Christmas Candles, page 2
part #2 of Holiday Hearts Series
The solicitor’s tone changed from avuncular interest to crisp professionalism. “No matter whom you marry, I suggest that you allow me or another competent solicitor to set up a special trust so that, say, half of your capital is reserved to you and your children. Normally a woman’s property becomes her husband’s when she marries, but a woman of great wealth, such as you are now, often prefers to keep some control in her own hands.”
She was now a woman of great wealth. Emma wanted to laugh again, this time in disbelief. “An excellent idea. I’ve seen women ruined by profligate husbands.” She bit her lip. “I have no idea how to manage so much money. Will you act for me, as you did for Mr. Greaves?”
“It would be my honor, and my pleasure,” the solicitor said promptly.
“I shall need rather a lot of help, and not only financial.” She smiled with wry self-mockery. “Would you be able to use your connections to compile a list of possible husbands? Men who fit the requirements I mentioned earlier, and whose circumstances compel them to seek a rich wife. In other words, the better grade of fortune hunter.”
Mr. Evans regarded her with fascination and a certain shock. “As I said, you are…admirably direct. I shall make inquiries among my legal colleagues about suitable candidates. Character will be of the utmost importance in these circumstances.”
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I can think of several men who might suit. There’s the Honorable George Martin, a widower with four fine children. An admirable fellow. Or Sir Edward Wyckham, a rising young politician. He has great ability, but he’ll need a wife of means to make the most of his opportunities.” The solicitor smiled dismissively. “We wouldn’t want you to pledge yourself to a charming wastrel such as young Lord Verlaine.”
“Verlaine?” She caught her breath. “If the current viscount is a young man, I presume that means the second viscount has died and his son Anthony has inherited.”
“Yes. Sorry, I forgot that Verlaine is a Vaughn,” Mr. Evans said, expression stricken. “He is related to you?”
“A distant cousin,” Emma said, her heart pounding. “I remember him from Christmases at Harley. I’m fearfully out of touch with the family. I thought that he’d married another of my cousins. Or is he a widower?”
“As far as I know, Verlaine has never been married. Certainly he is single now.” The solicitor frowned. “If you know him, you’ll also know how unsuitable he would be. Too handsome, too charming, and thoroughly unreliable. His name is a byword for every kind of wild prank, and they say he gambles heavily. I know for a fact that his estate is on the brink of foreclosure.”
Anthony. Single and in need of a rich wife. “I agree that he is probably inappropriate. Still, Verlaine has the advantage of being known to me.” She rubbed her damp palms on her skirt. “Please look into his circumstances. If it appears that he would be interested in the kind of…arrangement I propose, he might be worth considering.”
“As you wish,” the solicitor said without enthusiasm. “But I will be able to present much better prospects.”
“I’m sure you can,” Emma said, pleased with her calm tone.
Yet after she and the solicitor concluded their business and he took his leave, she leaned back in her chair, her cold hands locked together. A fortune, Christmas at Harley—and Anthony. Granted, he’d always been a bit wild, but there had been no real vice in him. In his casual way, he’d been kind to her. If he really needed money enough to be willing to marry for it…
She tried to control her turbulent thoughts, but without success. She wanted to buy herself a husband. If so, why not Anthony Vaughn if he was willing?
Anthony, the only man she had ever loved.
Events moved quickly after Mr. Evans left. Full of curiosity and bad temper, Mrs. Garfield had immediately confronted Emma about the purpose of the solicitor’s visit. Since Emma no longer had to tolerate her employer’s rudeness, she promptly quit her position, effective in one week.
Another governess was found. Emma silently wished her well with the Garfield daughters. Then, because she needed a maid to be considered respectable, she hired away one of Mrs. Garfield’s housemaids. Becky was a pleasant, quiet young woman who was bullied unmercifully by the housekeeper because she could read and write and wanted to better herself. She accepted Emma’s offer to be a lady’s maid with relief and enthusiasm.
