London, 1811
Emmaline halted outside the parlor and peeked in to see what manner of man awaited.
A gaze—gray as gloom but penetrating as a stiletto—slammed into hers.
She stifled a gasp, though it was too late for stealth. He’d seen her.
The man’s large frame took up most of the sofa. It was as if a giant tried to fit on a pin cushion. Even as she tried to grasp an overall image of the man, her eyes fixed on individual parts. His undisciplined long hair put her in mind of a pirate, its color wet sand with a hearty burst of red clay. His face was clean-shaven. Strangely, that made him look more dangerous.
His clothing was brown, like rich earth. The moss green walls she had painted just last week seemed to exist solely to frame him as a force of nature.
Quickly, Emmaline pasted a smile on her face. “Good afternoon, sir. I am Emmaline Stanhope. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
“You have.” He rose, his gaze icy. “Robert Tavish.”
He regarded her extended hand as if it were a piece of rotten fish, not that she could blame him. Her hands were red and raw from soap-making. She’d added too much lye, and it left her with burns. But they couldn’t afford the gentler, expensive bar soap from Gerrard Street.
She tucked her hand into the folds of her dress. “How may I be of service, sir?”
“Wife. Need one.” His deeply resonant voice held a rough undercurrent.
How could such a robust specimen of a man need assistance? His broad shoulders and rugged physique put her in mind of a medieval warrior ready to do battle—with or without a weapon. Indeed, those large hands were weapons enough.
His temperament was suspect, judging by that stern brow, grim mouth, and disregard of complete sentences.
“I should inform you that an unfortunate accident occurred last week,” Emmaline began.
One forbidding brow arched.
“A client had the misfortune to be struck by the Mail. Investigators tend to drop by at odd moments. I’m afraid I cannot promise that your association with me would remain confidential.”
When his frown deepened, she immediately regretted her candor. Aunt Heloise had the right of it. If he took his business elsewhere, there’d be no paying rent.
Emmaline had no doubt he could afford her fee. Though his clothes were plain, the facing of his coat was silk serge. A woman who had to trim her frocks every year to disguise the wear developed an eye for such details.
“I could meet you elsewhere,” she offered, “so that we would not risk observation.”
He was silent for so long Emmaline feared she had offended him. Or—heavens!—thought she was suggesting another kind of rendezvous altogether.
“What I meant to say,” she added carefully, “is I am aware that those who seek assistance in matrimony may have no wish for that fact to be known.”
He scowled at the floor. She turned to see a small black shadow dart around a chair leg.
“Can’t abide cats,” he growled.
Emmaline scooped up Thomas. “This one has a gentle nature. And people who come to have their fortunes told expect to see a black cat in residence.”
“Fortunes?” Uttered with distaste.
“My aunt and I read the Tarot occasionally,” she said. “It can be amusing.”
“What of those who take your words to heart and ruin their lives?”
His hostility took her aback.
“We do not ruin lives here, Mr. Tavish,” Emmaline snapped.
Thomas squirmed in her arms, and she quickly released him. He landed at her visitor’s feet and proceeded to rub against his leg.
He stiffened.
No wonder the man’s marital prospects were dim. A man with a perpetually stern countenance and insufficient warmth to abide even so independent a creature as a cat would have difficulty gaining any woman’s affections. Emmaline had a fierce urge to send him packing.
Instead, her practical nature won out.
“Perhaps it would be best to go over the terms of my services.” She seated herself in the chair, leaving him to stand or sit as he preferred. He remained standing.
“My fee is fifteen pounds.” Usually it was far less, but he could afford it. “Half paid on signing our agreement, the rest on your betrothal. If, for some unforeseen reason, marriage doesn’t occur, I refund a small sum to be applied to a new search through our agency.”
His gaze narrowed.
“I am well-qualified, as I was married myself,” Emmaline said, the lie making her throat as dry as dust. “Unfortunately, my husband is deceased.”
This revelation usually caused prospective clients to eye her with compassion. Mr. Tavish’s stern expression did not change.
“Moreover, I attended Catherine Warwick’s School for Young Ladies in Hadley,” she continued. Her father had sent her there to gain what a mother would have imparted. “Perhaps you have heard of it? It is known for its education in the womanly arts, such as managing the household, supervising meal preparation, mending…”
Boredom swept Mr. Tavish’s features. He still didn’t trouble to sit but stood towering over her.
Men such as this irritated her. Their high regard for their own importance required that they diminish or dismiss other human beings, especially females. Women were expected to accept their disregard without complaint.
A task at which she routinely failed.
Emmaline’s temper snapped. “I imagine you’d view Miss Warwick’s as beneath your attention. Especially as there’s little left but one shabby building and elderly teachers with nowhere else to go.”
The stony contempt in that gray gaze might have slipped a notch.
Drat her wayward tongue. She needed to salvage this. Emmaline forced a conciliatory tone. “Suppose we begin with the type of bride you seek.”
“The marrying kind.”
She fought the urge to box his ears. “What I meant was her character, her temperament, that sort of thing. You would, of course, wish her to share your interests.”
“I study rocks. I would doubt her sanity if she shared my interests.”
“Rocks?”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out some bank notes, and tossed them at her. “I must finish a paper for delivery tonight. Argyll Rooms, eight o’clock. We will talk then.”
With that, he gave a cursory bow and strode from the house. The front door’s creaking hinges punctuated his departure, mocking her increasingly desperate plight.
To Robert Tavish’s growing list of undesirable qualities, Emmaline added the sin of unbridled arrogance.
She would find him a wife. Then the devil could take him.
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