by Lynn Messina
Trent nodded at this seemingly reasonable explanation but looked again at the chair. “But why–”
“Shhh,” she ordered, raising her finger to her lips and vigorously shaking her head. Just in case the duke was disinclined to follow instructions, she stuffed the remaining scone into his mouth.
A moment later, there was a knock on the door and Tupper inquired after her health.
“I’m fine,” she said, her shoulder pressed against the door.
“I have Dobbins with me, your grace, from the stables,” the footman announced. “He has a metal bar and is going to try to pry open the door.
“Hello, Dobbins,” she said. “Thank you for trying to get me out. I don’t know why the door is stuck, but nothing seems to budge it.”
“Me pleasure, yer grace,” Dobbins said. “Now move yerself several steps and let me know when ye are a safe distance.”
Emma sat down in the chair, then counted to three before calling out that it was all right to proceed. With an enthusiasm he usually reserved for the horses he trained, the groom slid the metal bar into the crack between the door and the frame and applied all his strength to levering the door open. He made several attempts, though none that could dislodge Emma and the chair, and succeeded in only scratching the frame and the door further, for which he was very apologetic.
Assuring him that the damage was entirely her fault—“for being such a pea goose as to get trapped in my study”—Emma thanked him for his efforts and sent him to the kitchen to get some of Mrs. Chater’s walnut scones, which were most likely still warm from the oven.
“Never fear, your grace, we’ll get that door open by hook or by crook,” Tupper said, afraid that the duchess must be on the edge of despair, for it had been several hours now.
“Don’t worry about me, Tupper,” Emma said. “At the risk of sounding overly cheerful, I’m quite comfortable, I’ve got plenty to occupy my time, and I won’t be hungry for a few hours yet.”
“If I may say so, your grace, your bravery is an inspiration,” the footman confessed before leaving to explore the next solution.
As soon as the servant’s footsteps had died away, the duke said, “A few hours yet? How long do you intend for this siege to last?”
Emma confirmed that the chair was firmly lodged under the doorknob and then leaned against her desk, wishing she hadn’t used her last scone as a muzzle. Despite her bold claim, she was actually a little peckish. “I think we are in the final stages. Within ninety minutes, Tupper will have the door off its hinges.”
Although the duke couldn’t contemplate the total destruction of one of his doors without at least a little bit of concern, he instead concentrated on the neatly stacked piles on her desk. Curious, he picked up one of the folders. “Dare I ask what has driven you to such extreme measures? The lock wasn’t sufficient?”
Laughing with delight, she leaned over and gave him a kiss on his cheek. “Oh, you delightful, naïve man. You are adorable,” she said, shaking her head in wonder. “Mrs. Crenshaw has the keys, and your mother did not hesitate to apply for her assistance in gaining entry. It required some quick thinking on my part to keep her out, if I do say so myself. Your mother suspects something havey-cavey but can’t prove it and has had poor Tupper try everything short of a battering ram.”
Trent, who knew himself to be the far more sophisticated partner in their relationship, marveled at the extremes to which she would go to avoid a conversation with his mother. “So much for the fearless Miss Harlow,” he said wryly.
Emma refused to rise to the bait. “We both know I can hold my own against your mother. But I had more important things to do than to spend the day quarreling with the dowager, and you know as well as I do that she could go on for hours. She is, as the saying goes, like a dog with a bone when she gets something between her teeth, though, don’t misunderstand me, a dog who throws a wonderful party.”
Rather than enter into a debate about his mother’s debating skills, which were, he allowed, inexhaustible, he looked at the file in his hand. Written on the label was the name Stanley Chetwynd, Seventh Earl of Talbot. He opened the folder and read the top page, which listed the basic facts of the man’s life: birth, schooling, property, family tree.
Startled, the duke looked at his wife. “What is this?”
“My dossier on”—she leaned over to read the label—“Talbot. Do be careful. I have them all arranged in alphabetical order by family name.”
Trent stepped back and looked more closely at the files piled neatly on his wife’s desk. With a growing suspicion, he scanned the labels quickly, noting the familiar names: Abingdon, Capell, Irby, Morton, Rothes. Yes, he confirmed, all twenty-six members of the British Horticultural Society were present and accounted for, including himself.
“You have a file on me?” he asked, not sure if he was amused or aghast at his wife’s thoroughness. Then he flipped through the folder, found a page detailing the names and dates of several of his former mistresses and decided he was aghast.
“I did not commission that one,” Emma rushed to assure him. “As you can imagine, my ability to communicate has been somewhat hampered by the siege and I didn’t have a chance to clarify that a dossier on my husband was unnecessary. I can gather information on you quite well on my own. And you needn’t worry,” she said with a grin, dimples showing as she correctly read his expression, “there’s nothing in that file that I didn’t already know.”
The duke wasn’t convinced that was true but knew better than to enter into an argument for which winning would have no benefit. “I cannot conceive of a reason why you would compile dossiers on any of the members of the British Horticultural Society, let alone the entire organization.”