The day after Emma and her new maid took up residence in the very expensive and fashionable Grillon’s Hotel, a sheaf of papers arrived from the solicitor. Each page listed a prospective husband. With amusement, Emma noticed how Mr. Evans had done his best to make each sound appealing. One man had “a bright, engaging manner,” while another was “owner of a splendid Yorkshire estate, only moderately mortgaged.”
She paged through the pile impatiently. The very last was “Anthony Vaughn, third Viscount Verlaine.” No enticing descriptions for him, only comments like, “His estate, Canfield, is on the brink of foreclosure.” “Gambles heavily” came with the grudging note, “Usually wins, though he has never been publicly accused of cheating.”
Emma smiled at that. Unless Anthony had changed beyond recognition, he would never cheat.
Then she lowered the paper, her expression sobering. She was a fool, of course. She had never really known Anthony well. The last time she’d seen him, he had been a man grown while she was still a girl in the schoolroom. She’d spun dreams around him, cherished his occasional friendly words, and loved him with the innocent fervor of a very young girl. In another year or so, she would surely have outgrown her infatuation if she had continued in her old life.
But everything had changed irrevocably when she was fifteen, and she had never had a real chance for romance. The closest she had come was when a drunken guest at her former employer’s had cornered her for a kiss. It had not been an enjoyable experience. No wonder her old dreams about Anthony had stayed alive in her heart.
She glanced back at the dossier, and realized that Anthony had rooms on Bruton Street, literally around the corner from Grillon’s Hotel. It wouldn’t hurt to walk by. In fact, it might be a good idea to call on him. As his cousin, it wouldn’t be too improper for her to do so. A single short visit should be enough for her to strike him from the list of prospects. Then she would be free of her childish dreams, and able to put him from her mind forever.
Quickly, before she could become frightened by her own temerity, she donned her coat and went off to call on her cousin.
Her resolve faltered when she reached the building where Anthony lived. It contained several sets of rooms for gentlemen, with Anthony’s flat on an upper floor. She stared at the plain facade, wondering if she dared enter. It wasn’t too late to turn back, and doing so would probably save her great humiliation.
But she had to know. Jaw set, she went up the steps and into the common hallway. There was a desk for a porter, but he was away from his post. Not sorry to be unobserved, she continued upstairs.
Anthony’s flat was easily identified by a card in a small brass holder on the door frame. To her surprise, the door itself was slightly ajar. She knocked lightly.
When no one answered, she pushed the door farther open. Then she gasped, horrified by the sight of bodies lying on the floor of the drawing room that lay just beyond the tiny vestibule. The flat looked like a massacre had taken place.
Then she heard heavy snoring and smelled the sour scent of spilled wine and sickness. Her nostrils flared as she moved forward into the drawing room and examined the scene more carefully. Apparently she had arrived the morning after an orgy. Empty wine bottles were everywhere, along with least a dozen disheveled young men and almost as many women. Not, clearly, the respectable sort of female.
But none of the drunken men were the one she sought. Emma paused uncertainly, knowing that a sensible woman would leave instantly and have strong hysterics outside on the street. But she had already come this far, and she did not want to leave without seeing Anthony. She might not have the courage to return.
An open door at the far end of the drawing room led to a shadowed bedroom. Inside, she could dimly see a bed with a man who might be Anthony sprawled on his back on top of the rumpled counterpane. She preferred not to consider what condition he would be in, or what might be sharing his bed.
She began picking her way among the tangled bodies, doing her best not to touch any. Halfway across the room, one of the sleepers groaned, then rolled over and caught her right ankle. “Nice ankles,” he said hazily. “C’mere, darlin’.”
He tugged with one hand while his other fumbled with his unbuttoned breeches. She jerked free, stamped smartly on his fingers, and continued toward the bedroom.
A manservant emerged from another door that opened to a small kitchen. He looked appalled at the sight of Emma. “I beg your pardon, miss, b…but his lordship is not receiving.”
