Dukes Do It Better, page 7
Alton lived in a world where Adam Hardwick had been a real man. A father who never parented. A newlywed taken from his young bride too soon. While Emma’s and Phee’s conniving provided legitimacy for Alton, she feared their plan served her more than it did her child.
The freedom of widowhood was hers to enjoy, while Alton walked around with a hole where his idea of a father should be.
“How will a new papa find us if we’re not home?”
Emma sighed. Alton’s little heart was so tender. She brushed her fingers through his fair hair, the ends sticking up in all directions like soft hedgehog quills.
“I think, if we are to get a new papa, he shall have to find us. If he’s meant to be ours, it will all work out.” That must have satisfied him, because Alton didn’t argue. “Do you want me to walk you back to the nursery? Freddie shall miss you in the morning if he wakes and you’re gone.”
“Can I stay in here? Pleeeeeeease?”
She rolled her eyes, grateful he couldn’t see. “Very well. But the minute you kick me in your sleep, you go back to the nursery. Agreed?” He giggled, then rolled over to face the edge of the bed.
It took her longer than expected to fall asleep again as her mind continued to roll over each word of the conversation with Alton.
Consequences had a way of finding a person. She’d once been a selfish, willful girl. Alton paid the price for that, much as it pained her to admit it. Just as she and Cal had paid for their parents’ scandals, affairs, and battles. For all they’d put their children through, their parents had been remarkably uninvolved in actual parenting.
Which was one way she could do better. Be better. As soon as she looked into Alton’s eyes, she’d known this was one way she differed from them. Emma would be an involved parent and a loving mother. Her gratitude for Cal’s providing a reliable, affectionate role model for her son was bottomless.
A twist of unfamiliar grief rolled through her chest at the thought. No, Father hadn’t been a particularly good parent, although he’d loved her in his shallow way. A sigh released some of the tension under her ribs, but no tears came to wash away the lingering ache.
Finally, the soft piggylike snores from beside her lulled her back into dreamland.
In the morning, she awoke when her son jabbed her in the side with what had to be the sharpest little elbows in the country. Rolling away, Emma sat up and glanced over her shoulder at the sleeping little boy. Their conversation in the middle of the night had haunted her dreams, until each one starred a scene in their cottage on the cliff. Homesickness settled around her heart. Before her feet touched the chilly floor, a plan had taken root.
She needed coffee and her brother—preferably in that order. But first, Emma leaned over and gently nudged Alton’s shoulder. “Wake up, little love. Momma needs coffee.” His face scrunched and his eyes stayed stubbornly closed. “Fine. Be like that. But don’t wake up wondering where I am.”
“Breakfast room,” Alton mumbled.
“Yes, I’ll be in the breakfast room.” She kissed his cheek and he scrubbed at the spot with a grumpy hand. Donning her wrapper, she padded out the door.
In the hall she stopped the first servant she saw. “Could you tell the nurse that Alton is in my bed? I’m getting breakfast, but he wants to sleep awhile longer.”
There. Someone would be there when he woke.
Maybe having an army of servants was convenient after all. This was an informal household, evidenced by Phee and Cal, also in their banyans at the table sipping coffee with twin tired expressions. Or rather, Phee was in a banyan she’d stolen from her husband years ago and refused to give back. Cal loved clothes, so it wasn’t a hardship for him to visit his tailor on a legitimate errand to get a new one.
Emma poured a cup of coffee and sat. “Calvin, I remember when you refused to leave your room until you were fully dressed and polished to perfection.”
Her brother raised a brow. “That sounds bloody exhausting now. So much effort to appear perfect in my own home.”
“It’s a good change. I like it. Besides, after the night I had, getting coffee and food is more important than vanity.” Emma took her first sip and sighed as the warmth poured through her veins.
“Was Alton restless?” Phee asked as she rose and refilled her plate from the sideboard.
“He’s homesick and ended up in my bed. But it gave me an idea I’d like to discuss with you, brother mine.”
“I’m on my third cup. We can talk whenever you like,” he said.
“I’d like to buy the cottage. I’ve lived frugally off my dowry interest, as you know. Are the funds accessible as one lump sum? I’m not sure where the Eastly fortune stood when Father passed. Honestly, I don’t know the first thing about buying a house.”
Phee resumed her seat, holding a plate loaded with toast, fruit, and bacon. As soon as she sat, Cal swiped a piece of her bacon, then held it out of reach until she gave up and let him have it. “I love the idea, Em, but why now? Why not keep renewing your lease?”
“Alton doesn’t have an inheritance unless we leave him something, and you have your own family to worry about.”
Cal raised a finger and interrupted. “You and Alton are my family.”
Emma continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “If I buy the cottage, at least my son has land and a house when he’s older. Besides, I think maintaining his childhood home would go a long way toward helping him feel secure.”
“Him, or you?” Phee speared a strawberry off her husband’s plate, ignoring the pile of fruit on her own.
Damn Phee’s observant nature. Emma blew out a frustrated breath. “Fine, not just Alton. I want to buy the cottage.” To have someplace safe to return to if being in London was an unmitigated disaster. To belong somewhere, when it sometimes felt like she didn’t fit in anywhere except her little house on the cliff.
