by Amanda Quick
“Bloody hell.”
“There was nothing illegal about what Northcote, Canonbury, and Peppington did, you understand. Simply a matter of business.”
“But Simon and his mother were effectively cut off from their last source of income.”
“Yes. Simon will never forgive or forget.”
Emily frowned. “I am surprised he did not seek vengeance on all of them along with my father.”
“Oh, he did, Emily.” Araminta nodded at another acquaintance. “He most certainly did. A very subtle vengeance. He has ensured that each man is somehow at his mercy. As of six months ago he already held Canonbury and Peppington under his paw. You, my dear, apparently did something that handed him Northcote on a silver platter.
Emily’s lips parted in shock as she recalled the rescue of Celeste and the cool wariness between Simon and the marquess that had been evident later. “Bloody hell. But the present marquess is the son of the man who wronged Simon and his mother, not the one who sold Blade’s shares.” Her voice trailed off as she recalled her husban rigid code.
“Precisely,” Araminta murmured. “Simon has lived in the East for a long time. In his eyes the sins of the fathers fall upon the children and indeed the entire family.
“No wonder Simon acted so strangely when I informed him that I had told Lady Northcote all obligations between our two families were settled.”
“Yes. I imagine it came as something of a shock to Blade.” Araminta’s mouth quirked in amusement. “Word has it, however, that he did, indeed, honor your commitment to forgive the old debt.”
“My father once said something about Simon having Canonbury and Peppington under his control. At the time I did not understand. I merely thought he meant Simon was a powerful man.”
“Which he is. He got that way by ensuring that he always knows the deepest, darkest secrets of those with whom he deals. The information gives him power. And he does not hesitate to wield it.
“Just as he knew that I was my father’s weak point,” Emily said half under her breath. “My husband is an extremely clever man, is he not?”
“He is also a very dangerous one. You appear to be the only person in the whole of London who does not go in fear of him. That is no doubt one of the reasons the ton finds you so fascinating, my dear. You blithely dance where angels fear to tread. Are you quite certain you could not ride that horse without the aid of your spectacles, Emily?”
“I should run straight off the path and into the trees,” Emily assured her. She pushed the offending spectacles more firmly onto her nose. “Come along, Araminta. I see Celeste up ahead and I cannot wait to show her my new mare.”
“A moment, if you please, Emily. It is not like you to change the subject so quickly. What are you planning? I can tell you are up to something.”
“Nothing significant, Araminta. I believe I shall invite Lady Canonbury and Mrs. Peppington to tea as soon as possible, however. Will you join us?”
“Good lord.” Araminta stared after Emily. “I most certainly shall. The experience should prove interesting.”
The salon held in Lady Turnbull’s drawing room the following afternoon was not at all what Emily had expected. She had been exceedingly anxious ever since receiving the invitation because she knew she would be meeting and mingling with some of London’s most sophisticated literary intellectuals.
She had spent hours choosing the right gown and the right hairstyle. In the end she had opted for the serene, classical look, on the assumption that a crowd of people interested in romantic poetry and other intellectual matters would favor the style.
She had arrived at Lady Turnbull’s in a severe, high-waisted, modestly cut gown of fine, gold muslin, trimmed with black dragons. She’d had Lizzie do her hair à l’antique.
Emily had discovered immediately upon being shown into Lady Turnbull’s drawing room, however, that all the other ladies were wearing gowns cut with fashionably low décolletage and had frivolous little hats perched rakishly on their heads.
Two or three of the women tittered as Lady Turnbull came forward to greet Emily. As she took her seat, Emily was painfully aware of the curiosity and amusement of those around her. It was as if she had been hired to entertain them with her eccentric ways, she thought in annoyance.
She began to wonder if she had made a serious mistake in accepting the invitation to join the group. At that moment Ashbrook flicked shut an elegant enameled snuffbox and straightened away from the mantel against which he had been leaning with negligent grace. He came forward to kiss Emily’s hand, thereby bestowing instant cachet upon her. Emily smiled back gratefully.
Emily was further disappointed, however, when the conversation turned straight to the latest gossip, rather than the latest romantic literature. She listened impatiently to the latest on dit and wondered how soon she could leave. It was obvious she was not mingling with a group of clever intellectuals, after all. It was true everyone in the room had a marvelously fashionable air of ennui and every word spoken was laden with world-weary cynicism, but there was no interest here in literary matters. Across the room Ashbrook caught her eye and winked conspiratorially.
“By the bye,” a gentleman who was introduced as Crofton drawled, “I have recently had the pleasure of playing cards with your father, Lady Blade.”
That caught Emily’s full attention. She glanced at him in surprise. She was wearing her spectacles, so she could see Crofton’s cruel and dissipated face quite clearly. She guessed he had once been a handsome man, with his bold, saturnine features. But now he appeared jaded and thoroughly debauched. Emily had not liked Crofton from the moment she had been introduced to him.
“Have you, indeed?” She took a noncommittal sip of her tea.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Quite a neck-or-nothing gamester, your father.
“Yes.” Emily prayed for a change of topic.