Emma paused. “Is he in the bedroom?”
“Yes, but this is no place for you!” the valet exclaimed. “Leave your card, and I’ll see that he receives it.”
Emma arched her brows and used the manner she had learned from the Dowager Duchess of Warrington. “You needn’t be concerned about my reputation. Lord Verlaine is my cousin, so there can be no impropriety in my visit.” Ignoring the valet’s sputtered protests, she resumed her progress.
Luckily the sleeping man was more or less decent, though his coat and cravat were off and his shirt gaped at the throat, revealing a distracting triangle of bare flesh. Anthony, as handsome as ever, with waving dark hair and the powerful build that looked so much better on Vaughn men than on unfortunate females like her.
She studied the strong-boned, never-forgotten face. It had been so many years. Even in his present condition, rumpled and unshaven, he was magnificent.
Suddenly his eyelids flicked open. She caught her breath, wondering how she could have forgotten the impact of those piercing, light blue eyes. The force of his gaze made her feel like a butterfly pinned in a specimen box.
She was on the verge of flight when he said in a rumbling voice, “You’re obviously a Vaughn, but damned if I know which one.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m your cousin, Emma Vaughn Stone. You probably don’t remember me, but my family always spent Christmas at Harley.”
For an endless moment he regarded her unblinkingly. “Ah, yes. Little Emma Stone. A distant cousin of some sort.”
“Second cousin once removed, I believe.” She gave him a hesitant smile. “I can’t swear to the precise relationship, except to say that it’s remote.”
He regarded her dourly. “I once fished you out of the lake when you broke through the ice when skating.”
“I remember. Not one of my better moments.” She had clung to him like a monkey, shivering violently, after he pulled her from the water. He’d immediately carried her up to the house, talking soothingly the whole time. Looking back, that was probably the day she had fallen in love with him.
He sat up and swung his legs over the bed, moving with a caution that said a great deal about his previous night’s activities. “Did you come here to play memory lane? If so, your timing is very poor.”
She agreed, but now that she had begun, she wanted to get this interview over with quickly. “My purpose is quite different. Would it be possible to have a serious conversation with you?”
He groaned and buried his head in his hands. “Miss Stone, the last thing on earth I want is a serious conversation with anyone.”
Perhaps, but he was coherent, and it spoke well for his basic good nature that he could be polite to an unexpected visitor when he probably felt like Vulcan’s hammer was pounding on his skull. She turned to the valet, who had been hovering by the door. “Please make a pot of strong coffee for Lord Verlaine.”
Years of teaching had given her some skill at persuading the recalcitrant. Very soon she and Anthony were sitting in the tiny kitchen with a pot of coffee on the table between them. Not the best setting for evaluating a potential husband, but at least the kitchen was private.
Anthony had taken the chair by the wall and promptly slumped against the white-washed plaster, three-quarters asleep. She put a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. Eyes closed, he took a deep swallow, his Adam’s apple moving. After a second draft, he sighed and opened his eyes. “Miss Stone.”
“Emma,” she said shyly. “After all, we are cousins. You have known me since I was in the nursery.”
“Very well, Emma.” He drank more coffee. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
She hesitated, then decided on bluntness. It was her chief talent. “I had heard you were in dire financial straits. On the verge of losing Canfield, in fact.”
His expression turning to granite. “Our relationship is nowhere near close enough for you to speak of such matters. I’ll thank you to leave now.”
She swallowed hard. Angry, he was formidable. “I’m sorry. I know that was impertinent. I only ask because…perhaps I can help.”
“No one can help,” he snapped. “In three days, the mortgages will come due and the property will be taken from me. For two years, ever since my father died, I’ve been trying to pay off his damned debts, and now it’s too late.”
Her eyes widened. Anthony’s father had been a charming, amiable fellow, but she remembered whispers that he was a gamester. “So your gambling has been an attempt to earn enough to pay off the mortgages.”