Phee nodded and didn’t push further. After years of friendship, Emma knew the intent was never to harm, but to shove Emma toward admitting the truth. For her own good, naturally.
Cal sat back, cradling his cup between his hands. “As you often remind me, you’re an adult and make your own decisions. If you’re sure about buying the house, the capital for your dowry is untouched. I protected it from Father when I took over the accounts a few years ago. Do you want to go through this process yourself, would you like my advice, or would you rather I handle all of it?”
Phee reached over and laid a hand on her husband’s arm, then squeezed. A silent look passed between them, and Emma knew enough of their history to interpret it. Cal wanted to take over and fix the situation, but he was trying to give her options, and Phee was praising him without words.
“It’s tempting to throw the whole thing in your lap. But I need to do this. It’s my house, after all. If you won’t mind a bit of hand-holding, I’d appreciate you advising me through each step.”
“When would you like to begin?” he asked.
“As soon as possible. I imagine the first thing would be to contact the leasing agent, Mr. Williams, and make an offer, correct?”
Cal smiled. “We can write a letter this morning and make our initial offer. If your landlord is willing to sell, they’ll likely counteroffer, and then we’ll see where we stand. But you aren’t using your dowry to pay for it.”
The cup rattled on the table when Emma set it down. “That dowry is my money. I should be allowed to spend it how I wish.”
“You live off the interest of the dowry, so I’d rather not touch it. We will pay for it out of Father’s estate.” A protest rose from deep within her, but Cal cut it off with a hand in the air. “Father was a horse’s arse and we both know it. He didn’t fund your debut. He didn’t even pay for your fancy finishing school—I did. Let him pay for your house. The man owes you.”
Silence sat heavily on the table between them, a tangible thing.
“He’s dead. He doesn’t owe me anything.” Now would be a brilliant time to find tears for her father, but besides a tightness in her throat, Emma’s eyes remained dry. Goodness, she truly was an unfeeling daughter.
“Let him do this one thing right by you,” Cal said. Phee smoothed the groove between his brows with one finger. He caught her hand and kissed her fingertip, then visibly relaxed.
Emma stared down into her cup to avoid the intimacy across the table. The chances of finding what they had were nil, especially for her. Unable to look away for long, Emma peeked through her lashes at her brother and her best friend. They held hands and continued to eat, completely confident in their place with each other.
When she let herself dream and write to her imaginary lover in her journals, that was what she imagined. The comfort and acceptance.
Since Calvin had found it, Emma knew such a thing was possible despite their upbringing. One difference between them held her back from outright hope: Calvin was a moral person. If anything, he put too much effort into helping others. Fixing their problems.
Fixing her problems. Because she wasn’t the upright person her brother was. But she was trying to be.
Their parents hadn’t been good for much. It was her brother who had always taken care of her—financially, emotionally, socially. Cal cleared the way, ensuring Emma had every opportunity.
“I’ll find you later, after we’re all dressed, and we can write the leasing agent. Thank you for helping.”
“I wonder how much longer we have until the children join us,” Phee mused.
Emma shrugged and rose to make a plate for herself. As she sat down again, with breakfast in hand, the echo of young voices carried down the hall, growing louder as they approached.
“You summoned the little devils,” Cal muttered, but he was smiling.
“We could make them eat in the nursery,” Emma said.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Phee asked, opening her arms to the little redheaded boy barreling through the door.
The mood in the room changed when a giant of a man followed Freddie into the breakfast room.
“Ethan? What’s wrong?” Cal jumped to his feet, concern etched across his face as he wiped his mouth with a serviette and threw it on the table.
Ethan waved a piece of paper in the air, clenched in his fist. “’Tis deliberate. All of it. The investors. The issues these last few months. Our bad batches of brew. Not a bit o’ bad luck after all.”
Yesterday in the modiste’s shop, Lottie had mentioned a meeting with investors, which must have gone poorly. Claiming deliberate problems was another matter altogether. “Are you talking about sabotage, Ethan?”
The giant Scotsman rounded the table and shoved the paper at Calvin. “Here. Read.”
Phee scurried out of her chair to read over her husband’s shoulder. Emma kept an eye on them, dividing her attention between the adults and their news, and two mischievous little boys who were stuffing their pockets with breakfast foods.
Emma snapped her fingers at the boys, shaking her head. At least they listened. In part. Evidenced by shoving sausages and bacon in their mouths instead of their pockets.
The other adults, meanwhile, were clustered at the end of the table with the crumpled piece of paper and expressions of concern on their faces.
Emma joined them and asked, “How bad is it?”
“’Tis not good, I can tell you that,” Ethan said.
Cal’s answer was more concise. “It’s a blackmail note. The writer claims responsibility for the issues the brewery has been having, and threatens more extensive damage to the business.”
Emma glanced around at the faces. “Unless? You said blackmail. What’s the price to make this go away?”
Ethan’s face was carefully blank. “Too much. We’ve worked hard tae make Amesbury Brewing a success. If we pay, it takes us out at the knees. Which means sacrificing the economy of the village. The locals have only recently begun tae fully trust Lottie and me.”
