The Lord Pretender, page 12
“Blackburn, Blackburn, Blackburn,” they chanted. Emma’s head began to spin. What was happening? Before she could make her escape, Middleton was stripping Emma of her waistcoat.
“Watch his right jab,” he said into her ear. “And beware his left-hand body shot. He will want to attack your ribs. Use your uppercut after he jabs. And good luck.”
The viscount abruptly yanked Emma’s shirt over her head. She began to cover her naked breasts before realizing there was nothing to cover. Still, she felt very exposed. Meanwhile, the lords began offering vociferous advice to both fighters. The huge Burbage simply smiled and held out a hand.
“May the best man win. And may you not linger too long on your loss.”
No sooner had they released the handshake than Burbage took a mighty swing at Emma’s head. She turned away instinctively but the fist grazed her nose. Her eyes immediately began to water and she grabbed the nose to find it wet.
“Stop hitting me!” she cried. That froze a surprised Burbage and silenced the watchers.
“Wait, wait,” said Middleton. “He’ll bleed all over the floor, and we all know how blood ruins the decor.”
Burbage waited with a triumphant grin as Middleton stuffed cotton up Emma’s nose until she was sure it had penetrated her brain. Simon’s friend shook his head and whispered, “Do something, Simon. Don’t stand still like a hitching post.”
Emma nodded as Middleton shoved her back onto the canvas. Don’t stand still, he’d said. She didn’t know how to box, that was certain. But she knew how to dance. When Burbage stepped forward to swing, Emma spun away and he stumbled. Her opponent gathered himself and came at her a second time. She leaned aside as a fist sailed wide of her head, and then hopped back and circled away to avoid the follow-up punch. Burbage growled and came at her again. And again. And again. Each time, she dodged aside and he found only empty air as the lords shouted advice to both fighters. After a few minutes, the beefy man was breathing hard and his mighty swings had slowed considerably. When he chased her down once more, Burbage stepped in close before swinging. She avoided the fist and threw her hip against his. His momentum forced him off balance, and she belted the side of his head with the flat of her palm. Burbage fell like a collapsing chimney and lay still. The lords burst into applause.
“Blackburn has done the deed!”
Tindle, his jaw sporting a fresh bruise, pumped Emma’s hand energetically. “Marvelous strategy, Blackburn! Avoiding his attacks until he wore down and then ending him with a single unorthodox blow. I’m still not quite certain what you did there at the last.”
“Nor am I,” said Emma truthfully.
As others gathered around to offer similar praise and lift up a humbled Burbage, her eyes found Middleton, who was grinning and shaking his head. “Well done, Simon. Not your usual bludgeoning approach, but brilliant in its execution. Quite unexpected, I’d say.”
“Thank you?”
“Indeed. Now, about that nose.”
Emma realized she had probably allowed the earl’s nose to be damaged. He wouldn’t be happy about that. “What should I do?”
Middleton cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “Beg your pardon. Did you just ask me what to do about your nose?”
“Er, yes.”
“As if you haven’t been popped in the snout a dozen times before, mostly by me?”
Emma blanched. She was all but admitting to Simon’s best friend that Lord Blackburn’s body had been stolen by another. She turned away to put on her shirt, hoping he wouldn’t notice the fear in her eyes. “Oh, yes, of course. I’m afraid the lightning strike has unmoored me more than I suspected.”
“And Miss Watts.”
Emma froze with terror. How could Middleton possibly know? She pulled the shirt over her head and turned slowly to meet Middleton’s eyes, trying madly to still the tremble of her knees. “P…pardon? Miss Watts?”
Middleton frowned and narrowed his eyes further until they all but disappeared. “I was merely suggesting that Miss Watts has contributed to your unmooring. What did you think I meant?”
Relief washed over Emma as she reached for her cravat. “Oh, exactly that. I wanted to make certain I heard you correctly.”
