To Love a Tormented Earl, page 12
The earl glanced at her then, and her pulse quickened. He never said anything about suspecting members of the Emery household.
‘Emilia!’
It was her father’s voice, coming from above.
‘Oh dear,’ she murmured.
Mrs. Gale popped her head into the drawing room. ‘Never you mind, Miss Whitmore, I’ll see to Mr. Whitmore.’
‘Thank you, Mrs. Gale,’ Emilia replied, but her fingers curled into the fabric of the white, ruffled walking dress she still wore.
‘Is that Mr. Whitmore calling?’ Lord Ceastre asked, his brow furrowed.
With a sigh, Emilia took up her teacup again, resting it on her hand. ‘It is, sir.’
‘Emilia!’ Papa cried again.
The heat was built along her spine. She had a sip in hopes of assuaging it.
‘I say, old chap...’ Roberts muttered.
‘Yes, of course,’ Ceastre replied. ‘We shall take our leave at once.’
Everyone stood. ‘I suppose we must meet again, that I might tell you the rest of what happened during our visit to Ceastre Manor,’ Emilia said, looking at the earl uncertainly.
He gazed down at her, his hands worrying the brim of the fine hat he held. ‘Yes, I think that is quite necessary.’
They stared into each other’s eyes. Emilia felt incapable of looking away.
Meeting him again is folly, she thought weakly. I must simply tell him of my plans to return to the estate, and say that I shan’t see him again before I have done so.
But she couldn’t bear the thought of letting him leave now, and not seeing him again until she had acquired the papers he sought. It would be at least a day.
A day! Oh Emilia, you are besotted.
I cannot help it. Let me but spend as much time as I can in his presence, before’tis all over. Once I have done my part, there will no longer be any reason to meet with him at all.
Her heart tightened at the thought.
This is a distraction. A will-o-the-wisp guiding you from your path to an advantageous marriage. You shall become lost in a forest of misfortune...possibly ruin.
But even knowing this, she could not stop herself from saying, ‘Perhaps at Portman Square Garden again?’
‘I will count the minutes, Miss Whitmore.’
Emilia flushed and cast her eyes down.
So would she.
Chapter 11
‘Did you know Mr. Whitmore well in your time as the earl?’ Roberts asked as they rode home. He was stroking his moustache thoughtfully.
‘As well as one can know a friend of one’s father,’ Max replied. ‘You asked about him at the club?’
‘Indeed, just as you requested. I spoke with several gentlemen.’
‘And?’
Roberts looked up, accessing memory. ‘A Mr. Bircher was an intimate friend, years ago, I gather. I spoke with him at some length. He said Whitmore has been too ill for any socializing for the past two years. The last time he saw him was when the Whitmores first came to London at the time, and Bircher paid them a call to welcome them. Whitmore was well enough to receive him once, but no more after that.’
‘They came to London two years ago?’ Max said.
‘Yes, from what I pieced together, they spent a year in Bath before that,’ Roberts said. ‘Another fellow, Gardner was his name, had many opinions about how Whitmore’s care has been amiss, not the least of which is that they left Bath too soon. He gave me to understand he shares Whitmore’s surgeon, and the latter is most concerned about it all.’
‘Why did they leave Bath?’ Max wondered.
‘For the London season. Gardner was rather scandalized. It would seem Miss Whitmore received an invitation from an aunt to have her debut along with a cousin. She accepted rather than remain in Bath for her father’s health.’
‘Whitmore might have remained behind, if his daughter was in care of a family member.’
‘The man was far too ill to be left unattended,’ Roberts said.
Max frowned. It seemed there existed a frivolous side to Miss Whitmore he found difficult to reconcile with his personal knowledge of the lady. It was most discomfiting.
‘And was her season a success?’ he found himself asking.
‘None of the gentlemen I spoke to addressed that, old chap,’ Roberts said. ‘But as she remains unmarried, I would have to think not.’
‘Her father’s illness has no doubt dissuaded suitors from calling,’ Max mused.
‘And the fact that she’s put her hunt for a husband above her father’s wellbeing,’ Roberts said, tugging on his moustache.
Max bristled. He disliked the criticism against Miss Whitmore, but he could find no reasonable argument to gainsay it.
‘One might go so far as to infer that the lady seeks marriage in order to escape her duties as a daughter to an invalid,’ Roberts continued.
