To Love a Tormented Earl, page 11
Alice made pleasant conversation, asking about the herbs and flowers in the kitchen garden as they passed, and inquiring as to the progression of a partially constructed glass orangery. Emilia found it a challenge to contribute anything of value to the discourse, and silently thanked her companion for her efforts.
Lady Ceastre stopped and leaned to examine the leaves on the roses that grew over the trellis to which they had come all the way back around. The leaves yellowed and had black spots. ‘Look at this,’ she said in a fretful tone. She tutted. ‘I have told the gardener to treat them with milk, but it seems to no avail.’
An idea struck Emilia.
‘My housekeeper makes a very effective tonic for our roses, my lady,’ she invented. ‘I should be very happy to bring some by tomorrow, if you wish.’
Lady Ceastre beamed at her. ‘Why, how delightful,’ she said. ‘I should like that very much, Miss Whitmore.’
‘Consider it done, my lady,’ Emilia said.
With the matter of her return resolved, some of the tension Emilia suffered dissipated. She found it easier to converse with the countess and the rest of the promenade passed without incident.
Emilia and Alice bid the lady farewell, heading for the carriage, which Abraham brought round. Emilia noticed with amusement that the coachman had been carving a wooden figurine again, no doubt as he waited. It had the shape of a rabbit, and it lay on the seat by the coachman’s side.
In another life, I think Abraham would have liked to have been a toy maker, Emilia thought. The idea filled Emilia with affection for Abraham, and this extended to all of her staff.
And what will become of them all, should I succeed in marrying? she wondered. Stung with a sense of unexpected dread, Emilia pushed aside the thoughts as she climbed into the landau, pressing her hand in Abraham’s as she did.
One concern at a time, she told herself resolutely. I have secured a visit here again tomorrow. Best to remember that, and think of a scheme for how to find the writing desk for now.
‘Well, then, Alice,’ Emilia said with satisfaction as she arranged her skirts. ‘That went better than it might.’
‘Only for a moment I thought all was lost,’ Alice said grimly.
Emilia gave her a smile. ‘Nonsense. Your playacting was inspired, and Lady Ceastre was very kind.’
‘She does seem a gentle soul,’ Alice said. ‘The loss of her nephews grieves her.’
Emilia sighed, leaning back into the seat. ‘Yes. It does seem rather cruel of Lord Ceastre to have deceived her so, when one is confronted with the consequences to the countess who had no ill part to play in his situation with those who conspired against him.’
Alice nodded. ‘I wonder whether his lordship has considered the effect on his aunt.’
‘I don’t know,’ Emilia said. ‘Perhaps he felt the harm was unavoidable.’
‘Perhaps,’ Alice said. ‘Or perhaps he didn’t care.’
Emilia’s cheeks warmed, and she felt compelled to defend the earl. ‘He was the victim of a blackmailer. I don’t imagine his aunt would have suffered less if he had been the centre of some terrible scandal.’
‘Tis still possible he will be,’ Alice said.
To that, Emilia had no answer.
***
‘The man accosted you?’ Roberts exclaimed when Max relayed the events of the afternoon.
The lieutenant was sitting at the secretary whilst Max looked out the window.
‘And threatened that if I did not leave England within the week, “bad things would happen,”’ Max said.
‘The utter gall,’ Roberts said.
‘He mentioned an employer,’ Max mused. ‘And then there’s what Ibbott revealed to me. I rather think the scoundrel’s employer is my own dear uncle, Edward Emery.’
‘The new earl?’ Roberts exclaimed. ‘Surely not!’
‘He gained a title and a fortune when I died,’ Max pointed out. ‘Ibbott said he made no real effort to locate the next in line.’
‘You aren’t considering that he might be the blackmailer?’
‘I don’t know,’ Max confessed. ‘The thought has occurred to me, I own. Charlotte is his daughter; perhaps he wished to protect her. I never knew he was even aware of what transpired between her and the footman, much less that I had witnessed it. But perhaps he did know, and took matters into his own hands.’
‘How troubling,’ Roberts said, putting down his quill. ‘A powerful man such as he...imagine the scandal.’
‘If’tis he, we can expect that he shall fight very hard to remain the earl,’ Max said darkly.
‘Your decision to continue as Mr. Milton, rather than end your anonymity, seems wise,’ Roberts said. ‘At least until we know more.’
‘Agreed. And that is why I sent my card round to Miss Whitmore’s.’
