Page 26 of To Heal a Broken Earl (The Rakes of Mayhem #7)

The next day

Emma sat in the chair in her room, staring at the fire waning in her fireplace.

Her head was spinning. So many thoughts churned in her head.

So many feelings swirled in her heart. Burns’s efforts the night before had miraculously produced a drawing of the man who had burned her sister’s home.

The home that she and Katie had barely escaped with their lives.

Last night, Emma found out the arsonist had retaliated against Lady Beadle for sheltering Emma and Katie, burning her prized carriage house.

Thank God no one was hurt, and Lady Beadle’s house was mostly untouched. Lady Beadle had assured her over and over that everyone was fine.

She thought about the drawing. It’s him.

I’ll never forget that evil smirk. And his eyes were like black pits — soulless.

Even though she’d only glimpsed the man briefly, she was certain that the shadowy figure who’d watched her and Katie the night of the fire was him. She’d felt it down deep in her bones.

Being at Michael’s estate these past few weeks had made her and Katie feel safe, and like the fire had been a distant memory.

Everyone had made them feel welcome. Emma had been so busy helping with the refurbishing efforts, and Katie was thriving with the devoted Finn by her side.

The bond that had formed between them was almost magical.

It gave Emma such happiness to watch them.

But when she’d set eyes on that sketch, it had all come rushing back to her full force, throwing her back to that night. The fear. The terror. The danger.

And when her eyes met Michael’s, all she wanted to do was to feel his arms around her.

But that was not to be. Certainly not in front of all those people, and definitely not after their argument the other day.

He had lashed out at her when all she had tried to do was mask the odor of the salve so it could help him.

She could see the remorse in his eyes. But, well… remorse was not an apology.

Emma stood and walked to the hearth, stoking the fire to a low flame, before returning to her chair. He’s out there, and he knows what Katie and I look like . And now, we know exactly what he looks like. She could not help the shiver of fear that coursed through her.

She no longer felt safe at Michael’s estate.

Burns’s sketch was more than just a drawing; it served as a reminder of the smoke that stung her lungs that night, the frantic chaos of their escape.

Now, the arsonist had a face, filling in the missing piece of the nightmare crafted by that flesh-and-blood madman.

And he had a name—Viscount Gideon Morgrave.

A shudder skittered up her spine.

“Lady Beadle’s fire was small in comparison to the others,” Lord Armstrong had said last night as he’d spoken in hushed tones with Wright and Michael. Emma had overheard them speaking in Michael’s study on her way back from checking on Katie.

“He may have used the fire as a way to drive Lady Beadle away from London…” Armstrong had added.

“You mean to say he might have used the fire as a ruse to follow you to Sussex?” Michael had said in a steely voice.

“We were very careful on the journey,” Armstrong had said calmly. “But I am concerned. We need to be even more vigilant.”

“What a bastard,” Wright had said.

“I heard him that night at the inn,” Armstrong had continued. “His lies were smooth and compelling. Had we not already been able to count the innkeeper and his wife as reliable informants, I don’t think your escape would have gone as smoothly.”

Emma replayed the conversation in her mind while staring into the crackling flames in the hearth. Had the arsonist followed the Armstrongs and Lady Beadle here?

Feeling an overwhelming sense of panic come over her, she got up from her chair, wanting to go check on Katie again, even though she’d checked only twenty minutes ago. She had to find her niece.

She jerked the bedroom door open and came face to face with Michael, holding a bouquet of jasmine vines and white roses.

“I came to apologize,” he said.

She looked at him, words rolling through her mind, but unsure of what to say. “I…I must check on Katie,” she said, clinging to the thought she’d had before opening the door.

He made no effort to move. “I just checked on her. Finn was snoring up a storm, and I poked my head into her room. Doris is there as well, sleeping on the bed next to her.”

Emma felt her panic deflate a little.

“Please. You must hear me out,” he implored her, holding out the bouquet. “I just need a few minutes of your time.”

“You hurt me,” she forced out.

“I know. And I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Hastings called me a fool when I told him.”

“You…you told Hastings? she asked. If Hastings knew, then she suspected Stanhope and Mrs. Peppers likely knew as well. Her humiliation complete, her face heated with embarrassment. Everyone would know he’d scolded her as though she were an errant child.

