by Amanda Quick
“I am certain you would not go beyond the limits of what is proper, my lord.”
“I have already gone beyond them,” he said through gritted teeth, his amusement fading rapidly.
“The thing is, my lord,” she said with a small, considering frown, “I am not at all certain we can rely upon my common sense in this sort of situation. I have been assured that in such matters, I do not have a great deal. Therefore, we must depend upon your sense of honor and propriety. Do not worry, my lord, I am certain you will know exactly how to go on.”
“What in God’s name do you mean, you don’t have any common sense in this sort of thing?”
“Oh, nothing—nothing, really,” she said hastily, not wanting to have to explain about the Unfortunate Incident until it was absolutely necessary. After all, once Simon became aware of what had happened when she was nineteen, he would be obliged to cease all this wonderful talk of love. “It is just that my family feels I have been rather badly affected by my love of romantic literature,” she explained weakly. It was true as far as it went.
“And have you?” His golden eyes were unreadable.
Emily blushed and looked at his perfectly tied cravat, which did not seem to have been in the least disturbed by the recent excess of passion. “You should know the answer to that, my lord. You know me better than anyone else knows me.”
“Because of your letters?” He caught her chin gently on the edge of his fist and forced her to meet his eyes. “Do you know, you may be right. I have the distinct impression that you are a sadly misunderstood young woman. But it is a mistake for you to assume that you know as much about me as I do about you.”
“I do not think for one moment that my belief is a mistake, my lord.” She looked up at him very earnestly. “Through our letters you and I have developed the most perfect intellectual and spiritual companionship of the mind. I am quite certain that our communication, which takes place on the highest of planes, has led us to a true comprehension of each other’s—”
“Enough,” he interrupted curtly. “Miss Faringdon, it is always a mistake to assume you can trust a man completely when it comes to matters of passion.”
She smiled serenely, knowing he was wrong. “I do not think so, my lord. Not in your case. I would trust you with my heart and my life.”
“Damn.” Simon shook his head slowly and released her chin. “Your family appears to have the right of it. No common sense in this sort of thing at all. You do not mind the risks involved in the game of love, I take it?”
She shrugged lightly. “I come from a long line of gamesters, my lord. It is in the blood.”
“And how often have you taken this particular sort of risk?” he inquired with sudden, silky menace.
Emily looked out over the small pond, choosing her words carefully. She knew honor required her to be honest, but she could not bear to ruin this idyll by telling him the whole story. “I have never before been in love. Not really. I know that now. Once, a long time ago, I thought I was, but I was proven wrong. Since then there has been no one else with whom I have wanted to take such a risk.”
“Interesting.”
Uneasily she turned her head to find him watching her with his cold, assessing eyes. “My lord?”
He said something under his breath and got to his feet. “Pay me no heed. I am obviously not thinking very clearly at the moment. A direct result of sailing too close to a transcendent, golden shore, I imagine. Come. I will ride with you until you are within sight of St. Clair Hall.”
“Have I said something wrong, my lord?”
“Not at all. I believe everything is going to go very smoothly between us from now on. I simply needed to acquire certain information before proceeding further and I have done so.”
“I see. Very wise.” Emily relaxed and smiled up at him, not caring if her heart was in her eyes. She knew very well there was no future for them, but there was the present and she was determined to enjoy it as long as possible. “In your most recent letter you said you were very affected by my verses about urns and broken hearts.”
His mouth curved faintly as he took her arm and led her back to the waiting horses. “Indeed I was, Miss Faringdon.”
“Well, I am glad you are interested in them,” she said cheerfully. “Mr. Pound, the bookseller and publisher, was not. I got another nasty rejection from him in the morning post.”
“Mr. Pound obviously has even less taste than the critics of the Edinburgh Review.”
Emily laughed in delight. “Very true.” She paused once more, her expression sobering as a shaft of guilt assailed her. She really ought to give him a small warning about the doomed nature of his affections. “My lord?”