‘Did you? And what of your concern for her reputation, and the gossip that might ensue?’
Max shifted his weight uneasily, leaning a palm on the window frame. ‘It can’t be helped. There is no time. I must have answers.’
Roberts stood from the desk. ‘Right then, old chap. I suppose we must be on our way at once, then.’
Lady Charlotte
Didier, Lady Charlotte’s lady’s maid, was indisposed due to some ill fortune with the servants’ breakfast. With her mother away, Lady Charlotte could not receive male visitors, much to her annoyance. It could not be helped—she should have insisted on Papa hiring a companion for her, or that he should remain at home in the afternoons, at least, so she might receive someone such as Baron Ferriston, when he wished to call.
The baron had sent a note around that morning, and Charlotte had been forced to write with her apologies. It was unbearable. Today might have been the day she so eagerly awaited. He might have asked to speak to her in private. Now she must wait until after the ball at Ceastre, for she knew him to have travel plans in between. It was a detestable turn of events. Maximilian Emery would have several days to make mischief and ruin everything.
She was incapable of keeping her attention on any task. She put away her quill-work and ignored the pianoforte and the shelf of novels, standing instead at one of the windows in the drawing room, cursing her Papa for going out and leaving her there alone.
Her mother would be rushing about Ceastre, attending to all of the little details that were required of planning a ball. Charlotte had, of course, assisted in the writing of invitations some weeks before, and then more recently to please Miss Augusta Emma D’Este and her preposterous whim of inviting Miss Emilia Whitmore.
Charlotte hoped her other guests would not judge her too harshly for doing as Miss d’Este asked, but she supposed she might hear some complaints about it. Justifiably so. It had occurred to Charlotte to refuse to honour the request, for many of the nobility of England would be shocked to mingle at a ball with some title-less gentleman’s daughter and her frumpy companion.
Miss Whitmore had little to recommend her. No title, no fortune, no influential relations. But Miss d’Este never forgot a single one of her whims, and in the end, Charlotte feared her displeasure more than some gossip and complaints from the rest of the guests.
Securing Miss d’Este’s friendship, trying though the process of doing so might be, was Charlotte’s crowning social achievement. Confidante to the natural granddaughter of His Majesty the King—it was a distinction few ladies of Charlotte’s rank could claim, and she was loath to endanger it by disappointing Miss d’Este.
Charlotte traced a finger along the edge of the window pane. It was another lovely day, but she could not go out. Really, it was most vexing.
Unless she told Didier, her lady’s maid, to accompany her. Certainly Didier must be quite recovered by now.
That was a thought.
Charlotte found it vulgar to use one’s lady’s maid as a companion, but desperate times called for desperate measures. If only she knew where Lord Ferriston might be, for she had gleaned that he would not leave London before tomorrow morning. If he was riding down Rotten Row, as he had told her he liked to do, she might engineer a meeting somehow, mightn’t she?
Turning with resolve, Charlotte crossed to exit the drawing room and find Didier, when Nicholas appeared in the doorway.
He was a dark-haired man with pale grey eyes and a fine, square jaw. His shoulders were strong and his countenance as pleasant as one might hope for in a footman.
Charlotte froze, and for an instant her expression betrayed the wild effect his presence had on her heart. The moment passed as the lady pressed a hand to her bosom, willing her heart to calm.
Raising her chin, she regarded the servant archly.
The latter lowered his head, scowling at her with a mulish expression.
‘Move aside,’ Charlotte commanded him.
The footman did not budge.
His eyes travelled from her face to her throat and shoulders, then lower.
Charlotte caught her breath. The liberties the scoundrel took with her! She felt a flush warming her cheeks.
Nicholas’s mouth quirked, one corner rising in a knowing smile.
Charlotte’s heart began to race again, a spooked rabbit in her breast. He knew her too well.
‘Surely you have work to do,’ she said, but the words came out weakly.
He stepped toward her, and she stumbled back, soon finding herself pressed to the wall. Nicholas kept advancing until there was but a wisp of air between them. The strength in Charlotte’s legs drained away, and she leaned into the wall for support.
Nicholas reached out and cupped her chin, turning her face up. Charlotte’s eyelids became heavy and she blinked them repeatedly. Her body warmed at his nearness. She was so weak-willed when it came to him.
‘You shall be my undoing,’ she murmured, her lips very close to his now.
‘I already have been,’ he reminded her.
It was true, and in that moment it seemed futile to resist it.
