment with us.”
Isabella's heart sank at his announcement, but she listened to his answer with stoic acceptance. She was used to having her feelings and opinions disregarded; it had been that way for most of her life. But she had foolishly hoped it would be different this time.
Isabella sighed. For a brief moment, she thought she might have persuaded Mr. Braun to take her side. She rose regally to her feet and faced the Brauns. There was a hint of tension in the way she held her shoulders, and the hurt in her eyes was evident.
“Are you absolutely certain you wish to terminate my employment?”
Mr. Braun had the grace to look embarrassed. Before he could reply, his wife intervened. “We believe it is best for all concerned if you leave,” she insisted.
“I'll go upstairs and pack my things immediately.” Isabella turned and walked slowly toward the drawing room doors. It was over. She had just lost her fourth position. What would she do now? She felt dazed and a little sick to her stomach.
When her hand touched the door latch, the earl spoke. “I will await you in the front hall, Emmeline.”
At the sound of his voice, Isabella's knuckles went white around the brass handle, but she forced herself to remain calm. She tried to reply, but her throat was too dry. She had to swallow a few times before answering.
“As you wish, my lord,” Isabella replied in a wry tone. She shut the door quickly behind her and hurried up the stairs to her room, silently vowing she would beg on the streets before accompanying that dreadful man anywhere.
Chapter Four
Isabella wrenched a plain brown dress off its hook and flung it onto her bed. She swore vehemently and reached into the wardrobe for another gown. She yanked out the remaining three garments and cursed again. Then she pulled out her worn satchel from the bottom of the empty oak cabinet.
Growing up in an all-male household did have its advantages, Isabella decided, repeating a favorite curse of her eldest brother, the exact meaning of which she did not fully understand.
She kept her anger fueled by alternating her cursing and throwing, and within minutes all her clothing was scattered on the bed. After all her meager belongings were assembled, Isabella quickly gathered them up and stuffed them into the satchel.
Normally she would have carefully and methodically folded each and every garment before packing it, but Isabella was not about to take the time to pack neatly. It was imperative she vacate the house quickly, and neatness would be a deterrent to that goal.
Isabella embraced her anger, knowing it was buffering her from the true reality of her situation. If her anger left, it would be replaced by fear. Cold, unmitigated terror at the prospect of once again being without a job, without a home, without any security at all. And worst of all, the maniacal earl, the cause of all her recent distress, awaited her downstairs. Above all else he must be avoided.
Shuddering with emotion, Isabella jammed her straw bonnet on her head and hastily threw on her coat. She pulled too hard on a button and it went flying, but she did not take the time to search for it. Better to lose a button than lose a chance at escape.
You must hurry, you must hurry,
Isabella repeated methodically to herself as she lifted her satchel. She paused briefly in the hallway outside her door, toying with the notion of saying good-bye to the children but rapidly discarded the notion. She could not afford to waste the time it would take to walk to the schoolroom at the opposite side of the house. Let the Brauns explain to their children why their governess had left so suddenly.
Quietly, efficiently, Isabella strode down the hallway to the servants' staircase. When she reached the first floor, she cautiously edged her way across the short hallway toward the kitchen at the back end of the house. She strongly suspected the earl had positioned himself at the bottom of the grand staircase in the front of the house, but if he moved to the side of the foyer, there was a slight chance he might see her at the back entrance.
Thankfully, Isabella reached the kitchen without incident. For once the busy room was deserted, except for the cook, who was sitting in a large rocking chair in front of the fireplace, snoring softly.
Isabella could scarcely believe her good fortune. She had neither the time nor the desire to exchange lengthy farewells with the household's servants and now it appeared she would escape the house without anyone seeing her at all. Silently she lifted the kitchen door handle and gingerly stepped outside into the small courtyard facing the rear of the house.
Isabella paused a moment, debating which direction to take. She would have preferred going straight ahead, walking through the Brauns' formal gardens, crossing the neighboring property, and emerging onto the street behind the Brauns' house. But a rather high fence divided the two properties and Isabella was uncertain she could scale it.