“I see.” He gazed intently while Emma tied the cravat. Fortunately, she had tied her father’s cravat for the last years of his life after he’d dismissed his valet due to crumbling finances. She even remembered to retie the waterfall knot Edgar had tied earlier. When she finished, Middleton unfurled his brow, seemingly satisfied and hopefully none the wiser. He extended his handkerchief to Emma. “Your nose is still bleeding.”
“Right.” Emma accepted the handkerchief and sopped up the blood that had begun settling onto her upper lip. “So next I should…?”
“Allow my driver to take you home.”
“And then?”
“Replace the cotton with fresh stuffing, and lie on your back for a while. But you know this, right?”
Emma smiled mechanically in an attempt to disperse suspicion. “Again, my head’s a muddle. The blow from Burbage did not help matters.”
“He barely touched you.”
“Says the man Burbage didn’t punch.”
Middleton laughed loudly in an unlordly fashion. “Excellent point, Blackburn. Now, be off with you before you bleed onto your cravat. I will call on you later this week.”
Emma was perfectly happy to take the advice, given the bloody nose and her desire to lay to rest Middleton’s apparent suspicion that something was terribly wrong with his friend. She took her leave and let the carriage take her toward House Blackburn. Along the way, she wallowed in confusion. She’d gone to the club anticipating a den of vipers. The men of the club weren’t exactly what she’d expected and some even seemed decent. Nevertheless, she would expose their misdeeds if it was the last thing she did.
…
Half of Simon’s worst nightmare had manifested when Middleton had appeared to escort his friend to the club and had practically dragged Simon’s Emma-infested body to his carriage. The second half managed to wait until Simon arrived at Red Lion Square—still in Emma’s body. As the Blackburn coach approached Number Thirty-Seven, Simon tried disentangling his brain from a quagmire of confusing thoughts. What surging emotion had driven him to grasp Emma’s hand as she had brushed out his long raven locks? The nature of it eluded him. The soft and gentle care of Emma’s motions had proven alien to a boy born of an iron maiden and spoon-fed the thin gruel of Societal expectations. Emma’s soothing touch had stirred within him a repressed cavern creature that had emerged to blink into the light, cowering and rejoicing all at once. His reaction left him confounded. When the coach lurched to a halt, he made ready for a dash to the relative safety of Emma’s house, but distraction compromised his execution. He covered three steps before he was set upon by Amazons.
“Not so fast,” said a tall blonde who held one of his arms.
“You’re coming with us,” said a robust redhead who gripped his other arm.
A shorter brunette jabbed a closed fan like a dagger against the place formerly occupied by his Adam’s apple. “You will tell us everything, or else.”
They laughed and began pulling Simon away from the coach toward the stone monument. Thoughts of ritualistic sacrifice sailed through his alarmed brain, so he fought back. The redhead laughed louder and lifted him off his feet.
“Oh, but aren’t you a fighter!”
Simon tried going limp, but the blonde and redhead simply dragged him along while the brunette tapped his cheek with her fan. “Come now, Emma. Our pact calls for no secrets.”
Pact? The identity of his captors finally occurred to him. The new friends Emma had warned him about. What were their names? He guessed out loud. “Jocelyn! Dorothy! Kat! Unhand me!”
The blonde and redhead released his arms with gales of laughter. The blonde grabbed Simon’s hand. “Very amusing, Emily. Now, to the obelisk for the spilling of secrets.”
Apparently, he’d gotten the names wrong.
With no alternative short of a good-natured drubbing, Simon began stalking toward the stone. The redhead laughed yet again.
“Emma! Why are you walking like an ape?”
Simon tucked his elbows and shortened his stride. “For your amusement, of course.”
“Diana is easily amused,” said the brunette.
“No more than you are, Kit,” said the blonde.
Diana. Kit. And the other was clearly not a Jocelyn. He stopped at the stone and put his back to it, much as Emma had done that fateful day, and folded his arms. Cleavage lifting toward his chin again prompted him to drop his arms to his sides. He vowed to study that interesting phenomenon more intently later. “What do you want to know?”