“His spirits seem a bit depressed of late,” Crofton observed. “One would think he would be bursting with enthusiasm over your excellent marriage.”
“You know how fathers are,” Emily said, feeling desperate. “I was his only daughter.”
“You were, I gather, extremely important to him,” Crofton murmured. “One might even say vital to his wellbeing.”
Emily looked at Ashbrook, smiling hopefully. “Have you read Mrs. Fordyce’s latest effort, my lord?”
“Mrs. Fordyce is a silly frump of a woman, sadly lacking in intelligence and talent.” Ashbrook volunteered the sweeping pronouncement with an air of complete boredom.
Emily bit her lip. “I rather enjoyed her new novel. Very strange and interesting.”
The small group laughed indulgently at this display of rustic taste and went back to a discussion of Byron’s latest antics. Emily risked a glance at the clock and wished it were time to leave. She listened to the prattle going on around her and decided that the literary society of Little Dippington accomplished far more in its Thursday afternoon meetings than this elegant salon ever would. As she always did when she was bored or unhappy, she mentally went to work on new stanzas for The Mysterious Lady.
A ghost was indeed called for, she decided. The poem needed more melodrama. Perhaps she could have the heroine encounter a phantasm in an abandoned castle. She must remember to tell Ashbrook she intended to add a ghost. She had brought the manuscript with her in her reticule this afternoon but she wondered if she should turn it over to him so soon. It might be better to wait until she had added the ghost.
Conversation in the drawing room drifted into a new channel.
“If we are speaking of likely investments,” one foppish gentleman said portentiously, “I don’t mind telling you about a new venture I am looking into at the moment. Canal shares for a project to be built in Hampshire.
Emily reluctantly let her attention snap back to the present. She raised quizzical eyes toward the gentleman who had just spoken. “Would that be the Kingsley Canal project, sir?”
The gentleman’s glance swung imme
diately toward her. “Why, yes, it would. My man of affairs brought it to my attention recently.”
“I should have nothing to do with that venture, if I were you, sir,” Emily said. “I know something about the previous financial ventures arranged by the gentlemen behind the Kingsley Canal project and it is a record of failure and loss.”
The man gave Emily his full attention. “Is that a fact, Lady Blade? I am most interested in hearing more about the project, as I am on the brink of putting quite a large sum into it.”
“If you want to invest in canals,” Emily said, “I would suggest that you first investigate coal mining areas. Or look into the potteries. I have found that wherever one finds a product that needs an economical path to market, one finds a need for canals. But one must consider the people behind the venture as carefully as the venture itself.
At that casual pronouncement, all male eyes in the room were on Emily, the women soon taking their cues from the men. Emily blinked owlishly under the unexpected scrutiny. She had continued her investment work here in town. After all, the ladies of the Little Dippington literary society still depended on her. But Emily had not expected to find herself discussing such topics today. She had come here to talk of higher matters.
“I say,” one of the men began, instantly casting aside his carefully cultivated attitude of ennui, “Do you favor any particular projects?”
“Well,” Emily said slowly, “I have several correspondents in the midland counties and two of them have recently written to me concerning a new canal project. I confess I have not been paying a great deal of attention to financial matters lately but I am rather intrigued by this arrangement. I have had successful situations with this group of investors in the past.
All pretense of a literary discussion was dropped as Emily became the focus of everyone’s attention. She found herself inundated with questions and demands for more information on investment projects. It was all familiar territory, if unexciting, and, anxious to make a pleasant impression, she concentrated on her answers.
An hour and a half went by before she chanced to glance at the clock. She gave a start when she saw the time.
“I do hope you will forgive me,” she said to her hostess as she sprang to her feet and gathered up her reticule. “I must be off. Thank you so much for inviting me.
“We shall look forward to having you attend our little group next week,” Lady Turnbull said, with a quick, assessing glance at the fascinated expressions on the gentlemen’s faces. “Perhaps you can give us more information on investments and such.”
“Yes, do come back next week,” one of the gentlemen urged.
“I would very much appreciate hearing your opinions on the corn harvest this summer,” another said.
“Thank you,” Emily said, edging quickly toward the door. Mentally she made a note to be otherwise engaged next week, if possible. “If you will excuse me …”
“I shall see you out to your carriage,” Ashbrook said with grave gallantry.
Emily looked at him in surprise. “Oh. Thank you.”
Outside on the steps she waited in tense silence for him to ask if she had brought along her manuscript. She could not bear to thrust it upon him unless he requested it.
“I am glad you came today,” Ashbrook said softly as Blade’s black and gold carriage approached. “I hoped you would. Now I find I cannot wait until we meet again. Will you be attending the Olmstead affair tomorrow night?”
“I believe so, yes.” Emily clutched the reticule and wondered if she should casually mention the manuscript. Perhaps something charmingly offhand about Whittenstall, Ashbrook’s publisher, would do the trick. She frantically searched her brain for something suitable.
“Did you find time to work on your epic poem?” Ashbrook asked as he watched the carriage pull up in front of the steps.
Emily breathed a sigh of relief. He had not forgotten, after all. “Yes, yes, I did. I just happen to have it with me.”