“Votes,” she explained simply. “In order to determine how to best procure the votes of your fellow society members—cajole, blackmail, bribe, reason, et cetera—I need information. I can’t do that without a thorough investigation into their backgrounds and current situations.”
Trent, who had thought his unlikely courtship of Emma had revealed all the little Machiavellian corners of her mind, stared at her in astonishment. He had known his wife was an inveterate schemer, a dyed-in-the-wool plotter who could not leave a situation alone until it complied utterly with all her demands, but until that moment, he had not fully comprehended the depths of her depravity. To even contemplate blackmailing or bribing the honorable members of the horticultural society was beyond the bounds of anything good or decent. It spoke of a truly corrupt mind.
Yet as appalled as the duke was at her capacity to conspire, he couldn’t help but admire not only the way she set goals but also the skill with which she achieved them. Even barricaded in what used to be the front parlor, with his mother demanding her attention and Tupper intermittently pounding at the door, she had gathered intelligence information on her quarry with the efficiency of the commander-in-chief of the British Army. Wellington himself could not have done a better job.
To his horror, he found he respected the pragmatism of her approach even more—it was coldhearted, yes, but practical.
Despite these revelations, what stunned him the most and had him staring silently at his wife for more than a minute, was the fact that he had failed to anticipate her response. When he had left this house this morning, he had truly believed she would devote herself entirely to changing the dowager’s mind, as if his mother’s opinion had any bearing on the outcome at all. It didn’t, of course, and Emma would never waste a moment on something that had no bearing, or only a very little, on a devoutly wished-for outcome. Like all efficient commanders, she cut straight to the heart of a matter, for there was no time for trivialities on the battlefield.
“I didn’t say seduce,” Emma announced.
Dumbfounded, Trent stared at her. “Excuse me?”
“In the list of tactics I plan to employ to get Vinnie the votes she needs for membership, I did not say seduce,” she explained. “I recall from our recent conversation on h
ow to bring off a match between Vinnie and Huntly, you had specifically requested that I not ask anyone to seduce anyone else. I mentioned this as a way of proving that I do listen to you, despite your frequent assertions to the contrary. You are my most trusted ally, and as such your input is invaluable to me.”
Although he had been called her “most trusted ally” enough to realize it was merely an honorary title, the duke was touched that she included him in her scheming at all. He knew that she thought she could pull off even the most outlandish scheme entirely on her own.
He also knew her well enough to recognize when she was being deliberately provocative and chose not to be sidetracked by a distraction. “If I had realized bribery and blackmail came as easily to you, I would have included them in the injunction.”
Emma, who had been genuinely pleased by the opportunity to demonstrate how reasonable she could be, found these additional constraints vexing. If Trent had his way, all she would be able to do was beg for votes, which would be humiliating—for Vinnie, of course, not for her. She herself was immune to embarrassment of any kind. But if Vinnie was going to be a full and equal member of the British Horticultural Society (and to be completely honest, Emma had been surprised to discover that she wasn’t already), then she needed to begin her tenure from a position of strength. Blackmail and bribery demonstrated strength; begging demonstrated its opposite.
Before Emma could explain this to her husband, whose sense of honor somehow excluded ill treating other gentlemen but included barring half the human race from public life, she heard a gentle rapping sound on one of the windows.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I have a meeting with one of my associates.”
“One of your associates?” Trent asked, following her to the window along the east wall. Unlike the bow window, which overlooked the square, it faced a battery of trees and a less-frequented side street. The shrubbery offered some protection from prying eyes, but the window was hardly a private conference chamber. “How many do you have?”
“Six or seven, depending on whether you consider Mr. Adams an associate or an apprentice,” she explained, as she opened the sash and leaned over the pane to address her visitor.
Looking over her shoulder, Trent was unsurprised to see a petite figure in a well-worn brown topcoat and a green beaver. “Good afternoon, Mr. Squibbs,” he said, greeting the best lockpick in all of London.
The little man doffed his hat in return. “The duchess isn’t at the docks, your grace,” he said cheerfully and with a fair amount of satisfaction, as if that happy circumstance was of his contrivance. The duke did not doubt that it was. “When I arrived this morning for our first meeting, she was in the process of climbing out the window, but I suggested that she would be more useful staying here and setting up a central command post.”
Trent flinched at the image of Emma hanging out of the window in her morning dress. “I am in your debt yet again,” he said sincerely, for he owed the lockpick several times over for helping Emma—once when she was accosted on a solo visit to the docks and again when she had pursued her traitorous future brother-in-law to Dover without telling a soul. Mr. Squibbs had defended her against drunken ruffians in the former and provided the duke with valuable information in the latter.
“Nothing to it, your grace,” he said. “I’m happy to help.”
Emma sighed loudly and looked first at her husband, then at her associate. “If you gentlemen are done with your chitchat, I would like to get down to business,” she said impatiently.
Mr. Squibbs laughed. “Yes, your grace.”
The duke looked on as Emma conducted her meeting through the open window, reviewing documents, asking questions and providing avenues to be explored next. She was not only satisfied with the information her network of spies had gathered but much impressed with their speed and cunning. Mr. Adams, in particular, had uncovered a fact concerning Lord Bilberry so salient as to firmly establish the young apprentice among the ranks of associates.
