A Scandalous Proposal. Julia Justiss

of male privilege and power.

      An old, familiar resentment revived her flagging spirits. “Mr. Manners, Lord Cheverley consulted you about me. A matter of attempted extortion, you may remember.”

      “Yes, Mrs. Spenser, I’m fully cognizant of the details. Has there been another…incident?”

      “No, sir, the, ah, guard his lordship promised has been dispatched. There have been no further threats. I just wished to inquire as to the normal procedure in such situations.”

      “There is no ‘normal’ procedure, ma’am. I don’t usually prosecute matters of this sort, but as his lordship refers all his legal business to me, I have of course undertaken a full investigation. You need have no further concern for your safety, I assure you. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

      Emily resisted his clear dismissal. “Oh, but I wish—”

      “Mrs. Spenser, I am sure his lordship, at his convenience, will acquaint you with any details he deems appropriate. I simply cannot discuss a pending case with other than my client.” This time, he rose and indicated the door.

      “And if I were your client?” Emily persisted, rising, but refusing to let his obvious annoyance intimidate her.

      “I see no need for that. His lordship already retains me, and as I’ve informed you, everything needful is being done.”

      “I am sure it is, Mr. Manners. You must not think I doubt your competence, or that I am not grateful for his lordship’s intervention. But if this…situation should recur in future? Sadly, there are always rogues only too ready to prey on the honest. As a woman alone, I would wish to be informed of my alternatives.”

      Mr. Manners tilted his head and tapped at his chin. “’Tis true, ma’am, that despite taking appropriate action now, one cannot rule out the possibility of future difficulties.” He looked her up and down. “You are a widow, I understand. You have no near relatives, yours or your late husband’s, to see to your protection?”

      “If I had, would I be here now?” she replied, an edge of anger in her voice.

      To her surprise, the humorless face creased in what might be construed as a smile. “Excuse me, I meant no disrespect. Please, sit back down, Mrs. Spenser. What is it you wish to know?”

      Emily felt some of the tension leave her. “How does your office handle such a matter? Should I report any future threats to the authorities? And what…” She faltered. “What fee would you require, were I to retain you?”

      “First, I would not have you contact the authorities—not initially. Come to my office first. Most of the magistrates are honest folk, but from time to time a bad apple falls into the basket, as it were. My contacts would ascertain the background and intention of the perpetrators and proceed from there. And my normal fee would be two hundred pounds, plus the expense of hiring runners if I thought the need justified.”

      Emily tried not to gasp. Lord Cheverley was laying out two hundred pounds, plus expenses, to thwart Mr. Harding? And she had thought another ten pounds a month exorbitant!

      She forced herself to rise on shaking legs. “Th-thank you for the information, and for your time, Mr. Manners.”

      He rose and nodded. “Think nothing of it, Mrs. Spenser.” His shrewd eyes scanned her again, and she colored, sure he must have realized how staggering was the sum he’d quoted her, how impossibly far beyond her means.

      “Don’t distress yourself, ma’am,” he said, his tone kind. “Lord Cheverley will pursue this to its conclusion, regardless of time or expense. I have had the privilege of his patronage for many years, and one could not find a more conscientious member of the nobility. You may trust him to do the right thing, Mrs. Spenser. And I doubt you will be troubled again.”

      His attempted reassurance was nearly as daunting as his fee. She had known pursuing the miscreant would be costly, but had never dreamed the total would be that vast. How could she allow a virtual stranger, be he ever so noble, generous and dutiful, to absorb such an enormous expense on her behalf? But then, how could she ever reimburse him?

      

      Emily sat in her tiny garden, absently eating the nuncheon Francesca had insisted on preparing for her when she returned. She was still pondering the dilemma, and no closer to a solution, when a shadow fell across her teacup.

      Lord Cheverley himself stood over her. As her gaze met his, he gave her again that enticing, intimate smile. “Forgive me for disturbing you. I just wished to ascertain that the runner we sent was satisfactory.”

      “Yes, of course. I hardly know how to thank you.”

      “There’s no need.” He was looking at her intently, waiting, she realized, for her to offer her hand. When she raised it, he brought it to his lips, lingering over it a fraction longer than was proper.

      “I would have called last night to report the guard was in place, but I had several appointments, and ’twas late when I returned to check. I saw no lights, and did not wish to disturb you.”

      “You came by last night?” she echoed in astonishment.

      “Of course. I told you I would. I could not have slept, had I not been assured of your safety.”

      It had been so long since someone other than Francesca had expressed any concern whatsoever for her well-being that in spite of herself, she was touched. “You are too kind. Again, I thank you. And you must allow me to defray some of the costs—the runners, perhaps—”

      He waved away the suggestion. “Certainly not. A business as clever and stylish as yours must surely succeed, but hardly needs any additional expenses at its inception. I am fully recompensed by knowing you are safe.”

      Again, she felt absurdly touched. “I do feel safe. Thank you for that.”

      His compelling gaze captured hers. “I would not beteem the winds of heaven/visit thy face too roughly,” he paraphrased from Hamlet. Gently he touched one finger to the bruised corner of her mouth.

      A jolting spark tingled her lip. She stood mesmerized as he slowly removed his hand.

      Bemused, she raised her own hand to the spot. ’Tis the bruise that throbs, she told herself.

      “Ev, the runner wishes to speak with you.”

      It seemed to take a moment for the newcomer’s voice to penetrate. With a grimace, Lord Cheverley stepped back. Waving at him from the garden door, Emily saw, was the man who had accompanied him to her shop the previous day.

      His lordship turned on her another dazzling smile. “I shan’t keep you any longer, ma’am. The patrols will be properly maintained, so you may rest easy. If anything occurs to frighten or trouble you, send to me at once. Number 16, Portman Square. Someone there will know where to reach me if I’m from home.”

      Once again he raised her hand to his lips. “I shall call again later.”

      “’Twould be an honor, my lord,” she managed to murmur.

      As Lord Cheverley strode from the garden, his companion ambled toward her. “Brent Blakesly, ma’am,” he said with a bow. “You can rest easy, you know. Evan is as good as his word. Trust him to guarantee your safety.”

      “So I’ve been urged,” she murmured, recalling the solicitor’s advice. “I only wish he were not doing so at such great expense.”

      She must have looked troubled, for Blakesly’s friendly face sobered. “You mustn’t distress yourself, ma’am. Evan is wealthy enough that his kindness places no strains upon his purse.” He gave her a deprecating smile. “I suppose, having always had vast sums at his disposal, he never realizes it might be difficult for his friends to easily accept his assistance.”

      “But I am not a friend,” she replied, her voice low. “I have no more claim to his largesse than I have the means to repay it.”

      “May