Free The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke by Jillian Hunter Page B

should have guessed the restless girl was her newest student, Harriet Gardner, a charity case from the gutters of St. Giles. Emma had asked herself at least a hundred times since the fateful day she’d taken the flame-haired Harriet under her wing, why she had been possessed of the notion to help a street urchin who swore she would never be reformed.
    She was very afraid it had to do with some maternal instincts that, try as she might, would not be denied. And the fact that Harriet, at seventeen, had been preened by her family to enter a life of larceny and prostitution. Emma’s heart ached for her. What chance did a girl like that have in London? Her plight both touched and challenged Emma, for she had learned that there were some trouble-bound souls who would not be helped.
    As expected, it was Harriet who emitted the offensive snores, her thin white fingers curled around the cudgel she slept with every night. Emma bent over the bed to remove the weapon from the girl’s fist, then stopped.
    Who knew what horrors Harriet confronted in her dreams? Or had faced in life? If the girl needed a stick to enable her to sleep, Emma supposed, as she straightened, it could be allowed for a few more days at most—
    “Effing fancy-man,” Harriet shouted, sitting bolt upright in bed with her cudgel raised. “Gimme back my guinea, or I’ll bash you into pig guts!”
    Emma blanched, then swooped down to wrestle the cudgel from the girl’s fists, whispering, “Harriet, Harriet, wake up! It’s only a dream, my dear.”
    Then, even more gently, she added, “You’re safe in this house, do you hear? There are no”—her tongue stumbled over the word—“
effing
fancymen, only friends.”
    “Lady Lyons?” Harriet blinked several times before she broke into an abashed grin upon recognizing Emma. “That oughta teach you not to sneak up on a sleepin’ body. I almost thumped you a croaker, Mrs. Princum Prancum.”
    Emma regarded her unflinchingly, thinking that two persons thus “thumped” in one day could not be allowed. “I have warned you about the language, Harriet.” She paused. “And that elocution. You drop the inital
h
and defy the rules of phonics more often than not. In fact, your diction could stop a parade of Horse Guards in their tracks.”
    Harriet beamed. “Well, thanks, ma’am.” She tucked her bony knees under her well-washed night rail and settled in for a lengthy chat. “You’re prowling about late, ain’t ya? Been gettin’ friendly with his grace? Lovely looker, that fellow. Gives a girl the warm shivers.”
    Emma felt her scalp tighten. Either Harriet had almost supernatural instincts, or Emma looked as guilty as she felt. “Do lower your voice, Harriet, and refrain from such lowering remarks. His grace—goodness, he’s not inherited yet. He is Lord Wolverton to us.”
    “Wolf,” Harriet corrected her with a knowing smile. “And don’t we all know what that means?”
    Emma lifted a brow in astonishment. “If we know, then we certainly will not admit it, nor share our embarrassing perception with the other, more innocent girls,” she said in a disconcerted voice.
    Harriet’s mouth quirked at the corners. “Someone has to educate ’em, don’t they?”
    Emma was feeling a little light-headed, a belated reaction, she was sure, from her own unplanned amorous lesson. “Not in those matters, my girl. When a woman marries, well, her husband is best left to instruct her in such affairs.”
    Harriet snorted. “There’s the blind leadin’ the blind, in my ignorant opinion. If you want to give us a proper education, you should take us to Mrs. Watson’s house on Bruton Street for a few nights. I heard tell she gives lessons in love.”
    “My blood chills at the mere suggestion.”
    “It wouldn’t be chill for long in that place.”
    “Reassure me, Harriet, that you were never employed in such an establishment,” Emma whispered, sickened at the thought.
    “I was once,” Harriet whispered