Miss Fortescue's Protector In Paris. Amanda McCabeЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter Three

      The streets were quieter than Emily expected when she left her friends at the meeting, and she couldn’t glimpse any hansoms. She glanced at the watch pinned to her tweed lapel and realised it was later than she usually was. But the city was not completely deserted. She still saw a few carriages leaving late, post-theatre suppers, some lingering diners in cafés. So she decided to walk for a time until a hansom came by, a few minutes to clear her head.

      After a League meeting, she always felt filled with energy, fizzing away so she could hardly rest. The rightness of what they were working for filled her with such a sense of purpose, of being right where she should be, that it felt as if she was floating in another world entirely from the real one of parties and appointments.

      It was just like that when she was absorbed in her work. Or like those moments hidden in the thick green maze with Chris, his lips on hers, all else vanished...

      ‘No!’ she muttered aloud, stabbing at the pavement with the tip of her umbrella. She wouldn’t think about Christopher Blakely now, not tonight. It was only the idea of being in Paris again that brought him back to her so vividly. Paris had been a magical place and time, so beautiful and sparkling, and Chris had been such a part of it. Just as beautiful and sparkling as the Champs-Élysées itself, lit up at night, and just as illusory.

      Yet she couldn’t help but wonder—what was he doing now? Did he ever think about her at all?

      ‘Don’t be silly,’ she told herself. Of course Chris didn’t think of her. He was too busy doing his Chris-like things: gambling clubs and horse races, theatres. He never had serious thought and he was all wrong for her.

      But, oh, he was fun. Handsome and merry, so unlike her own serious self. Yes, she did rather miss him now. Blast him.

      Emily heard an echo behind her, a slow, steady sound like a footfall on the paving stones, and she suddenly realised how quiet everything had become. While she was daydreaming, she had turned from the busier lanes of restaurants and hotels to a silent residential street. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder, but could see nothing but shadows in the pale light that fell from a few windows. The echo of footsteps stopped.

      A memory flashed through her mind, of Gregory Hamilton and that deserted terrace, of the claustrophobic feeling of not being able to get away. She thought of the strange letters that had recently started to arrive at her house, notes she couldn’t explain, but had dismissed as the ramblings of an overzealous mystery suitor. She shivered and felt the hairs on her arm prickle a bit.

      She spun back around, feeling foolish, and hurried ahead, as fast as she dared. The footsteps started again, also moving faster, and as she turned a corner a hand suddenly seized her arm, appearing from the darkness.

      She was suddenly caught in her own nightmare, the cobwebs closing around her feet, tripping her as she tried to flee in the darkness.

      Using her weight, Emily whirled around towards her attacker instead of trying to pull away. She drew back the hand that held her umbrella and lashed out with it at the shadowy figure.

      He just looked like a phantom in the night, featureless, pale, terrifyingly tall and swathed in a black coat, a hat tugged low on his brow to conceal his face. But the iron grip on her arm was all too real.

      She screamed and lashed out again with her umbrella. He muttered a low, rough curse and tried to grab her other arm as she landed a lucky blow to his skull. She screamed again, desperately, and tried to bring her boot-heel down on his foot.

      A window somewhere along the street opened and someone called, ‘Here, what’s this about? Leave off or I’ll call on the constables, right now!’

      As if startled, her attacker suddenly released her and fell back a step. Emily broke away and started running, as fast as she could. It had been a long time since her days of chasing tennis balls and rowing on the pond at Miss Grantley’s, but she could still move like the wind when she needed to. She didn’t stop until she somehow reached her own front door and she pounded her fists on it frantically.

      She stumbled inside when the butler opened it and only then did she feel the ache in her struggling lungs, the pain in her legs. He stared at her in astonishment as she collapsed on the nearest chair.

      ‘Miss Emily,’ he said. ‘Whatever is the matter? Are you ill?’

      Emily shook her head, gasping too hard to say anything. She wanted to beg him not to alert her father, but it was too late. Albert had already appeared at the top of the stairs in his dressing gown, his face creased with worry.

      ‘Emily,’ he cried, hurrying down to her side. Mary appeared behind him, her face shocked. ‘Fetch a doctor right away!’

      ‘No, I don’t need a doctor,’ Emily managed to say hoarsely. ‘I just had a bit of a fright, that’s all.’

      ‘Oh, Miss Emily, was it him? The letter writer?’ Mary gasped. ‘I knew he would show up!’

      ‘Him?’ Emily’s father said sharply.

      Emily shot Mary a reproachful glance, but she didn’t blame the maid, not really. When Emily had confided in Mary about the notes, they had both determined it was probably just an overzealous suitor. Emily had begged Mary not to say anything, not to worry her father, and surely the letters would stop soon enough. Mary had agreed, but had they been very wrong after all?

      ‘I’ll just fetch a brandy, Miss Emily,’ Mary said, and she and the butler hurried away.

      Albert sat beside Emily and gently took her hand. She felt steadier already, being in her own home with her father, and anger was beginning to replace the fear. ‘Emily, what does Mary mean? Was someone pestering you tonight? Someone you have had problems with before?’

      Emily shook her head. ‘Someone was following me, I think, and I did receive one or two letters recently—very, um, affectionate letters. From someone nameless. But I am sure they are not connected.’

      Albert looked shocked, his face turning red. ‘I never should have let you go alone to that blasted meeting! If only your mother were here. She would have known what to do.’

      Emily held tightly to his hand. ‘It has nothing to do with the meeting, Father, I’m sure of it. It happened long after I left the hall. I was just being silly, distracted by a daydream. I will always take the carriage from now on, I promise.’

      Mary returned with a glass of brandy and Emily took a bracing gulp of the amber liquid, glad of its steadying warmth.

      ‘Well, Paris is out of the question now,’ her father said.

      ‘Oh, no, Father,’ Emily argued. ‘We can’t let one strange incident get in the way of our business. I swear to you, I will be much more careful in the future.’ And the letter-writer, and that night’s follower, if they were indeed one and the same, could never be allowed to interfere in what really mattered: her work.

      Her father looked as if he very much wanted to argue with her, but he just shook his head and patted her hand. ‘We will talk about it tomorrow, my dear. You look exhausted. Let Mary take you up to bed now. You need some rest.’

      Emily nodded. She was exhausted, but she feared she wouldn’t find quiet sleep that night. She let Mary