by Amanda Quick
“I would rather not. Simon, your chef serves the most remarkable meals. Did you find him in the East?”
“Smoke has been with me for several years, yes.”
“Why is he called Smoke? Because he burns the food?”
“No, because he was the bastard son of an island woman and a British seaman. No one wanted him after he was born and he survived by learning to move and act like smoke. Always there, but rarely noticed.” A particularly useful talent when one made one’s living lifting men’s purses in dirty port towns, Simon reflected silently.
“How did you come to meet him?”
“I believe he was attempting to rob me at the time,” Simon murmured.
Emily laughed in delight. “What made you decide to give him a position as your cook?”
“He is more than happy to prepare the sort of food I came to enjoy in the East. With him in the kitchen I am not obliged to eat the usual English fare of tough mutton, greasy sausages, and heavy puddings.”
“I have noticed we eat a great many dishes with noodles and rice in them,” Emily observed. “I must say, I enjoy them. The wonderful spices are very stimulating to the sensibilities.”
Simon gave her an impatient glance, well aware she was attempting to change the topic. “You will go to Almacks, my dear,” he said softly and deliberately.
“Will I?” She looked delightfully unconcerned about the whole thing. “I shall talk to Lady Merryweather about it. She is a fount of wisdom on how to carry on in Society, is she not? Simon, I am thinking of starting my own literary salon. I attended one this afternoon and, I must say, I was quite disappointed. We hardly touched upon literary matters at all. Everyone wanted to talk about investments.”
That comment succeeded in diverting Simon’s attention at once. “Did they, indeed?” He took another bite of the curry and watched his wife’s face carefully. “Who attended the salon?”
“It was held in Lady Turnbull’s house,” Emily said airily. “There were several people there. I have forgotten some of the names, I confess.” She frowned intently. “There was a gentleman named Crofton, however. I do remember him because I did not particularly care for him.”
If Crofton was there, Ashbrook would not have been far behind, Simon reflected grimly. He decided to probe gently for more information. “I believe I made Crofton’s acquaintance once on the street in front of his club. I was not impressed by him, either. Do you recall anyone else in attendance at Lady Turnbull’s salon?”
“Well …” Emily shot him a cautious glance. “One or two others, perhaps. As I said, I did not get all the names.”
So Ashbrook had, indeed, attended and for some reason Emily was trying to conceal the information. Simon went cold with sudden anger, sending Greaves from the room with a single look. He waited until he was alone with his wife, who was munching enthusiastically on a bite of curry and chutney.
“I would like to know everything that happened at Lady Turnbull’s salon today, Emily.”
“The thing is, my lord,” Emily said earnestly, “I would rather not tell you until I know for certain if things are going to work out.”
Simon stared at her in baffled fury. Bloody hell. Was she planning to run off with Ashbrook a second time? He could not credit the notion but at the same time the jealousy was already starting to gnaw at his insides. “What, precisely, do you intend to work out, madam?”
“’Tis a secret, my lord.”
“I wish to know.”
“If I tell you, it will no longer be a secret, my lord,” Emily pointed out reasonably.
“You are a married woman now, Emily. You do not keep secrets from your husband.”
“The thing is, this would be terribly embarrassing for me if matters did not conclude happily.”
Simon, who had picked up his wineglass, set it down again before he accidentally shattered it between clenched fingers. “You will tell me what this is all about. I am afraid I must insist upon knowing, madam.”
Emily heaved a small sigh and darted him a searching glance. “Will you give me your word of honor not to tell a single soul?”
“I certainly do not intend to gossip about my own wife.”
Emily relaxed slightly. Her eyes glowed and she was suddenly bubbling over with an excitement that she had apparently been hugging to herself all afternoon.
“No, I do not suppose you would. Well, my lord, the secret is that Ashbrook has promised to read my epic poem and tell me whether it is good enough to be shown to his publisher, Whittenstall. I am so anxious and excited, I can hardly bear it.”