“Yes, Miss Faringdon?” Simon was busy untying the dappled gray mare.
“Did you mean it when you said you were here to … to speak to my father about asking for my hand in marriage?”
“Yes, Miss Faringdon. I meant every word.” He hoisted her lightly up into the saddle.
She touched his hand as it slid away from her waist. Tears began to well up in her eyes. “It is quite impossible, as you will soon see. But I want you to know that I will be forever grateful for this moment. I shall hold the memory of it close to my heart for the rest of my life.”
“What the devil?” Simon scowled up at her.
Emily could not bear to stay near him any longer. He was bound to inquire about the tears. Applying her ankles gently to her mare’s flanks, she turned and cantered away from him toward the road to St. Clair Hall.
The chilly breeze whipped away the drops of moisture that trickled down her cheeks.
Simon managed to contain his brooding curiosity until Lady Gillingham, graciously vague as always, had risen from the table to leave the gentlemen to their after-dinner port.
As soon as the lady had departed, the gentlemen promptly relaxed. They leaned back in their chairs, thrust their legs out beneath the table, and picked up their glasses. Lord Gillingham lit a cigar.
Simon prepared himself to do what unconscionable gentlemen had done since time immemorial: discuss a lady over a bottle of port. He waited for an opening and it came quickly. Gillingham was in a talkative mood, having already consumed a fair amount of claret at dinner.
“Enjoy your visit with the lit’ry society?” Gillingham inquired as he squinted through the blue haze of his cigar smoke.
“I found it interesting.” Simon turned the cut crystal glass in his hand, watching the light play on the facets. “It’s obvious the rage for the new romantic poetry has spread beyond London. At least among the ladies.”
“Don’t know what will come of it,” Gillingham said with a grim shake of his head. “All that romantical nonsense is bound to have a very bad effect on females.”
“Surely not on the good ladies of Little Dippington?”
“Well, p’raps no real harm done to the older ones like the Inglebright sisters and the others, but t’ain’t at all healthy for young ladies.”
“Such as Miss Faringdon?” Simon inquired gently.
“Damn poetical nonsense was the ruination of that poor gel. Pity. But, then, never had much chance anyway, not growing up in that nest of wastrels and gamesters. Just a matter o’ time ’fore she got into trouble after her mother died.”
“Her mother died about six years ago, I understand?”
“Lovely woman. Beautiful, o’ course. All the Flighty Faringdons is dashed good-looking, male and female alike. ’Cept for Miss Emily. That red hair and those freckles ain’t the thing, y’know. Then there’s the spectacles. Might have been able to cover up some of the defects long enough to get her through a Season but the poor gel never had a chance.”
“Because of her mother’s death?”
“Followed by the Unfortunate Incident,” Gillingham explained sadly.
“Just how bad was the Unfortunate Incident?” Simon asked carefully. It was time to get all the sordid details, he thought.
“Bad enough, according to he
r father. Poor chit.”
“It happened five years ago?” Simon probed.
“About that, I believe. Miss Faringdon was nineteen at the time. She’d lost her mama a year or so before. That damn father o’ hers and those rakehell brothers were always gone, leavin’ her alone in that big house. Can’t pry a Faringdon away from the gaming hells for long, y’know. In any event, Miss Faringdon was more or less left to her own devices with only the servants for company. Lonely, no doubt. No one to advise her. Poor thing was ripe for disaster.”
Simon reached for the bottle of port and topped off his host’s glass. “And it struck?”
“Disaster? It struck right enough. In the form of a young rake, naturally. Always the way, ain’t it?”
“Yes.” Simon sipped his own port and wondered why he suddenly felt like halting the conversation then and there. He could guess how the tale was going to end now and already he did not look forward to hearing any more. But he had long ago learned that information of any kind was a vital commodity, especially when one was plotting vengeance. “This young man. Is he still in the neighborhood?”
