The Bluestocking and the Rake (Hearts in Hiding 2)

Then Sir Richard would return to her. He’d rescued her once. Now he was doing what was best to keep her safe, and soon he’d return to look after her and he would find her father’s killer. Knowing this was her greatest comfort.

Knowing that Sir Richard gave every appearance of returning her regard was her second.

For Jemima felt safest in the company of older, wiser men and if she were ever to pledge herself to anyone, it would be a man of quiet consideration and gentle mien.

A man just like Sir Richard.

The snow was soft and powdery, and the songs familiar yuletide carols she’d sung since she’d been a child. What was so different was the unwashed smell of her traveling cohorts and their ragged clothing.

It took a good fifteen minutes for the large group to make their way to the courtyard in front of the sizable house toward which they were headed.

Conscious of their covert, curious looks, Jemima was glad of the dark, serviceable cloak Sir Richard had acquired for her from the innkeeper’s wife. When a gust of wind blew back her cloak so that the fine lace at her throat became visible, she caught the gleam of interest in her neighbor’s eyes, a hulking man with a protuberant forehead, and she felt a spasm of fear. Any one of these laborers and village folk could have been recruited by the man who was prepared to kill to acquire the tablet she had hidden behind her busk.

Quickly, she wrapped her cloak more closely about her, reassuring herself that there was no real extravagance in her dress though it was clear she wasn’t one of these ragged peasants. A very good reason for peeling off when the time was right, so she could make her way to the woods.

The road they were traveling took in a small rise, and from the top, Jemima saw the grand house in full view, only fifty yards ahead. A snow-covered expanse swept before them, and Jemima had earmarked a copse of trees to the right of the portico stairs as a likely place to hide while the gathering moved forward. Once she was no longer under observation, she’d be able to run the short distance around the side of the house toward the woods to the east.

Just as she was about to do so, however, a great murmur of excitement rippled through the group, and her attempts at leaving were thwarted as the troupe veered left. Unable to push aside, she was swept past the copse of trees, up the stairs and, finally, into the grand lobby.

“Lord Griffith has invited us inside this year,” she heard a village girl whisper excitedly to her friend. “Do you think we’ll get hot raisins? Ooh, but ain’t that jes’ too excitin’. Me ma were given hot raisins one Christmas.”

Another ripple went through the group, and Jemima craned her head to see the noble family ranged along the gallery, looking down on them. It had been a long time since she’d seen Lord Griffith. She remembered he’d come to their home about ten years before, but her father had declined several invitations from him over subsequent years. Though he’d said little, she’d gained the impression he didn’t particularly care for Lord Griffith.

Jemima tried to make herself as obscure as possible, lowering her head so her bonnet didn’t call attention to herself; hoping her small stature might ensure she was lost in the crowd.

The wassailers were now in full song, a lovely sound—if she’d had the heart to truly appreciate it—and as their voices echoed through the chamber, she slanted another covert look toward the noble family at the top of the stairs.

They sang Good King Wenceslas, which was welcomed with much clapping by the children. Jemima was too afraid to make eye contact though she was in an agony of indecision. Should she declare herself? They would help her, but would she bring danger to them, knowing her assailant was close by? No, Sir Richard would be waiting for her as soon as she could get away. Best not to bring attention to herself, so that she could leave as soon as possible in order to make her assignation.

The wassailers were part-way through their fourth song when the door bust open, and a cry rang out.

“Gennulman’s bin shot on the Bath road not far from ‘ere, M’lord. E’s bleedin’ bad.”

Lord Griffith rose, and Jemima felt the blood drain from her head. Only the fact that she was so closely hemmed in prevented her from crashing to the floor. No one seemed to notice her as attention was deflected to the man who’d entered through the open front door.

What should she do? Could it be Sir Richard? She had to find out, but she was afraid. Too afraid to do anything. Sir Richard had been shot? Because of her? But perhaps it wasn’t Sir Richard.

Lord Griffith gripped the railing by the stairs and looked down upon them. “A gentleman, you say? And we are the closest house? Then, of course we must render our services. Footpads in our neighborhood?”

But Jemima knew footpads were not behind the atrocity. Numbly, she watched the excitement ripple through her fellows, saw the wide-eyed looks of Lord Griffith’s children and the fear in Lady Griffith’s eyes that echoed her own before she dragged her gaze away.

“Young lady. Young lady!” She raised her head, realizing she was being addressed, and saw Lady Griffith leaning over the railing. Her daughter, a girl of about sixteen, was pointing at Jemima, and now Lady Griffith was signaling Jemima to come closer.

Jemima had no choice but to respond, though her impulse was to run outside and greet the injured man whom she’d heard was being conveyed to the house on a door that had been found for the purpose.

“I recognize you. You’re Professor Percy’s daughter, aren’t you?” Lady Griffith’s rather marble-like features relaxed a little. She was a statuesque woman with a handsome if somewhat immobile face. “What are you doing here, my girl? Come!”

Obediently, albeit reluctantly, Jemima climbed the stairs while the villagers shifted below, whispering, some of them pressing

toward the front door for sign of the injured man, others staring at Jemima. She could hear the words “dead” and “murder,” and she had to grip the handrail to pull herself up. Lord Griffith reached for her as her legs buckled, and then she was being borne up the stairs in his arms.

“Dear Lord, the girl’s father was murdered two days ago and now this!” Lady Griffith cried. “Take her to the Blue Room, Henry. I’ll arrange for a posset.”

“Please, I…have to go. I must meet someone.” Jemima struggled and was set down, turning as a gasp went through the assembly overlaid by Lady Griffith’s shriek, “Not in front of the children! Take him into the saloon.”

Lord Griffith stepped in front of his family, trying to shield them from the sight as a voice rang out: “’Fraid ‘e’s dead, M’lord.”

Then Jemima was being led away from the gallery by Lady Griffith and a female servant, stunned and disbelieving.