Simon felt the cold tension in his gut unknot at the expectant look in Emily’s eyes. Of course she was not planning on running off with Ashbrook. He must have been mad to even consider the notion. He knew her better than that. Emily was helplessly in love with her dragon of a husband.
His reaction to the unlikely threat was, however, a clear indication of how powerfully she affected his self-control. Simon scowled.
But now he had another problem on his hands. Emily might not be planning to get herself seduced by the poet, but there was absolutely no doubt in Simon’s mind that Ashbrook’s goals were not innocent. Emily was fast becoming all the rage and Ashbrook considered himself extremely fashionable. Forming a liaison with the charming, eccentric wife of the Earl of Blade would no doubt strike the poet as an interesting challenge. He was probably wondering just what he had missed out on five years ago when Emily had used a chamber pot on his skull.
Ashbrook, you bastard. You guessed immediately that the one sure way to get Emily’s attention was to show an interest in her writing. Simon decided he would definitely have to attend to the poet but in the meantime he did not have to worry that Emily was going to leave.
Even as he told himself not to be alarmed, Simon was obliged to realize just how important Emily had become to him. He was grappling with that uncomfortable notion when Emily spoke again.
“Well, Simon? Is it not the most marvelous opportunity for me?”
His mouth twisted laconically at the hopeful excitement in her lovely eyes. “It is certainly a most interesting development, my dear.”
Emily nodded in satisfaction. “Yes, it is, and now you can see why I did not want anyone to know until Richard has given me his opinion. It would be too humiliating if he decides The Mysterious Lady is not suitable for publication. I have discovered that the ton dotes on humiliating gossip.”
“You are quite right to keep the matter a secret,” Simon murmured. “And I think it would be a very good notion to establish your own literary salon rather than attend Lady Turnbull’s. She is not known for her genuine appreciation of literature, I fear. Her salons are simply excuses for a certain crowd to gather and share the latest gossip. And, as you have noted, here in town the gossip can be quite cruel.”
“Yes, that was what I concluded.” Emily went back to work on her curry. “I shall establish my salon as soon as possible. I believe I shall invite Celeste and her mother and Lady Merryweather, of course. And there are two or three other ladies I have met recently who are quite interested in the latest style of literature. I hope they will attend.”
“You must give me a list of the names of those you plan to invite,” Simon said.
Emily looked up quickly, a wary expression in her eyes. “No, my lord, I am not going to do that.”
He blinked at the unexpected defiance. “May I ask why not?”
She pointed her fork at him in an accusing fashion. “Because I have finally discovered from your aunt how you go about managing things, my lord. You are apparently in the habit of intimidating people into doing what you want them to do. To be perfectly honest, I would not put it past you to coerce everyone on my guest list into attending my salon.”
Simon was at first startled and then reluctantly amused. “Very well, Emily. Invite whom you wish and I will stay out of the matter entirely.”
She gave him a suspicious look. “I am quite determined on this point, my lord.”
&nb
sp; “Yes, I can see that. Do not fret, Emily. I will not frighten your guests.”
“Excellent.” She smiled approvingly, her brow clearing as if by magic. “Then I shall get started on the project at once.”
“Do not forget you still have to make preparations for your soiree.”
Emily’s expression immediately turned anxious. “I am working very hard on it, my lord. I vow I am doing everything I can to make certain it is a success. Although I still do not know how we will get everyone inside the house.”
Simon eventually tracked Ashbrook down at one of the St. James clubs. The poet was ensconced in a chair near the fire with a bottle of port, apparently taking a breather from the card tables.
“Well, Ashbrook, what a convenient circumstance.” Simon sat down in the chair across from the poet and picked up the bottle of port. He poured himself a glass of the dark red wine. “I have been looking for you for the past hour or so. Where is your friend, Crofton?”