Anthony’s eyes narrowed. “How the devil did you know that? Even my best friends have assumed that I was playing only for sport.”
She shrugged, unable to explain. “An educated guess.”
He poured more coffee and added milk, his expression haggard. Desolate, even. “I needed forty thousand pounds. I’d managed to accumulate half that. There was no chance of borrowing more—believe me, I’d tried. My father’s history of gambling made the banks consider me a poor risk. With only a few days until foreclosure, I had to throw caution to the winds.” His eyes closed with pain. “Yesterday I bet the whole amount on a single game, double or nothing. If I’d won, Canfield would have been saved.”
There was a hushed silence before she spoke the obvious. “But you didn’t win.”
His mouth twisted. “The cards were against me. The Deity, if there is one, apparently didn’t want to see me remain a landowner.”
“So you are not a gamester by temperament,” she said thoughtfully.
“Believe me, if Canfield was secure, I’d never pick up another deck of cards in my life!” he said bitterly. “My father did enough gambling for both of us.”
She did believe him. Her hands locked around her mug until the knuckles whitened. The worst charge against Anthony was that he was a hopeless gambler, but if that wasn’t true, it changed everything. “Perhaps…perhaps we could help each other. I have just come into an unexpected legacy. I would like to marry and have a family, but as a governess I’ve had no opportunity to meet eligible men.”
She stopped to gather her courage before continuing, “Purely by chance, my solicitor mentioned that your property was on the verge of foreclosure. Since I am in need of a husband and you are in need of a fortune, I…I thought perhaps you might be willing to consider a…a marriage of convenience.”
“What?” His mug, which was halfway to his mouth, slammed down on the table and scalding coffee slopped across his hand. “You want me to marry you?”
His appalled expression was worse than a slap in the face. How could she have been so brazen, so stupid, as to suggest that a handsome, fashionable man like him might consider marrying a woman like her?
Face burning, she jumped up and grabbed her cloak from the back of her chair. “It was just a thought, and obviously a bad one. I’m sorry for disturbing you, Anthony. Lord Verlaine.” She turned and bolted toward the kitchen door.
His chair scraped the floor, and in one bound he crossed the kitchen and caught her arm. “Wait! I’m sorry, Emma. I intended no insult.” He turned her to face him. “This is just so…so unexpected.”
Though she was a tall woman, he loomed over her, intimidatingly large. The reality of him was very different from her hazy childhood memories. He was a man now, not a youth. A man who was strong, virile, and forceful. For a woman who’d lived the last decade in a world of women and children, the effect was rather overpowering.
Her gaze went to his unshaved chin. The dark stubble was surprisingly intriguing. She wanted to touch it, discover the texture of those very masculine whiskers.
She wrenched her gaze away. “I’m sorry. It was presumptuous of me to march in like this.”
“Unusual, perhaps, but not presumptuous.” He studied her, his gaze piercing. “I keep wondering if I’m dreaming this whole scene out of a desperate desire to save Canfield.”
“This is no dream,” she said with conviction. He was too vivid, his hand on her arm too warm and strong, for this encounter to be anything but real.
He released her arm and made a courtly gesture toward the table. “Come sit down again, Cousin. You were quite right to say we must have a serious conversation.”
Chapter 3
Anthony Vaughn poured more coffee for himself and his guest. Even after two cups, he still felt he was standing next door to death. He shouldn’t have drunk himself into a stupor last night, and he definitely shouldn’t have invited so many of his rackety friends to join in a perverse celebration of his disastrous gaming loss. He wondered vaguely when the whores had come. There had been none present when he passed out.
He put that aside to concentrate on more important matters, namely, his amazing cousin, who sat across from him looking every inch the meek, dowdy governess. Yet it must have taken courage for her to come here and make her startling proposition.
Thinking back, he remembered her as a quiet child who tagged around after him with huge, speaking eyes. But there had been many children at Harley during the holidays. Except for the incident on the ice, he recalled very little about Emma.
