by Amanda Quick
“Actually, I am afraid we really must be going,” Lady Canonbury said, rising majestically from the settee.
“Yes, I have several other commitments this afternoon,” Mrs. Peppington said quickly.
“I understand.” Emily shot her husband a glowering glance as the two women hurried out into the hall.
When the door closed behind them, she calmly poured Simon a cup of tea and handed it to him as he sat down. “There was no need to frighten them away, Simon.”
Araminta Merryweather chuckled. “Simon is good at that sort of thing.”
Simon ignored his aunt and fixed his innocent-looking wife with his most intimidating expression. “I would be interested in knowing what you found to talk about with those two particular ladies, madam.”
“Umm, yes, I imagine you would.” Emily smiled winningly. “Well, my lord, the truth is, we discussed business.”
“Did you, indeed?” Out of the corner of his eye, Simon saw his aunt wince at the coldness in his voice but Emily appeared not to notice. “What sort of business?”
“The mining business,” Emily said. “Apparently both Lord Canonbury and Mr. Peppington have sunk considerable amounts into a mining project. They now face the prospect of getting the ore to market and have made the astonishing discovery that the canal they planned to use is privately owned. The owner will not give them a firm agreement to use the canal services. He has kept them dangling for months.”
“I see.”
“The canal is owned by you, my lord,” Emily said pointedly. “Nothing moves on that canal without your permission. You have the power to make the entire mining project a financial disaster for Canonbury and Peppington. They are both extremely anxious about the matter. Such a loss could destroy them. They have sunk a great deal into their mining project.”
Simon shrugged, not bothering to hide his satisfaction. “So?”
“So, I was just telling Lady Canonbury and Mrs. Peppington that you will no doubt decide to sell the canal to their husbands.”
Simon’s tea sloshed violently in the delicate china cup. Several drops spilled over the side and cascaded down onto his pristine buff-colored breeches. “Bloody hell.”
Emily eyed the tea stains with concern. “Shall I ring for Greaves?”
“No, you will not ring for Greaves or anyone else.” Simon slammed his cup and saucer down on the nearest table. “What the devil do you think you’re doing making such promises to Lady Canonbury and Mrs. Peppington? How the hell do you expect to fulfill them?”
“She is not expecting to fulfill any promises, as she did not actually make any,” Araminta said gently, her eyes dancing. “Emily is expecting you to do so, Simon.”
Simon shot his aunt a furious glance before swinging his angry gaze back to Emily. His wife appeared serenely sure of herself, he noticed. Obviously he had been far too indulgent with her lately. “Well, madam? Explain yourself.”
Emily delicately cleared her throat. “I am fully aware of why you wish to exact vengeance on Canonbury and Peppington, Simon. Your aunt has explained the matter and you have every right to want to punish them.”
“I am glad you appreciate that fact.”
“The thing is, my lord,” she continued gently, “as I talked to Lady Canonbury and Mrs. Peppington, I realized that they have already suffered a great deal and there really is no need to add to their misery.”
“Is that right? How, precisely, have they suffered?” Simon demanded through his teeth.
“Lord Canonbury, it seems, has a bad heart. His doctors have advised him that he may not live out the year. He has also had several severe financial losses in recent years. His only joy in life is his granddaughter. You remember her? The one who had a fit of the vapors and collapsed when you entered that ballroom?”
“I remember her.”
“Poor chit was dreadfully afraid Blade was going to demand her hand in marriage as vengeance against her grandfather,” Araminta murmured.
“Nonsense,” Emily said. “As I told Celeste, Blade would never marry a young lady who was prone to fits of the vapors. Now, as I was saying, his granddaughter is Canonbury’s greatest joy in life. He wishes to use the profits from the mining project to provide her with a suitable dowry. She will be left penniless if you ruin him, Simon. I knew you would not want the poor chit to be forced to endure the marriage mart without a decent dowry.”
“Good God,” Simon muttered.
“And as for Peppington, I was deeply saddened to learn that he lost his only son three years ago in a riding accident. His wife says he has not been the same since. All that keeps him going, apparently, is the knowledge that his grandson is turning out to be a fine, intelligent young man who shows a great interest in acquiring land. Peppington wants nothing more than to leave the boy a decent legacy.”
“I do not see why I should have the least interest in the futures of Canonbury’s granddaughter or Peppington’s grandson,” Simon said.
Emily smiled wistfully. “I know, my lord. In the beginning I was not particularly interested, either, but then I began to reflect upon the importance of children and grandchildren, in general, if you know what I mean.”
Simon pinned her with a steady gaze. “No, I do not know what you mean. What in blazes are you talking about now?”
“Our children, my lord.” Emily demurely sipped her tea.
Simon was speechless for a moment. “Our children?” he finally managed. Then the most peculiar jolt of exultation roared through him. “Are you telling me you are breeding, madam?”