“I am meeting him later.” Ashbrook flicked open his snuffbox with a one-handed, negligently elegant gesture he had no doubt practiced for hours. “We are planning an entertaining tour of some of the more intriguing brothels.”
“Just as well he is not here.” Simon sampled the port. It was somewhat too sweet for his taste. “I wanted to talk to you alone.”
Ashbrook’s fingers tightened around his glass. “I do not see why. I have abided by our little agreement. I have not breathed a word about the scandal in Emily’s past.”
Simon smiled dangerously. “I have no idea what you are talking about. There is no scandal in my wife’s past. Are you implying there might have been one?”
“Good God, no, I am not implying anything of the kind.” Ashbrook gulped his port. “What the devil do you want from me, Blade?”
“You have, I believe, something that belongs to my wife. I would like it sent back immediately.”
Astonishment lit Ashbrook’s gaze for an instant, quickly replaced by an indolent stare. “We are discussing her epic poem, I collect?”
“We are.” Simon smiled without any humor. “Ashbrook, do not play games with me. We both know why you offered to read the poem for her. You could not resist trying to seduce her, after all, could you? She no doubt seems far more interesting now than she was five years ago. The more jaded one becomes, the stronger the appeal of naïveté and innocence, hmm? And you think to attract her by praising her writing.”
Ashbrook crooked a brow. “You sound as though you are familiar with the technique. Is that how you convinced her to marry you, Blade? By complimenting her poetry instead of her eyes?”
“How I got her to marry me is none of your affair. All you need keep in mind is that she is married to me. I am warning you that if you attempt to lure her into your bed, I shall see that your blossoming career as an author is nipped in the bud.”
“Are you threatening to call me out, Blade?”
“Only if it becomes absolutely necessary. I prefer more subtle methods of persuasion. In your case, I believe my first move would be to call upon your publisher, Whittenstall, and convince him that you lack talent, after all.”
Ashbrook’s mouth dropped open. “You would pay him not to publish me?”
“I would see to it that no reputable bookseller or publisher in town would find it worth his while to publish you. Do I make myself clear, sir?”
Ashbrook closed his mouth and leaned back in his chair. His initial expression of shock was fading to a look of reluctant admiration. “You are quite incredible, Blade. I have heard rumors of how you go about getting what you want, but I confess I had not entirely credited them. I am impressed.”
“It is not necessary that you be impressed. It is only important that you do not attempt to tease my wife by dangling the lure of getting her poem published in front of her.”
“You do not think her work good enough to be published?” Ashbrook asked shrewdly.
“I have come to the conclusion that my wife’s considerable array of talents lie outside the world of literature. I do not mind if she amuses herself by dabbling in poetry and the like. But I will not allow you or anyone else to use her interest in literary matters as a means of engaging her attentions.”
“You think she can be lured away from your side so easily?” Ashbrook’s mouth curved into a mocking smile.
Simon finished the port. “My wife is incapable of infidelity. It is simply not in her nature. But she can be hurt by promises made by people who have no intention of carrying them out. She tends to believe the best of people.”
“You do not think I mean to give The Mysterious Lady a fair reading?”
“No,” Simon said as he got to his feet. “I do not believe it for a moment. I shall expect to see the manuscript returned tomorrow morning.”
“Damn it, Blade, hold on. How do you expect me to explain this to Emily?”
“Tell her you did not think you could give an impartial judgment,” Simon suggested. “It is nothing less than the truth, after all. How can a man make an honest assessment of someone else’s manuscript when he knows that his own writing career is hanging in the balance?”
“Bastard.” But Ashbrook sounded more resigned than defiant. “You had best take care, Blade. You have cultivated a variety of enemies. One of these fine days one of them might decide to try his luck in getting past that lot of villains and bodyguards you fondly call a house staff.”
Simon smiled. “Not likely. You see, Ashbrook, I do not have as many enemies as you seem to think. That is because, on the whole, I grant more favors than threats. I can be useful, on occasion. You are welcome to keep that in mind.”