“Ashbrook? Hell and damnation, no. Never saw him again after the Incident. Heard he came into his title a couple years ago. He’s a baron now. And a poet. Hang around London drawing rooms long enough and y’er bound to run into him and his admirers. You’ve probably caught a glimpse of him at some crush. All the rage just now.”
Simon’s fingers tightened of their own accord around his glass. Carefully he loosened them, not wanting to crack the fragile crystal.
At the mention of Lord Ashbrook’s name he had a sudden, clear recollection of five pairs of accusing eyes turned on him that afternoon when he had casually mentioned the poet’s latest epic. The extent of his faux pas earlier in the day made him wince.
“So it was Ashbrook who ruined Em … I mean, Miss Faringdon?”
“Talked her into running off with him. Very sad.”
“An elopement?”
“Poor Miss Faringdon believed she was eloping. But personally I doubt Ashbrook ever had any intention o’ marrying her. Faringdon caught up with ’em the next day and word has it Ashbrook did not hang around to confront the outraged father. But by then the damage was done, o’ course. The pair had spent the night together at an inn, Faringdon told me privately.”
“I see.”
“Damn sad. Emily’s a sweet little thing. No one around here talks about the Incident. Don’t like to see the gel hurt. ’Preciate it if you’d keep quiet about it, sir.”
“Of course.” Simon had a sudden image of Emily’s face as she had tried to explain that it was quite impossible for him to ask for her hand in marriage. She was obviously as convinced as everyone else that she was socially ruined. The most she could hope for in the way of romance these days was a pure, noble, high-minded connection maintained through the post. No wonder she had been dismayed to see him turn up in person.
Simon recalled that he had encountered Ashbrook once or twice in a couple of London ballrooms. The man put a great deal of effort into projecting an image of smoldering sensuality and jaded, cynical tastes. The ladies who clustered around him obviously found him fascinating. It was no secret that they saw him as the epitome of the new romantic style made popular by Byron.
“Why didn’t Faringdon insist Ashbrook marry his daughter?” Simon asked.
“Probably tried. Ashbrook obviously refused. Can’t exactly force a man, y’know. Matter of honor and all that. And t’weren’t like Faringdon was important in the social world. No real position, of course. Broderick Faringdon has some distant family connection to an impoverished baron up in Northumberland, but that’s all.”
“So Faringdon let the matter drop?”
“Afraid so. Our little Miss Faringdon lacked the looks and, at that time, fortune enough to engage Ashbrook’s interest for a permanent commitment. I fear the young man was merely toying with her affections and the lady paid the price of her indiscretion, as young ladies frequently must.”
Simon studied his port. “I am surprised that neither Broderick Faringdon nor one of twins attempted to call Ashbrook out.”
“Faringdons take their risks at the gaming tables, not with their necks.”
“I see.”
“A pity, all in all,” Gillingham concluded, reaching for the port. “Thank God for the ladies of the local literary society.”
Simon looked up. “Why do you say that?”
“A dull but thoroughly respectable lot, the bunch of ’em. They banded together and took Miss Faringdon into their group. Made it clear they were not going to cut her even if she was ruined in the eyes of the world. If you ask me, there’s not a one of the lit’ry society ladies who don’t secretly envy the gel. She brought a little excitement into their humdrum lives.”
Simon thought that was a surprisingly perceptive comment on the part of his host. He wondered if Gillingham knew that Emily was repaying her benefactresses by ensuring them all comfortable pensions for their old age. “So Miss Faringdon has never married because of the scandal. Do you know, I find it difficult to believe that someone around here was not prepared to overlook it long enough to ask for her hand. She’s an intriguing little thing.”
“Well, there’s always Prendergast,” Gillingham said thoughtfully.
Simon frowned. “Who is Prendergast?”