Max made a sharp scoffing noise. ‘I see no evidence to support such a claim,’ he said when Roberts gave him a wide-eyed look of surprise. ‘There are no other children to care for Whitmore. No doubt prospective suitors are reluctant to pursue her for they know they shall have the burden of his care should they take her to wife.’
Roberts shrugged and Max expected him to let the matter drop, but he did not.
‘Bircher said something else.’
Inhaling deeply, Max said, ‘And what is that?’
‘There are rumours...of financial trouble.’
Max frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Bircher was not as forthcoming about that,’ Roberts said. ‘But apparently he heard tell rumour of Miss Whitmore selling several valuable items, as well as land from their country house.’
‘Land? But what of their tenants?’
Roberts shook his head. ‘He did not go into detail. But the impression he gave is that those who know the Whitmore family suspect it is on the verge of financial ruin. The girl’s dowry isn’t above one thousand pounds. Of course her son will inherit the family estate, but if she’s been selling off parcels of land...’
Max was seized with the sudden urge to settle an annuity on Miss Whitmore, or perhaps to simply gift her a large sum, that she might have the interest payments. She deserved better than this infernal gossip, which no doubt had contributed to her failure in the previous seasons and would continue to do so, until she became a spinster doomed to care for her ailing father until he died. And what then? If the family fortune really was so diminished, where would Miss Whitmore be in a few years?
A horrid image of Miss Whitmore, impoverished and living alone in some wretched garret filled Max’s mind. And that was not the worst possibility. He shied from allowing more dire imaginings to develop in that regard.
It was a detestable fact, however, that Max was cut off from his own wealth, and quite incapable of gifting Miss Whitmore anything. He lived on a small sum he had taken with him to Portugal. Without Roberts’s half-pay as a lieutenant relieved of duty, they might not have been able to afford the residence they shared on Portman Square at all.
The gentlemen arrived at their townhouse and Max alighted from the carriage in a tumultuous mood. His heart was in a state of confusion. He marched up to the drawing room and began to pace the now-familiar path from one end of the room to the other.
Miss Whitmore’s future was no concern of his, and yet he could not stop troubling himself over it. She was assisting him, yes, and for that he was grateful, but he could not set aside the reason he had chosen her for his agent in the first place. The lady was courting disaster with some sort of illicit affair. Whether rumours were destroying her chances for marriage or not, the lady herself was endangered by her own actions. There was no sense lamenting his inability to give her money—how preposterous to even wish to do so.
And yet. And yet.
He felt for her. She was a young, unmarried woman without the benefit of a family’s protection. Whichever aunt had seen to her debut was absent now, it would appear. Her father lived, but his infirmity prevented him from acting in any useful capacity for her.
It made Max wish he could rescue her. Despite his knowledge that she was on the verge of being ruined by her own foolish choices—or perhaps, because of them. Yes, that was it, he surmised now.
Max didn’t blame Miss Whitmore for her waywardness.
She was alone, without anyone to guide her, except possibly Miss Bromley, and the latter was not a governess, but a companion. When had a lady’s companion ever held dominion over the lady she served?
But what could be done?
Max had no influence over how Miss Whitmore’s future would progress.
He could but stand by and watch the tragedy of her ruin unfold before him, it seemed.
It was unbearable.
***
As she waited with Alice by Portman Square Garden’s southern gate, Emilia spied Ceastre and the lieutenant, once again leading the curly-haired dog, as they crossed the busy street. As soon as they were near she gave a polite curtsey and greeted them.
Summer neared and the days were longer, otherwise they might not have had much time for a promenade. Emilia was thankful, as she fell in step beside the earl, that so many people seemed intent to enjoy the weather, still, in the late afternoon. The meeting hardly appeared out of the ordinary.
‘Now, let’s resume where we left off,’ Ceastre said. ‘You met my aunt?’
Emilia nodded. Ahead, Alice laughed and played with the dog, still on a lead held by the lieutenant. The canine tugged on a stick Alice held.
‘Yes, her ladyship gave us a tour of the garden,’ Emilia said, eyeing her friend. Did Alice laugh more when she walked with Lieutenant Roberts? But Emilia could not allow such questions to distract her. She had enough to sort through. Turning to glance at Lord Ceastre, she said, ‘Your aunt is a dear lady.’
The earl’s face took on a wistful expression, and Emilia imagined he was thinking of his aunt’s grief. She wished Alice had not chosen to trouble him with it. The circumstances could not be changed now. The time for his second guessing of the announcement of his death had passed three years ago. The only remedy at present was for Ceastre to clear his name and set everything to rights. His aunt’s grief might be mitigated then, one hoped.