Charlotte pushed herself into his arms, her mouth connecting with his.
She was lost.
***
‘A Mr. Milton and Lieutenant Roberts,’ Randall announced.
Emilia set aside the book on her lap and Alice put away her embroidery. They stood as the gentlemen entered, everyone murmuring greetings.
Emilia could not help but notice what a fine figure Lord Ceastre cut, in his fashionably loose, dark blue trousers and matching waistcoat. His dark jacket fit him to perfection.
‘Will you take tea, Mr. Milton, Lieutenant Roberts?’ Emilia asked with a nod at the butler, who still hovered in the doorway.
‘Certainly,’ the earl said, and his companion inclined his head as well.
As everyone took a seat, the ladies on the sofa and each gentleman in an armchair, Emilia asked, ‘I trust you have been in good health since we last spoke, sir?’
‘Quite,’ Lord Ceastre said. ‘And I trust you have had an...interesting day?’
Straight to the point.
‘Indeed, we have been home less than an hour,’ Alice put in, and Emilia detected a note of reproach in her friend’s tone. Fatigued from all of their adventures, no doubt. Emilia made a mental note to find some way to express her gratitude to Alice as soon as possible.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t very much to report,’ Emilia confessed, meeting Ceastre’s green eyes. Her heart skipped at the way he looked back at her.
‘Did something go amiss?’ the earl asked. ‘Were you not admitted to visit the estate?’
‘We were admitted,’ Emilia said. ‘And I was even able to find my way into the room you indicated.’
‘And?’ he prompted.
Randall reappeared, serving as footman despite the indignity to his pride. He set down the tray of tea things and Emilia gave him a warm smile. With their staff so reduced, Randall could always be counted on to keep everything running. How fortunate she was to have such good people surrounding her. She refused to think of a future where she might have to bid them farewell.
Emilia set about pouring the tea and waited for Randall to leave again.
Once the cups had been distributed, she said, ‘The entire manor has been redecorated.’
Ceastre frowned and leaned back, holding his saucer gingerly. ‘Redecorated?’
‘Indeed,’ Emilia said. ‘The dressing room as well. ’Tis full of lovely new pieces, in the Egyptian style.’
‘The Egyptian—’ the earl cut himself off with a grunt.
‘There was no writing desk, sir,’ Emilia explained. ‘No writing desk at all.’
Ceastre’s face drained of colour and he took a slow sip of tea.
Emilia lowered her eyes and studied her own cup. Disappointing him distressed her more than she cared to own.
‘Oh, but you should have seen Miss Whitmore,’ put in Alice. Emilia’s eyes flicked up and she stared at her companion. The latter gestured with her tea cup, nearly splashing liquid over the edge in her enthusiasm. ‘She was so very brave. Risking her reputation slipping away into the house unsupervised.’
It was very obviously a reproach toward the earl, and no one could have missed it.
Emilia frowned. ‘Yes, and you both would have admired Miss Bromley’s playacting. One would have thought she was truly unwell.’ She emphasized the last word as a message to her friend—‘unwell’ might stand for ‘uncivil’ in her meaning. But Alice seemed not to understand.
‘We met your aunt, the Lady Ceastre,’ Alice pressed on.
Emilia could feel heat building at the base of her spine, as ‘twas wont to do when she was on the verge of mortification. She raised her eyebrows at Alice, but the latter did not meet her gaze.
‘Such a charming lady, is the countess,’ Alice said. ‘‘twas a sorry sight to see how she still mourns the loss of her nephews.’
Ceastre’s teacup clattered in its saucer.
‘Alice,’ Emilia breathed, but the lady sipped her own tea demurely, and quite obviously without remorse.
The earl’s green eyes were troubled. ‘Was she very affected?’ he asked Emilia.
Setting down her own cup and saucer, Emilia gathered her wits. There was nothing for it; she must be honest. ‘It was clear that she felt the loss of you and your brother keenly. She raised the subject herself, you understand. As though it must often be in her thoughts.’
Ceastre set down his teacup and leaned back, turning his face and putting a hand over his mouth as he rested an elbow on the arm of the chair.
‘What a tribute to her ladyship,’ Lieutenant Roberts said. ‘It speaks to her good character, that she feels the loss of her nephews despite the advantage it brought her.’
Ceastre made a noise of distress.
‘Really, old chap, you should take it as good news,’ Roberts continued. ‘At least you’ve nothing to fear from her.’
Emilia frowned. ‘Might you? From other members of the family?’