“Yes. Or rather, he guessed. Hastings and I have been friends for twelve years, in good times and bad. He always speaks his mind when I need it. He is my valet, but he’s also one of my closest friends and has been since the war.

He saved my life. Please don’t get upset about his knowing; he guessed that something had happened.

” He held the bouquet out to her. “I picked these myself, with you in mind.” His face was flushed as he cleared his throat.

“These two flowers made me think of you…fragrant and lovely,” he said.

She finally took the bouquet and lifted it to her nose, inhaling deeply.

She knew he was waiting for an answer. His eyes looked so hopeful.

She wanted to say yes. The word was on the tip of her tongue.

His compliment had been so sincere and so unexpected that she needed to adjust to the surprise. Never had she been given her flowers with such sincerity. His gruff manner was gone, and he looked like a boy waiting to be forgiven for having broken a window.

She held the bouquet to her nose once again, hiding a smile. No one had ever given her jasmine and white roses. It was a beautiful bouquet.

“What I said was unforgivable, Emma. The way I treated you…” He shook his head, as if disgusted with himself.

“I lost my head and said things I didn’t mean.

I have no defense. All I can say is that your simple gesture made me feel exposed.

I’m a man with fears and hurts that I try to hide,” he said. “I behaved badly.”

“What do you mean, exposed?”

He blew out a breath. “I mean, this injury… It changed me.” He paused to look down at his leg, then gestured to her room. “Would it be all right if I step inside? I promise to behave myself.” He gave that smile of his, the one with the irresistible dimple.

She hesitated at first, then nodded and stepped aside so that he could enter her room.

He turned to close the door, but not all the way, leaving it slightly ajar.

He turned back to her and cleared his throat again.

“I was a young man when I first went to war. I was physically strong. I was an excellent shot. I was a strong fighter. I felt invincible, just as many young men feel when they first go to war. But war changes all that, especially when you see dear friends die on the battlefield or go home with a missing limb or completely blind as a result of their injuries… I was one of the lucky ones. And yet, at first, I refused to see that, refused to be thankful. I also refused to see how my injury had changed my life…how it had changed me.” He gave a rueful, crooked smile. “It turns out, I was never invincible.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat, her heart wrenching at the thought of the handsome young man—a boy, really—who went to war full of youthful idealism and bravado, only to be changed by the brutality of battle.

“But what I went through, and how it affected me, is no excuse for how I treated you. For how I lashed out at you. My tirade was cruel and demeaning. And for that, I am truly sorry.” He looked down for a moment, then back up again, and his eyes met hers with an open vulnerability she had never seen before.

“The salve… I don’t know how you did it exactly, but you masked the odor. Even Finn thought so.” He chuckled.

She couldn’t help but giggle along. “Which one? I mean, which jar?” she asked.

“I don’t usually think about what scents I prefer”—he laughed again—“but I’m partial to the second jar you left on the table in the backroom of the stables. The middle jar. I detected sandalwood and a citrusy orange scent.”

That had been her favorite scent, too. Emma started to smile but felt her bottom lip quiver slightly.

She bit her lip to hold back the tears. She wanted to be able to speak her mind without falling into a blubbering mess.

His nearness stirred those contradictory feelings inside her—warmth and comfort on one hand and a heart-pounding, breathless feeling on the other.

“I’m feeling out of sorts, Lord Wilton. The last day or two has shaken me quite a bit,” she finally said.

“Lord Wilton, again. What happened to calling me Michael? I’m sincerely trying to apologize to you. I was so wrong to say the things I did. I didn’t mean them. Say you’ll try to forgive me.”

“Very well, Michael,” she said softly. “I accept your apology, and I forgive you. I also regret my actions, running off as I did. I should have stayed to explain or to ask you why you were so angry. And I thank you for the flowers—they are lovely. I’ll put them in a vase of water.

” She started to close the door, and he stopped it.

“I tried the salve last night,” he managed to say to the slight crack he had maintained.

“Did it work?” she asked, pleased.

“Do you smell a dead skunk?” he quipped.

“No.” She giggled.

“Then it worked.”

“Silly man… I mean, does your leg feel better?”