The Historical Collection 2018. Candace Camp

not bad,” Emma protested. “It even rhymes.”

      He pulled the fencing mask over his face. “Let’s just go.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

      Thankfully, they made their way back to Ashbury House with a minimum of further indignities. After a few vague explanations to the worried staff, a hot breakfast, and hotter baths, the two of them tumbled atop Ash’s bed and slept the day away.

      Emma woke to late afternoon, and to her husband pushing a wheeled table toward the bed. It was laden with covered dishes and baskets of bread, cheeses, fruits. Her stomach rumbled.

      “What’s this?” She rubbed her eyes. “Dinner in bed?”

      “It’s perfect.” He reached for a wedge of cheese. “I promised you dinner every night. You promised me bed. We both hold our ends of the bargain at once.”

      “How very efficient.”

      “Really, I don’t know how the idea escaped me until now.”

      Emma nibbled at an apple tart. “I’ve been thinking, dumpling.”

      He flopped back on the bed and groaned. “Em-ma.”

      “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to call you Ash. It’s just not who you are. Ash is the dead, cold remnants after a fire. The parts that get swept away and discarded. You’re not Ash to me. You’re alive and blazing and more than a little dangerous. You always keep me warm.” Lest he grow too panicked at the praise, she decided to lighten her tone. “Besides, it’s too amusing to devil you.”

      “Amusing for you, perhaps.”

      “Let’s have a compromise. When we’re in the company of others, I will call you Ash or Ashbury. When we’re alone, you’ll allow me my little pet names.”

      “Fine. But you must confine yourself to an agreed upon list. No more rainbows and buttercups.”

      “I suppose I can do that.”

      He considered. “Here are the ones I’ll allow. ‘My stallion,’ ‘my buck,’ and . . . ‘my colossus of man-flesh.’”

      She laughed in his face at that last. “Let’s keep to the traditional endearments, shall we? Such as ‘my dear’?”

      “That’s acceptable.”

      “‘Darling’?”

      He made a face of disgust. “If you must.”

      She chewed on the pastry, trying to gather courage. “How do you feel about ‘my love’?”

      He stared deeply into her eyes, as though questioning her sincerity. However, she knew it wasn’t what lay within her that mattered—it was whether he’d allow himself to believe the words.

      The familiar shields overtook his expression, closing the door on possibility. “‘My stallion’ it is.”

      Emma was disappointed, but she decided not to press the matter. Perhaps it was all too much for one day.

      She looked about for a diversion. Her eye fell on a fresh stack of papers beside the dinner tray.

      She’d made a habit of asking the servants to collect broadsheets daily. By this point, Ash was supporting half the printers in London. Probably a few paper mills, as well. The Monster of Mayfair was the best thing to happen to British journalism since Waterloo.

      She seized on the change of subject, gathering the papers and bringing them back to the bed. “Let’s see what they’re saying about you today. There’s certain to be something about last night’s adventure.” As she skimmed the first broadsheet, however, her anticipation of humor turned to horror. “Oh, no. Oh, Ash. This is bad.”

      “What is it now? Have I rescued a girl from drowning in the Serpentine?”

      “No. You’ve abducted a woman in red, forced an innkeeper to let you hide her, and she was never seen again. Foul play is suspected.” She passed him the paper, then positioned herself behind his shoulder and reached over to jab her finger at the paper. “The Crown has issued a hue and cry for the Monster of Mayfair.” She poked again, rattling the newsprint. “The Crown. Every able-bodied man in London is obliged to help capture you on sight.”

      “Yes. I see.”

      “They’ve even offered a reward. Twenty pounds. That’s a year’s earnings for a laborer.”

      “Yes. I know.”

      “‘Wanted on suspicions of trespassing, assault, theft of property, kidnapping, and murder.’ Murder!”

      “I am able to read, thank you.” He was infuriatingly calm. “I’m a bit disappointed witchcraft and insurance fraud aren’t on the list.”

      “How can you even joke about this?”

      “Trust me, there’s no call to be agitated.” He dug into a portion of game pie. “Even the worst possible scenario is a mere inconvenience.”

      “Being brought up on charges of murder would be a mere inconvenience?”

      “I didn’t commit any murders, Emma.”

      “That’s not what the broadsheets would have their readers believe. You know how eager people have been to make false reports of your exploits.”

      “Yes, I do know.” He swallowed his mouthful of pie. “One of those eager people with false stories would be you.”

      Well, she couldn’t contradict that.

      “I would never be charged with murder,” he went on. “The very thought is absurd. I’m a duke. It just doesn’t happen. Even if I were captured, I would never be brought to trial.”

      “How can you be certain of that?”

      “To begin, dukes aren’t charged in the same courts. We are entitled to a trial of our peers in the House of Lords. That’s if there were any evidence, which there isn’t. Second, there’s a little thing called privilege of peerage. All we have to do is invoke it, and we’re off the hook for nearly any crime.”

      She was agape. “You’re joking.”

      “Not at all.”

      “My goodness. That must be nice.”

      “It is, rather. Can’t deny it.”

      On any other occasion, Emma would have been appalled by the injustice of this system. However, given the current state of affairs, she found herself unable to complain.

      “Hold a moment,” she said. “You said a peer may be forgiven almost any crime. Which means some crimes are exceptions.”

      “Well, treason, naturally. And—” He broke off, clearly reluctant to continue.

      She leaned forward. “And . . . ?”

      “Murder,” he admitted.

      She bounced on the mattress in anger. “You just told me it would be a minor inconvenience! How could hanging be a minor inconvenience?”

      “It never goes that far.” He set aside his now-empty plate. “At the most, I’d make a manslaughter plea, and that would put paid to it.”

      “What if it does go that far?”

      “It wouldn’t.”

      “Humor me.”

      He sighed as he reached for his glass of wine. “A peer found guilty of a capital felony—which never occurs—could conceivably be executed. Which never occurs, either. No one’s been struck with corruption of the blood in ages now. Literal centuries.”

      “And