‘I made arrangements to return to visit her tomorrow,’ Emilia told him.
His eyebrows went up and he faced her, hesitating in his gait. ‘Did you?’
‘Yes,’ Emilia said, pleased that his countenance had lightened with the news. ‘She has a climbing rose afflicted with black spots, and I offered to bring her a remedy.’
Ceastre looked her over as if seeing her anew. ‘I say, bravo, Miss Whitmore. I am very impressed; that was cleverly done.’
The praise warmed her. ‘I shall endeavour to have another look around then,’ she said. ‘Although I cannot guarantee success.’
‘Shall I describe the desk to you? I’m certain that the blackmail letter still resides within it. No one knew of the false bottom in the drawer,’ Ceastre said. ‘The first drawer, at the top. I am convinced the letter must still remain within its secret compartment.’
‘Yes, please do describe the desk, sir.’
‘I think you’ll find it easy to recognize, for it is unusual in that it is polished with a black Japanese finish,’ he said. ‘It has gold leaf details and solid bronze handles. It has four drawers under the slope top.’
That does sound distinctive, Emilia thought. Surely I will recognize it.
‘I see,’ Emilia said aloud. ‘I am confident that your description will be amply sufficient to my task, sir.’
I only hope the desk is still in one of the house’s rooms. Although there are so very many of them.
‘You have my gratitude for your perseverance, Miss Whitmore,’ he said.
Emilia smiled at him, pleased. He regarded her as if considering whether to speak, and for a moment, her heart began to beat harder.
Impossible, she told herself severely. What you hope for is impossible.
She dared not even put her desire into words.
‘It must be very difficult,’ Ceastre said, ‘attempting to care for your father.’
The unexpected statement acted as a much more successful dampener on her romantic notions than her own admonishing thoughts had been.
Emilia broke his gaze and looked ahead, watching Alice as she now led the dog, letting him pull her from shrub to shrub.
‘Yes,’ Emilia owned. ‘I am often distressed, for I very much wish to afford him the care he needs.’
‘You’ve been to Bath?’ Ceastre asked.
She nodded. ‘We spent a year there.’
‘Does his physician—that is, his surgeon...does he not recommend that you return?’
‘The surgeon recommends a sanatorium in Germany, or else Italy,’ she said.
‘You did mention that,’ he said.
Without warning Emilia was gripped by the urge to tell him everything. To pour out her cares as though to a close family friend. She had never done so—not with anyone, save Alice. Why she felt so compelled to do so with the earl now lacked all sense.
‘I would,’ she said, struggling with herself. ‘I would take him to Italy or Germany or Bath. If I could.’
Abruptly the air seemed unseasonably hot and Emilia longed to stop walking and sit. She felt stifled in her ruffled dress—suffocated in the layers of fabric.
‘Is the season so important, that you cannot bear to miss it for your father’s health?’ Ceastre asked.
He might as well have slapped her.
What a mercenary he thought her to be!
Emilia pressed a hand to her waist, her breathing tight. Looking about her, she had a fleeting thought to simply run away. That made her want to laugh. She pressed a gloved hand to her mouth to stifle it.
‘I beg your forgiveness, such a question was too forward,’ the earl said.
Tears pricked her eyes and she shook her head, but her breathing felt even closer and the heat was rising to her head. She stopped walking, attempting in vain to recover her calm.
‘I do apologise, Miss Whitmore,’ the earl said, standing awkwardly. A lady never simply stood to speak with a gentleman; one was meant to walk with him, or sit. But Emilia was quite incapable of remedying the impropriety of the situation. She couldn’t breathe, for if she did she might begin to sob, and without air she could hardly walk.
Her hand pressed more firmly against her lips as she willed the tears away.
How humiliating, to make such a scene, Emilia chastised herself. Lord Ceastre must be mortified.
Ceastre took a step closer, however, and, leaning in, whispered, ‘I truly am so very chagrined to have distressed you, Miss Whitmore.’
She met his eyes then. His lovely green eyes, full of compassion.
‘The truth is, my lord, I cannot afford to miss the season,’ she whispered. He moved another step closer, the better to hear her, for her voice was almost inaudible as she still struggled for breath. ‘I fear that if I do not marry, I shan’t manage to save Papa at all.’