“Do you?” Ashbrook smiled deliberately. “Shall I have a look at it, then, to see if it might be suitable for publication?”
“Oh, Richard, that is so kind of you. I was afraid you had forgotten and I did not want to impose.” Emily yanked open the reticule and hauled out the precious manuscript. “I have definitely decided to add a ghost,” she said as she handed it to him with trembling fingers. “You might bear that in mind as you read.”
“Certainly.” Ashbrook took the manuscript and smiled suavely. “In the meantime, will you promise to save a dance for me tomorrow night?”
“Yes, of course,” Emily said happily as Harry handed her up into the coach. “Thank you, Richard. And please, I beg you, be perfectly honest in your opinions of my work.”
The door of the carriage slammed shut and Emily was whisked off before Ashbrook could reply.
A few minutes later the carriage came to a halt in front of the Blade townhouse. Emily alighted eagerly and headed immediately upstairs to her bedchamber.
She was going past the closed door of the old, unused nursery when a loud thump, followed by a distinct groan, brought her to an immediate halt.
“What on earth?” Opening the door and peering inside, Emily was startled to see Simon and the twins stripped to the waist. Charles was just picking himself up off the carpet. Simon was standing over him, feet braced, and Devlin was watching with an expression of deep concentration.
“You do not punch with your fist,” Simon said sternly. “You let the man come straight at you and then you turn slightly to the right. He will instinctively follow you and in doing so, put himself off balance. Balance is everything. Do you understand?”
“I believe so.” Charles rubbed his bare shoulder. “Let me try it again.”
“What is going on here?” Emily asked, fascinated.
The three men swung around to face her, their faces reflecting a united sense of masculine outrage.
“Emily!” Charles yelped.
With horrified expressions, the twins leapt for their shirts, which were hanging on nearby chairs.
“Damnation, Emily,” Simon said furiously. “This is no place for a female. Take yourself off at once. And close the door behind you.”
“Are you practicing some odd form of boxing, Simon? Is it something you learned in the East? I would love to observe. Perhaps I could even take a few lessons.” Emily looked at him hopefully.
“You will leave this room immediately, madam. And you will close the door behind you,” Simon thundered.
Emily cast a quick glance at her brothers’ scowling faces and found them equally implacable. “Oh, very well. But I must say, you three are certainly a bunch of extremely poor-spirited killjoys.”
Emily retreated back into the hall and closed the door behind her.
“Do tell me what you were doing in the nursery with Charles and Devlin, my lord,” Emily said from the other end of the dinner table that evening. “I am most curious.”
“Curiosity is not an admirable trait in a female.” Simon surveyed the exotically spiced East Indian curry George had just placed in front of him.
Emily gave him a mischievous grin. “You could hardly expect me to ignore all those loud thumping noises as I went past the nursery door.”
Simon was aware Emily was deliberately teasing him. He was equally aware that Greaves and George were listening to every word as they stood watch over the dinner table. “In future, my dear, you will kindly knock before you enter a room in which you hear thumping sounds.”
“Yes, of course,” Emily said with an acquiescent nod. “I mean, one never knows what one will encounter when one opens a door after hearing a thumping sort of noise, does one? It might be anything. One might even chance upon three men who are not wearing their shirts or something equally outrageous.”
“That is quite enough conversation on the subject, madam wife.” He shot Emily a severe glare.
The response was an irrepressible giggle. “I refuse to end this discussion until I know what
you were doing. Were you practicing a fighting technique of some sort?”
Simon gave up. “Yes, we were. I am not certain how it came about but somehow your brothers managed to talk me into demonstrating it for them. It is something I learned during my years in the East.”
“Would you teach me?”
Simon was truly shocked by the suggestion. Emily’s charming eccentricities could be amusing at times but there were definitely occasions when she went too far. “Most certainly not. It is not a proper activity for a female and it is definitely not the sort of thing a man teaches his wife.”
“Hmm. I am not so certain it would be a bad notion to teach me,” Emily mused, unintimidated. “After all, the streets of London are not particularly safe, to say nothing of places like Vauxhall Gardens. One never knows when one might encounter a dangerous villain on a dark path, for example, and be obliged to defend oneself from a fate worse than death.”
“That is quite enough, madam.”
George, the footman who was serving that evening, was suddenly overcome with a fit of loud, sputtering coughing. He rushed from the room. Outside in the hall the coughing turned into a roar of laughter. Greaves, the butler, looked extremely pained.
Simon glowered at Emily. “The dangers of the streets are one of the reasons why you are never to go about unaccompanied in town, my dear. And speaking of going about, my aunt tells me she has received a voucher for Almacks for you.”
“She mentioned it,” Emily said vaguely as she helped herself to chutney. “But, truthfully, Simon, I have no particular interest in going to Almacks. Celeste says the assemblies are dreadfully boring. One only goes if one is obliged to look for a husband and I have no need to do that, have I?”
“No, but an appearance at Almacks will do no harm,” Simon told her firmly. It would be another jewel in the crown of Emily’s recent social success. “I believe you should attend next Wednesday night.”