“You won’t be sacrificing anything, Ethan. You’re family. Family takes care of each other. We will deal with this. There has to be a solution,” Cal said.
“Bloody Kent,” Phee grumbled. “I don’t have any contacts in Kent near the brewery. If the blackmailer was near the docks, we’d have information within the day.” Phee’s league of child spies and informants served their family well when she and Cal dug in the underbelly of London for information on their investors. But Lord Amesbury’s estate, Woodrest, and the brewery were in Kent, not the city.
Ethan slumped into a chair, which gave an ominous creek under the sheer mass of him. “I don’ have much choice but tae ask for help. I hate that. But I can’t let the village suffer.” A sigh rattled out of him.
Emma placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry this is happening. Does the letter writer give a timeline for payment or any indication as to why they’re doing this?”
Phee plucked the letter from the table and thrust it toward Emma. Emma’s eyes widened. Lordy goodness. Such a hefty sum, and the blackmailer gave Lord and Lady Amesbury only one week to come up with it. A single clue as to motivation came from a vague line at the end of the note. You’ll pay. Either with funds or with everything you hold dear. The world will know exactly what you are.
Chapter Six
I dream of it sometimes, you know. London. But I miss you more. I’ve had London, but I haven’t had you.
—Journal entry, January 1, 1824
This was the magic she remembered. At eighteen, the events among the ton had an aureate quality to them, as if everything gleamed with the shine of youthful enthusiasm and the undeniable acceptance she’d found in London. That gilded edge had been lacking in visits to Town since, and only partly because she had avoided genteel society.
Until tonight.
Soft music drifted through the rooms of the Vanfords’ elegant townhome, carried on the waves of laughter between finely tailored men and women in satin gowns. The tune was vaguely familiar, low to allow conversation, but still loud enough for the dancers to pick their way through waltzes and minuets without straining to keep time.
Champagne sparkled in her glass, and strands of diamonds and citrines glittered from Emma’s throat—her mother’s necklace she’d borrowed for the evening. Most of her dances were spoken for shortly after arriving. Since every man was a friend of her brother’s, single, and respectable, she suspected Calvin was launching a counterattack for her affections after meeting Mal in their drawing room over a week before. Either that, or he was simply being, well, Calvin, and smoothing the way for her first official Season event in years.
“Emma, may I present Lord Mason. Mason and I went to school together and he’s heard so much about you.” Cal swept a hand toward a decent-looking fellow with very little hair and a bright smile.
Lord Mason bowed over her hand, but didn’t go so far as to kiss the top or squeeze her fingers, which she appreciated.
“Lady Emma, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Would you care to dance?”
And so it went.
Lord Mason, cheerful and unassuming.
Lord Dawson, dashing and flirtatious.
Lord Hamilton, light on his feet and attentive to every word she said.
Mr. Percy, shy and endearing.
Her brother was, if nothing else, thorough. As one dance ended and she returned to her original place in the ballroom, the next man stepped forward. By the end of the second dance, she motioned to Cal to pass along the gentleman to Adelaide for the next turn around the room.
Thank God Adelaide could dance, otherwise it would have been an awkward moment for everyone. As it was, Adelaide hadn’t taken too kindly to Emma forcibly removing her from the foliage along the edge of the ballroom. Now on her third partner, Adelaide’s smile had overtaken the initial discomfort of leaving the cover of the palms and ficus.
Madame Bouvier had created a brilliant confection of a gown from the apricot satin. And as predicted, the rustle of slippery material shot through with gold lent a fantastical quality to gliding around the room on the arm of one eligible man after another.
Emma was curtsying to a dark-haired viscount at the end of a quadrille when it occurred to her that this was only the second time since Alton was born that she didn’t have to be a mother for the night. Not in this exact moment, anyway. Alton was home, safe, and able to be tucked away for an hour or two from the forefront of her mind. The one other time she’d handed off her responsibilities to this degree, she’d landed in Mal’s arms.
She scanned the room for him, for the tenth time since arriving. No matter who Calvin sent to dance with her, Emma couldn’t help being on the lookout for a tall, dark-haired piratical duke who’d told her in no uncertain terms he wanted her back in his bed.
Adelaide met her as she exited the cluster of dancers lining up for the next set. “I’m parched. I don’t think I’ve danced this much in years. Do you want to find the refreshment table with me?”
“I’d be happy to fetch you a glass of punch, ladies,” Lord Hamilton said, letting go of Adelaide’s arm and stepping away.
Emma stayed him with a gentle touch on his coat sleeve. “No need, milord, but thank you for offering. Miss Martin and I shall find our way.”
He stuttered, “Are, are you sure?”
Emma confirmed with her friend through a silent glance, then smiled. “How else do you expect us to steal a moment and discuss what charming company you’ve been this evening?” She winked and linked her arm with Adelaide’s, then headed for the double doors leading out of the ballroom.
“I love not having a chaperone. Being a widow is fantastic,” Emma whispered, and Adelaide giggled.
“I can hardly wait to be married so I can do whatever I want. Within reason, of course.”
“And what would you do with your day if you had no one to answer to?”
