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The man's face had faded to white, but it quickly began to turn a dull green. He stretched up his chin so that he could nod past Hart's boot.
Thinking of the wounded attitude his valet would assume at having to clean vomit from his master's boots, Hart slowly slid his foot down to the ground.
"And watch your language. There is a lady present."
Hart was thankful when the man's color returned to a more normal shade of unhealthy white. Then the brown eyes rolled again, and his gaze caught on Emma who had retreated to the bottom of the stairs. The white face tensed, and Hart could trace the rush of his blood as a flush rose up to the man's greasy hairline. His mouth twisted in a sneer of hatred as he pointed a finger at Emma.
"You," he spat, malice rolling off him in gin-scented waves.
Emma backed farther away, but she was caught like a cornered fox by the closed back door. "No," she whispered, and Hart felt betrayal looming close.
"Whore," the man spat, but worse than his vitriol was Hart's gaze. He studied her like a falcon would study a mouse. Emma had not imagined her unmasking would happen in front of him, had never planned for it. How was she to vanish if a sharp-eyed bird of prey stood between her and freedom?
"Whore," the man repeated, his hatred pushing her heart to an even higher gallop. Hart kicked him without looking away from her.
"You do not know him?" he repeated, and Emma shook her head.
He finally turned away from her and, in the same motion, swooped down to slap the man's square face. Emma's ears rang with the startling sound.
"I told you to watch your tongue. Now what is your name?"
"Burl." The man's lip curled in rebellion. "Burl what?"
"Burl Smythe."
"And what is your interest in Lady Denmore?"
Smythe's mouth grimaced, his eyes darkened with violence. "Lady? Is that what she calls herself?"
Hart kicked his thigh again and muttered a few curses under his breath. She could tell he was reminding the man to curb his tongue, but Emma couldn't quite hear it. She was waiting, waiting. She probably should have run. If she could make it past the carriage, they might lose track of her, spend precious time figuring out which direction she'd turned. But then what? She wouldn't have even the money she'd brought to London with her. She'd be destitute. Ruined.
So Emma just stared at this stranger who was about to destroy the world she'd worked so hard to weave together.
"She's a jezebel," Smythe was saying. "A whore leading other women down the path of evil. She's a deceiver. Satan masquerading as a highborn lady."
Some part of her brain insisted that this made no sense. Why would this hired spy hold such contempt for her? Why was he so angry? But the rest of her mind was buzzing, buzzing, drowning out everything but his hateful words and the incessant pounding of her panicked heart.
Emma breathed in deep and heard herself moan as she exhaled.
"She says she doesn't know you, Mr. Smythe."
"Lies! Lies on top of lies!"
Hart's eagle eyes swung toward her and paused there for a moment. His gaze narrowed. "You know what he speaks of."
"I don't," she whispered, pressing harder against the door. Maybe she could go through the door and escape out the front, maybe she could grab her winnings from Moulter's as she fled.
Hart aimed that piercing gaze back at Smythe. He said, "Perhaps you could be more clear in your grievances," and then the world opened up behind Emma.
The solid door vanished and she was falling into fear and uncertainty and wondering if she'd fainted. But her flailing hand caught smooth wood and her back bumped against something warm. "Ma'am?" Bess murmured close to her ear. She helped Emma right herself just as Smythe began to roar with fury.
"Lizzy," he shouted. "Lizzy!"
The solidness that had been Bess trembled against Emma's back, turning into something weaker. "Oh," Bess sobbed. "Oh, no. Oh, God above, save me."
"Lizzy!" he roared again and lurched to his feet. He lunged toward them, throwing himself down the stairs. Both Hart and the driver sprang forward to catch him. He hitched back, but then his jacket slid from his shoulders and he pulled his arms free, leaving the two men to stumble back, hands clutching brown wool.
"Burl, no. Please," Bess cried out, but her words pushed fire into his eyes.
