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 what’s corruption of the blood?”
“It means a bloodline is considered tainted. They take away the peer’s title and property, and none of his descendants can inherit it.”
Emma’s hands were fists in her lap. “So if . . . and I’m allowing you the ‘if’ . . . this exceedingly unlikely event occurred, you could be captured and charged as the Monster of Mayfair, brought to trial in the House of Lords on charges of murder, convicted, and put to death, with the result that your wife and possibly your child would be left without any property or inheritance?”
“It never happens, Emma. Never.”
“But it could!”
“It won’t.”
She took a deep breath to calm herself. “You’ve allowed this ruse to go on too long. We can mend this. Come forward. Let everyone know that you’re the Monster of Mayfair, I’m the missing lady in red, and that it was all merely a lark that got out of hand.”
“So instead of facing the slim chance that I would ever be captured—and the slimmer chance that I would be brought up on any charges—you want me to confess to crimes I didn’t