“Country gentry. Owns a fair amount o’ land in the area. His wife died a year ago and he’s made it clear he’s willing to overlook the Incident in Miss Faringdon’s past. Ain’t precisely a young girl’s dream, but Miss Faringdon ain’t precisely a young girl anymore. And it ain’t as if she’s got a lot of choice.”
Several hours later Simon gave up his attempt to get to sleep. He pushed back the heavy covers, got out of bed, and dressed in his breeches, boots, and a shirt. Then he picked up his greatcoat and let himself out into the hall.
The restlessness had been gnawing at him since he had retired. Perhaps a walk would help.
The house was chilled and dark. Simon thought about lighting a candle and decided against it. He had always been able to see quite well at night.
He went silently down the carpeted stairs and then along the hall that led to the kitchens. A moment later he stepped out into the clear, frosty night.
It was easy enough to find his way through the moonlit woods to St. Clair Hall. It had been years since he had walked this land at night but he had not forgotten the way.
Ten minutes later Simon strode up the long, elegant drive of the hall, his boots crunching on the icy ground. He paused at the foot of the elegant staircase, turned, and went through the gardens to the side of the house. He was startled to see lights still blazing in the library window.
His stomach clenched. The lights had been shining just as brilliantly on that night twenty-three years ago when he had burst into the library to find his father sprawled facedown on the desk in a pool of blood.
Simon knew now what had drawn him to the library window tonight. He had come here to see if his father’s ghost still hovered near the mahogany desk.
Some distant part of Simon’s mind half expected to see the pistol still clutched in the earl’s dead hand, still expected to see blood and torn flesh and gray matter spattered on the wall behind the chair. He had lived with the grisly image for years.
But instead of the ghost of a man who had lost everything and taken the coward’s way out, leaving a twelve-year-old son to cope as best he could, Simon saw Emily.
She was perched on the edge of the big chair, looking very small and ethereal as she bent industriously over the huge mahogany desk. In the candlelight her red hair gleamed as richly as Lap Seng’s coat did in sunlight.
She was wearing a little white lace cap and a prim, rufflenecked dressing gown. Her feet, which were tucked back under the chair, were encased in soft satin slippers. She was scratching busily away with a quill in a leather-bound volume.
It occurred to Simon that a romantic creature like Em
ily was bound to keep a journal. If so, he was no doubt figuring heavily in this night’s entry.
Or perhaps she was composing new stanzas for The Mysterious Lady.
He watched for a few more minutes, telling himself he should leave. But he did not turn around and start back through the woods toward the Gillinghams until Emily finally put down her quill. He watched as she reached up to put out the lamps. Then she picked up a candle to light her way upstairs and let herself out of the room.
The library went dark.
Simon realized he was still standing there, staring into the deeply shadowed room. Eventually he forced himself to turn and walk back toward the Gillinghams’.
He realized he had not seen what he had come to see. The ghost of his father, which should have occupied the library, had been banished by the redheaded, green-eyed Titania who had been sitting at the desk.
Emily floated through the week that followed as though she were on a cloud. Never had her rhymes come so easily. She was inspired by everything she saw or touched, especially Simon. And she was seeing a great deal of the earl.
She knew this particular cloud on which she soared would soon be ripped to shreds and she would fall to earth with a sickening thud. But she was determined to enjoy the ride for as long as possible. She was absorbing sufficient transcendent experience to last a lifetime.
Emily was in love and her lover, it seemed, arranged to be everywhere she was during the week.
She encountered Simon at the Hathersages’ card party on Saturday night. He partnered her at whist and they won. Naturally. How could such a team have lost? Emily had pointed out later.
He attended the Sewards’ musicale on Monday afternoon. Emily exchanged a secret, laughing glance with him when the youngest Seward daughter lost her place in the Mozart divertimento. Together they clapped so strongly at the finish that the flushed girl offered an encore.
Simon was in the village when Emily went shopping. He made a point of stopping to chat with her.
He seemed to be riding on the road that led to St. Clair Hall every time Emily went out on horseback.