Instead, she turned to her right and rapidly walked along the shortest section of the house, crouching low to avoid being seen through any of the windows. Turning again, she followed the narrow brick footpath along the side of the mansion, heading toward the street front. She struggled for a moment with the iron latch on the gate guarding the entrance to the Brauns' yard but successfully swung it open on her third attempt.
“Going somewhere, Emmeline?”
Isabella was so startled by the earl's voice that she dropped her satchel. She jerked her head around and saw him standing in front of the house only a few feet away. He was leaning casually against the brick facade, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He looked very pleased with himself.
Drat the man, must he be everywhere? Isabella bent down to retrieve her satchel and slowly stood upright. She simply stared at the earl for a few minutes, feeling completely lost. His superior attitude grated on her nerves. She gritted her teeth and considered a variety of actions. Isabella glanced briefly down at the earl's strong, muscular legs and knew for certain she could never outrun him. Perhaps it was possible to outwit him.
“Ahh, I can almost see the wheels turning in that devious head of yours, Emmeline.” The earl pushed himself off the wall and took a step toward her.
Isabella decided it was time to take a stand against him. She thrust her chin in the air.
“I give you fair warning, sir. If you do not allow me past you, I shall scream. Very loudly.”
“You will?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” The earl stroked his chin thoughtfully. He appeared singularly unimpressed by Isabella's threats. Desperately, she tried again.
“I am not going with you, sir.”
“You are going to do precisely what I tell you to do, Emmeline.”
“For the last time, I am not Emmeline!”
Isabella shrieked loudly, but the fight soon left her. She brought her hand to her head and rubbed her temple vigorously. It was no use. No matter how many times she shouted the truth at this man, he would not relent. He would never relent. He would hound her until he got his way.
“What do you want from me?” she finally whispered.
Damien's eyes narrowed in suspicion as he observed her abrupt change of attitude. She had dropped her defiant stance and her eyes were lowered in classic feminine submission.
“Accompany me to your brother's house, Emmeline. I want to see his face when I confront him with you standing by my side.”
“If I do as you ask, will you then leave me in peace?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it does not turn out as you anticipate? Do you promise, do you swear to me on your word of honor, you will leave me alone?”
“I have already stated that I agree,” Damien growled softly. “And I, unlike yourself, abide by my word.”
“All right,” Isabella sighed in defeat. “I will accompany you.”
The earl gave a masculine grunt of satisfaction and moved forward to grab her arm. Isabella neatly sidestepped him and hurried toward the impressive carriage parked in front of the Brauns' house. She blinked resentfully at the coat of arms boldly emblazoned on the door of the shining black vehicle. It reminded her of the carriage her grandfather rode in.
A young servant dressed in elegant blue and silver livery eagerly jumped down from his position on the back of the coach when he saw them approaching. The servant respectfully opened the door, and against her better judgment, Isabella allowed him to assist her inside the coach.
She waited with a feeling of impending doom for the earl to join her. She could hear his deep voice outside the carriage as he gave his driver instructions, and she nervously adjusted the folds of her cloak on the cushions. Her heart began beating erratically at the thought of spending any length of time in such a close, confined space with the earl.
He entered the carriage all too soon, and to Isabella's dismay elected to sit by her side. The deeply padded cushions gave considerably beneath his weight, and Isabella found herself tilting precariously against the earl's leg. She let out a small yelp of surprise but managed to keep her balance with an effort and successfully avoided brushing against his strong, muscular thigh.
He glanced narrowly at her, and Isabella slid farther into her corner of the coach. Her body felt tense and awkward. She was aware of a growing sensation of lightheadedness, and her throat felt a little dry.
He is trying to intimidate me with his superior physical size,
she decided suddenly. She slanted him an assessing glance, but he appeared oblivious to her stares. The carriage jolted forward unexpectedly, and Isabella instinctively thrust her arm out to prevent herself from being thrown to the floor. After regaining her seat, she turned her head away from the earl and fervently prayed their trip would be a short one.