Ashbrook nodded, his gaze speculative. “I see now how you operate. You are indeed as clever and mysterious as they say, Blade. Useful favors granted in exchange for cooperation, certain retribution if you are crossed. It is an interesting technique.”
Simon shrugged and walked away without bothering to respond. He had completed his business for the evening. It was time to find Emily. She was due to put in an appearance at the Linton’s ball, he recalled. He looked forward to another waltz with his wife.
Twenty minutes later he alighted from the carriage and walked up the steps of the large mansion. Footmen in blue livery scurried about, taking his hat and ushering him into the hall and upstairs to the ballroom.
The strains of a country dance could be heard above the din of laughter and conversation. Simon came to a halt in the doorway and glanced around, searching the crowded ballroom for signs of Emily. Lately it was not hard to locate her. One simply looked for a large knot of people gathered around a redheaded elf.
The knot would consist of a variety of Emily’s new friends and admirers. Among the males there would be several aging gentlemen who wanted to talk about shares and investments, a group of aspiring poets with tousled locks and smoldering eyes who wanted to discuss romantic poetry, and a cluster of young dandies anxious to be seen conversing with a genuine original.
And there would be just as many females in the flock surrounding Emily, Simon knew as he spotted his quarry and started through the crowd. There would be ladies who were as enthralled by the latest romantic literature as Emily was and a variety of women such as Lady Northcote and her daughter Celeste who found Emily a charming friend.
The group would also include a number of women whose astute husbands had encouraged them to cultivate the friendship of the new Countess of Blade. There would be girls not long out of the schoolroom whose mamas had comprehended that an association with the new countess meant their daughters would be brought into contact with a variety of eligible males. And last, but not least, there would be a selection of bluestockings who considered Emily intelligent and delightfully eccentric.
Simon had just reached the outskirts of the throng that surrounded Emily when she sensed his presence. A murmur swept through Emily’s crowd of admirers as they stepped aside to let her husband pass.
“Blade.” Emily raised her quizzing glass for a
quick look and then let it drop. She smiled widely in welcome, her eyes lighting up with pleasure. “I was hoping you would find time to drop by.”
“I have come to beg a dance with you, my dear,” Simon said as he inclined his head over her hand. “Do you by any chance have one to spare for me?”
“Do not be silly. Of course I do.” She threw an apologetic glance toward a young man whose blond hair had been laboriously styled with a crimping iron. “You will not mind if we postpone our dance, will you, Armistead?”
“Not at all, Lady Blade,” Armistead said, giving Simon a respectful glance.
Emily turned a laughing, eager countenance toward her husband. “There, you see, Blade? I am quite free to dance with you.”
“Thank you, my dear.” Simon experienced a surge of possessive satisfaction as he led Emily out onto the floor. When Emily stepped into his arms, her eyes shining, he was coolly aware that everyone in the room knew what he knew.
Emily was his.
The ton would also know that he would protect what was his.
Two days later Simon arrived home in the middle of the afternoon and was astonished to be told by his butler that his wife was entertaining three ladies in the drawing room.
“Lady Merryweather, Lady Canonbury, and Mrs. Peppington,” Greaves said without any trace of expression.
“Bloody hell,” Simon muttered as he stalked toward the drawing room door. “What the devil is she up to now?”
“Madam has ordered the best Lap Seng tea to be served,” Greaves added in a low voice as he opened the door for his master. “Smoke was asked to prepare an assortment of sweet cakes. He is still complaining.”
Simon threw his butler a scowling glance and stepped into the library. He halted at once as he took in the sight of his wife conversing easily with the wives of his two old enemies. Emily looked up and smiled at him.
“Oh, hello, Blade. Will you join us? I was just about to ring for more tea. You know Lady Canonbury and Mrs. Peppington, I believe?”
“We have met.” Simon acknowledged both women with a chilling civility. They, in turn, appeared flustered and uneasy.