The blonde not-Jocelyn circled before him with one eyebrow cocked. “About the Earl of Blackburn, ninny. You went to his house today.”
“How did you know?”
“Aunt Gertie, remember? She doesn’t believe in discretion.”
“Right.” He’d need to be careful with the old aunt. She could undo everything with a slip of the tongue.
Kit thumped his shoulder with her menacing fan. “Go on, then. Tell us about him. He is certainly devastatingly handsome. What is he like in person?”
“Oh, he is just like any other lord.”
The blonde loomed over Simon. “Details, Miss Watts. The Order of the Red Lion demands it.”
“Jess is quite serious about the pact,” said Diana.
Jess! That was the other name. He held up both palms. “Fine. I will describe the earl.”
Kit popped open the fan and snapped it shut again. “Oh, goody!”
Simon paused for a moment, wondering how to describe himself. “Let me see. He is tall.”
“We could see as much ourselves,” said Jess. “What is he like?”
“Well, he is intelligent. Although he pursues gaming more fervently than he does academics.” Simon surprised himself by admitting that. The confession seemed to open a door of self-insight. “He is good to his friends, but keeps secrets from them.”
Diana leered. “Wicked secrets?”
“No. Good secrets. He maintains a facade regarding his niece. He pretends to be cold to the girl when others are watching, but he loves her like a daughter.”
“Why does he do that?” This from Jess.
“I…I don’t really know. He’s afraid of what others might think, I suppose. Including his mother.”
Kit slapped her palms to her cheeks. “You’ve already met his mother?”
“Ah, no. But I hear she is a dragon. A duplicitous and self-dealing demagogue. Perhaps she is the reason he must appear so haughty and even cruel to those who don’t know him.” Simon blinked at the admission. Why haven’t I considered that before?
Jess nodded and narrowed her eyes. “So, then. Lord Blackburn prefers duplicitous and self-dealing women?”
“Indeed not!” Simon took a deep breath after his unexpected outburst. “He does not prefer that sort of woman. Though he seems to believe all women of Society are cut from a similar cloth.”
Kit nodded, though she seemed a little wounded. “I can see his point. Women of that sort tend to claim all the attention, while the rest of us remain in the shadows, unappreciated but for our usefulness in the kitchen.”
Simon glanced in turn at Emma’s friends, finding similar pained expressions on each face. He paused to truly assess them for the first time. All three were remarkably attractive in very different ways, and they seemed intelligent, vibrant, and full of wit. And genuine, unlike his mother and the other vicious social climbers of his acquaintance.
“Take heart,” he said. “I believe the earl would find himself drawn to each of you, if only he stopped long enough to really see you.”
They stared back at him for the space of three heartbeats before Jess rolled her eyes and laughed. “Oh, Emma. Your naïveté amuses me.”
“How so?”
“Because, dear, if the earl took an interest in any one of us, it would only be for the purpose of securing a mistress. He would never view any of us as a potential wife.”
Simon cocked his head and frowned. “Why do you say that? You are each beautiful and engaging and full of life.”
“But we lack social standing,” said Diana, “and are certainly not wealthy. The earl would never consider us worthy of his attentions. And if he did lose reason long enough to show us interest, his family and friends would move heaven and earth to make him aware of his grave error and then force him to marry for advantage.”
Simon raised a finger and opened his mouth to argue, but no sound emerged. Because what Diana had said was true. All of it. Perhaps he had thought—rather naively—that grace, beauty, and intelligence could overcome any social obstacle. However, he could not bring to mind a single exception to Diana’s rule—not within his lofty circle, anyway. Society didn’t allow it. But what would become of Emma’s friends, then? Of Emma, now? They were genteel—that much was certain. They couldn’t exactly marry a laborer. Society would not allow that either. Surely there were other circles that might invite them in. He was talking before he could catch the words and mind his own business.
