His protégé.”
“How remarkable. How did this come about?”
Her husband gave her a blank look. “I’ve no idea.”
“You’re bloody fortunate it did.” The boy walked between them and dropped onto the bed with a creak and a bounce. “All London’s gathered outside, waiting on the Monster of Mayfair to make an appearance.”
Ash went to the window. “I should have known this would happen. Last night . . . I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, you weren’t thinking.” Emma crossed to his side, taking his arm. “You were caring.”
“That and a penny will buy you stale bread. It’s not going to help us now.”
“Would it be so terrible if the world learned the truth?” she asked.
“Considering that I’m known about London as a child-snatching, bloodthirsty monster who sacrifices small animals to the Dark Lord? Yes, I think it would be.”
Emma bit her tongue. She longed to point out that perhaps he should have thought about all this before encouraging his notoriety. But it wouldn’t do any good just now.
“Well, if you mean to remain anonymous, what do you propose to do?” she asked. “There isn’t any rear exit, and I’m not jumping out that window.”
“You don’t need another exit. All you need is a diversion,” Trevor said.
“No diversion will tear that mob away,” Ash said. “Maybe a fire, but even that’s questionable.”
“It’s simple.” Trevor picked up Ash’s hat and placed it on his head. It settled halfway down his ears. “I’ll be the Monster. You be the Menace.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No,” Emma countered, “it’s brilliant. Think about it. The crowd down there isn’t waiting for the Duke of Ashbury. They’re waiting for the Monster of Mayfair. A man in a black hat and cape.”
“He’s not a man. He’s a boy.”
“I’m tall for my age,” Trevor said defensively.
“A minute or two is all we need. By the time they realize he’s not the Monster—”
“You’ll have skirted the crowd and escaped.” Trevor flashed a smug grin. “And I have a hackney waiting on the next corner.”
“My goodness,” Emma said. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you? What a fine assistant you make.”
“Stop encouraging him.” Ash said.
“Did you have a better plan?”
“Unfortunately, no.” He handed her one of the wool blankets. “Wrap yourself in this. We can’t risk anyone getting a glimpse of red silk.”
Emma wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. It smelled bad and chafed worse, but it was long and thick enough to serve its purpose. She would take a long, hot bath at home later.
“Leave the rest to me.” Trevor launched to his feet. Not three paces away, the boy paused. Then, with a snap of his neck, he looked back at them. He raised a single eyebrow. “You’ve been menaced.”
Ash scowled. “What is that?”
“It’s my new signature phrase. A calling card. Still working on the delivery.” Trevor lowered his voice to a sinister growl, then lifted the same eyebrow. “You’ve”—pause—“been menaced.”
Emma pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh.
“Or there’s this way. You’ve been”—pause, eyebrow lift—“menaced.” The boy cocked his head. “What do you think?”
“I think,” Ash said tightly, “you should take them both and—”
“Alternate between them,” Emma interrupted. “They’re both excellent. Quite memorable.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Trevor bowed over her hand and kissed it. “Until we meet again.”
With a flourish of black cape, he was gone.
Finally, she allowed herself to laugh. “What an extraordinary young man.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
Emma cinched the scratchy wool blanket about her shoulders. “I need a better costume. And a name of my own. Oh, how about the Needle? I can prick ruffians with a long, sharp sword.”
“Don’t start.”
He cracked the door open, and together they listened until they heard Trevor reach the public room and bellow: “I am the Monster of Mayfair! To behold my face is to know despair!”
Ash closed his eyes and muttered something unkind.
“It’s not bad,” Emma protested. “It even rhymes.”
He pulled the fencing mask over his face. “Let’s just go.”
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