After a mercifully quick and silent ride, the carriage drew into Grovesnor Square. Isabella viewed the impressive town house they pulled in front of from her window. It was a large building with six windows on either side of an ornate gray stone portico. A graveled courtyard set the house back from the street, and a charming fountain in its center merrily spouted clear streams of water. Due to the gloomy gray skies of the afternoon, glimmering lights could be seen in several of the downstairs windows, and the two flambeaux by the door were lit.
The earl swung the carriage door open impatiently before the vehicle came to a complete halt and lithely jumped out. He flashed Isabella a look of cold indifference as he reached in to haul her out of the carriage. Now that he had succeeded in bringing her here, his complete attention was no longer focused on her. Instead he seemed to relish the confrontation to come.
The earl pushed himself inside the house the moment his persistent knock was answered, dragging a reluctant Isabella behind him. They were greeted by a startled footman.
“His lordship is not receiving callers this afternoon,” the servant said in a formal tone.
“Oh, I do believe he will make an exception in my case,” the earl stated in a defiant voice. “Inform Lord Poole the Earl of Saunders is here.”
An elderly man who stood very erect and aloof entered the hallway. Isabella surmised he was the butler. “Is there a problem, Taylor?”
“No, there is not a problem,” the earl replied in an authoritative voice. “Taylor was just going to inform Lord Poole the Earl of Saunders is here to see him. Isn't that correct, Taylor?”
“Was he really?” The elderly butler raised a questioning eyebrow. He glanced from the uncertain expression of the footman to the firm countenance of the earl and decided it was necessary to intervene. “Lord Poole is not at home, my lord.”
The earl clenched his jaw at the news. “Then we shall wait for him to return. We will be in the red salon.”
Ignoring the scandalous look of outrage on the butler's face, the earl grasped Isabella's elbow firmly and propelled her through the hallway to the second door on the left. Without waiting for assistance from any of the servants, he opened the door and pushed Isabella into the room, slamming the door shut behind them.
Isabella took only a passing notice of the opulent surroundings. Red and gold were predominant in the wall covering and heavy draperies. The thick, luxurious Oriental carpet echoed the same color scheme. The furniture was tasteful and elegant and very expensive. Apparently familiar with his surroundings, the earl headed directly for a Pembroke table and poured himself a hefty snifter of brandy.
Isabella scurried away from him to the opposite side of the room and positioned herself in front of a long French window. She had an excellent view of the meticulously groomed gardens, but she paid them no heed.
“Would you like me to ring for tea? Or would you prefer something stronger?”
“I don't care for any tea, thank you. And I seldom drink spirits,” Isabella responded automatically.
“For God's sake, stop playacting, Emmeline.”
“I am not playacting,” Isabella insisted wearily. “And stop calling me Emmeline. It is a name I have come to heartily detest in the last few hours.”
“As you wish, madam.”
Damien made a mocking bow to her back and threw himself into a red brocade wing chair. He continued to drink methodically, his steely gray eyes never leaving the ramrod-straight back of the woman standing by the window.
Damien studied the enigma that was his wife through an alcoholic haze and wondered why he had no interest in plying her with questions. What had happened out at The Grange two years ago when she disappeared? Where had she been for the past few years, and how in the world did she end up as a governess to a merchant class family like the Brauns?
“How long will we have to wait here?” Isabella's gently asked question broke into the earl's thoughts.
“As long as necessary,” he replied obscurely. “I have not come all this way to be denied.” Damien set his empty glass down on the mahogany table next to his chair and propped up his chin with one hand. He suddenly felt a restless urgency to examine Emmeline more closely. “Turn around.”
The earl spoke softly, but something in his voice set Isabella's teeth on edge. Yet, she obeyed him and gracefully pivoted on her heel.
No lamps or candles had been lit in the red salon, and the lack of afternoon sun produced a gray light in the room. During his previous encounters with Isabella, Damien had focused almost exclusively on her unique violet eyes. Yet in this fading light, he could not clearly see the shade of her eyes, and she looked different to him somehow. She did not look like the wife he remembered. It disturbed him.