“What do you hope for, then? In a husband.”
“Any husband,” said Kit. “Any at all—with a few notable exceptions.”
“Even if he is old or ugly,” said Diana.
“Even if he is not wealthy,” said Jess, “as long as he can provide for his family and not let us starve.”
Simon frowned as dismay seeped into his soul. “Why would you set your sights so low? Why settle for the dregs?”
“Because we have no choice.” Fury darkened Jess’s tone. “We are thrust unwillingly into a game with few winners and many losers. We are forced to compete against one another tooth and nail for a few seats at the table, and the three of us bring no advantage to the playing field.”
The blistering diatribe caused Simon to blink. His dismay deepened. “I am terribly sorry.”
“You should be,” she said, “for you are one of us now, dragged into the game with little hope and no advantage.”
When Simon fell silent and surveyed the dirt beneath his skirt, the young women gathered around him and placed hands on his shoulders and arms. He looked up to find empathetic gazes. Kit’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“Take heart, Emma,” she said. “You have us and we have you. This is how we survive. By standing together as long as we can and clinging to faint hope.”
Diana leaned close. “Just make me one promise, though.”
Simon nodded. “All right.”
“Do not, under any circumstances, accept a marriage offer from Mr. Birkenhead. He seems intent on having you, but lifelong spinsterhood is far superior to a minute alone with that ogre.”
Simon nodded again, falsely enthusiastic. He was just beginning to realize that Emma possessed almost no power to prevent such a threat. The only way he could hope to help was to reclaim his body. And then what? He thought of what his mother might say about Emma—or do to her—and grimaced.
Chapter Seventeen
The dragon arrived the next day, following a study of Greek myths, as was only fitting. Emma did not see her coming.
While Simon, encased in Emma’s body, tutored his niece, Emma watched from an adjacent chair. She marveled at Simon’s ease with the girl, and his patience, which didn’t fit the persona of an aloof and callous lord. When Dodie produced a very unladylike yawn that stretched the limits of her jaw, Simon shook his borrowed head.
“Nearly two hours should be quite enough. You did well.”
Dodie grinned at her tutor. “Thank you, Miss Watts. May I be excused?”
“Of course… Ah, you should ask your uncle.”
Emma flicked a hand toward the door. “As you wish, Dodie.”
The girl narrowed her eyes at Emma, appraised her briefly, and then shrugged. She began skipping from the room before apparently remembering that young ladies do not skip in the house. Simon shook his head in his niece’s absence, and they both stood.
“Another session done with Dodie none the wiser.”
Emma frowned with concern over the way Dodie had looked at her. “I’m not so sure about that.”
“You worry too much.”
“You worry too little.”
“Not true,” said Simon. “I toss and turn every night in this body of yours, wondering how long I must occupy it. It feels all wrong.”
“Is that so? Well, imagine my surprise at waking each morning to what can only be described as an extra appendage.”
Simon laughed. “I should have warned you about that.”
“Indeed. But just you wait until next week.”
“What happens next week?”
“Let’s just say that I am expecting a visitor. A monthly visitor.”
Emma nearly giggled when Simon’s face blanched. “Oh,” he said. “Then we must speed this along. Have you sent the note to Armistead requesting to call on him?”
“I have. Two, in fact.”
“Did you mention the donation?”
“Just as you instructed me to.”
“Good. I was thinking—”
“My lord.”
Emma shifted her eyes to find Hinton at the door. The glacial butler’s face bore an expression that could only be described as restrained terror. He bowed. “The countess has arrived.”
The countess? Did he mean…
A woman swept past Hinton, practically elbowing him aside. She wore an exquisite satin gown the color of rust or dried blood, complete with layers of flounces and lacy sleeves. A trio of black plumes curled from the back of her high-piled silver hair to reach toward her forehead. Gold glittered from each wrist, every finger, and along a low-cut neckline that showed ample bosom. Her gray eyes impaled the tutor before regarding Emma.