“Excellent work, Mr. Squibbs,” Emma said approvingly. “Truly excellent work. We will take up the matter of compensation for you and your associates tomorrow, when I will be more free to move about. In the meantime, I trust you will have no difficulty tracking down those final few details.”
“None at all, your grace,” the lockpick said confidently. “By the time we’re done, we’ll have enough dirt to ensure your sister is president of the society. It’s only what she deserves.”
Emma smiled with pleasure. “Thank you. I will tell Vinnie you said that. She will be delighted.”
“I’ll be off, then,” Mr. Squibbs said, doffing his green beaver again.
“Until tomorrow,” Emma said, with an informal wave that would have appalled the dowager if an entire conversation held through the opening of a window had not already done so. Then she took her stack of new papers and brought them to the desk for proper perusal and filing.
Trent leaned against the window and caught the eye of the little man before he turned to leave. “Thank you,” he said simply.
“My pleasure,” he said, understanding the depth of the duke’s gratitude. “May I offer congratulations on your wedding, your grace? I was pleased to hear it, as you and she are well matched.”
Knowing in what high esteem the lockpick held his wife, Trent recognized it for the lavish praise it was. “You may indeed, and I very much appreciate it. Good day, Mr. Squibbs,” he said and slid the window closed. Then he turned to his wife. “Have you been holding meetings at the window all day for anyone on the street to witness?”
Emma, who was filing the new information about Lord Bilberry in the proper folder, did not look up as she said, “I believe the foliage provides sufficient coverage, but if it does not, you have only yourself to blame. Do recall that I specifically requested a room downstairs and in the back of the house for my study.”
She kept her head studiously tilted down, but Trent could see the smug little smile tugging on her lips and it was all he could do not to seduce her right there and then. The only thing that stopped him was the thought of Tupper charging into the room with a battering ram.
Instead he said, “Although you have failed to ask after my day—married six months and already you’ve lost interest—I do have a tidbit that you will find fascinating.”
Emma was skeptical that her interest would rise to the level of fascination but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He was her husband, after all. “I’m sorry, your grace. How was your day?” she asked with a brash grin.
The impertinent look was more than he could withstand and before she could grumble about keeping her well-arranged papers in order, he lifted her onto the desk and captured her lips with his own. He intended it to be a brief kiss, as a way of saying hello at the end of an unusually busy day, but once his lips touched hers, once he felt her enthusiastic response and the ever-familiar tug of desire, it turned into something far more. He pulled away a few minutes later, despite her groan of protest, and rested his forehead against hers.
“My day was good,” he said softly, “and getting better.”
“Mine, too,” she said, wrapping her legs around his waist and shimmying closer. “Given that the average interval between offensives has been seventy-three minutes and that Tupper had to send Logan to fetch a screwdriver from the blacksmith, I would say we have twenty-one minutes before anyone disturbs us. Shall we get on with it, Alex?”
Trent did not doubt the accuracy of her calculations, and as he looked down at her, the picture of innocence in her white lawn morning dress, her face naturally flushed, her eyes gleaming with desire, he was tempted, so very, very tempted, to get on with it. And it was not the threat of Tupper and his battering ram or even Logan and his screwdriver that had him taking two cautious steps back. Rather, it was the memory of the last time she had him in a similar situation—in a locked room, on the verge of impropriety. On that occasion, it had been her brother’s drawing room, where they, as an eng
aged couple, had been allowed to say good night privately following one final harrowing episode with Sir Windbourne. Her brother, Roger, had knocked on the door at a particularly inconvenient moment, which Emma had found remarkably funny, and the duke was forced to put a nightgown back on his giggling beloved while her protective brother called out questions from the other side of the door.
No, he was not going through that again.
Emma looked at him through her lashes and called him poor-spirited. “I thought you had more gumption, your grace.”
Familiar with his wife’s tactics, Trent knew what she was trying to do and he refused to be provoked into another compromising position. Instead, he said, “You will stop pouting when I tell you Felix called Vinnie capricious.”
As predicted, Emma bolted upright and stared in wonder. “Our Vinnie?”
“Felix said she was the most difficult woman he has ever met. He said it is impossible to figure out where one stands with her. He said that I”— here Trent’s voice took on a tone remarkably akin to glee—“had married the sensible sister.”
“The Vinnie who has been around my whole life?” she asked, trying to make sense of such an inexplicable claim. “The one who is nine minutes older than me? Thinks watching a plant grow is thrilling? That Vinnie?”
“Yes, imp, that Vinnie,” he said fondly.
Emma jumped off the desk and squealed with delight. “I told you there was something between them,” she said, clapping her hands. “I told you. I knew there had to be something, for Vinnie has never reacted so strongly to another human being in her entire life. She’s so even-keeled and placid, she likes everyone, even the boorish Lord Windbag before he revealed his murderous nature, but from the very moment she met Huntly, she has found him intolerable. It’s above all things wonderful.”