“Well, as to that, I am not able to say. I do not think so. At least not at the moment. But I imagine I soon will be, don’t you? Bound to happen sooner or later at the rate we are going.” Emily turned pink but she was still smiling.
Araminta sputtered and coughed on a swallow of tea. “I beg your pardon,” she said weakly, gasping for air.
Simon paid no attention to his aunt. All he could think about at the moment was the possibility of Emily growing round with his babe. It struck him that until that moment he had not really thought much about the future. All his schemes and plans and thoughts had been focused on the past. Now here was Emily talking about having babies. His babies.
“Hell and damnation,” he muttered.
“Yes, I know what you mean, my lord. It is something of a shock to think in such terms, is it not? But we must, of course. And I confess it was the thought of how much we shall love and cherish our own children that made me realize you would not wish to hurt Lord Canonbury’s granddaughter or Peppington’s grandson. It is not your nature to be cruel, my lord. You are a noble and generous man at heart, as I well know.”
Simon just sat there staring at Emily. He knew he ought to be lecturing her on the subject of staying out of his business affairs but he seemed to be unable to tear himself away from the image of his son in her arms.
“Do you think our son will have your eyes?” Emily asked thoughtfully, as if she had just peeked into his mind. “I can just imagine him running about the place. Full of energy and mischief. You can teach him those fighting techniques you are teaching to my brothers. Boys love that sort of thing.”
“I believe I really must be on my way,” Araminta said softly as she rose to her feet. “If you will excuse me?”
Simon was barely aware of his aunt taking her leave. When the door closed softly behind her, he realized he was still staring at Emily, picturing her with a dark-haired, golden-eyed babe at her breast. Or perhaps a green-eyed, redheaded little girl.
“Simon?” Emily blinked inquiringly at him.
“If you will pardon me, I believe there are one or two items that require my attention in the library,” Simon said absently, getting to his feet.
He had clung to his past for twenty-three years, Simon thought. It had given him strength and will and fortitude. But now it finally struck him that the day he had married Emily he had acquired a toehold in the future, whether he wanted it or not.
Simon
was still struggling with the idea of Emily surrounded by his children, still feeling bemused and oddly uncertain of his own intentions, when he walked into one of his clubs that evening.
As fate would have it, the first two men he saw were Canonbury and Peppington.
An image of Canonbury’s silly granddaughter fainting in a ballroom and Peppington’s serious young grandson studying land management came into his mind. With a deep sigh, he crossed the room toward his two old enemies.
Simon made the offer to sell the canal to Canonbury and Peppington before he could give himself any further chance to think about it. The stunned shock on the faces of both elderly men was extremely satisfying.
Canonbury got to his feet with painful slowness. “I am very grateful to you, sir. I am well aware you had other intentions a short while ago. Intentions that would have ruined both Peppington and myself. May I ask what changed your mind?”
“This is not some sort of new trick, is it, Blade?” Peppington asked suspiciously. “You have kept us hovering on the brink of disaster for the past six months. Why should you set us free now?”
“My wife tells me I have a noble and generous nature,” Simon said with a cold smile.
Canonbury sat down abruptly and reached for his port. “I see.”
Peppington recovered sufficiently from his astonishment to give Simon an assessing look. “Wives are extremely odd creatures, are they not, sir?”
“They certainly do tend to complicate a man’s life,” Simon agreed.
Peppington nodded, looking thoughtful. “Thank you for your generosity, sir. Canonbury and I are well aware that we do not deserve it. What happened twenty-three years ago was … not well done of either of us.”
“We are in your debt, Blade,” Canonbury murmured.
“No,” said Simon. “You are in my wife’s debt. See that you do not forget it.” He turned on his heel and walked away from the two old men he had hated for twenty-three years.
As he went out into the night he realized vaguely that something inside him felt freer, looser, less confined. It was as though he had just unfastened an old, rusty chain and released a part of himself that had been locked up for a very long time.
The frantic message from Broderick Faringdon arrived a day later. Emily was in the midst of consulting with Simon’s cook. The consultation had turned into a rather loud discussion.
“I do not mind having some of your wonderful, exotic specialties from the East Indies on the buffet table,” Emily said firmly to the strange little man who wore a gold earring in one ear. “But we must remember that most of the guests will be unfamiliar with such foreign delicacies. The English are not terribly adventurous in their eating habits.”
Smoke drew himself up proudly. “His lordship has never complained about my cooking.”
“Well, of course he has never complained,” Emily said soothingly. “Your cooking is marvelous, Smoke. But I fear his lordship’s palate is considerably more cultivated and refined than those of many of the people you will be serving at the soiree. We are talking about the sort of people who do not consider a meal complete unless they have plenty of boiled potatoes and a large joint of beef.”
“Madam is quite right, Smoke,” the housekeeper chimed in. “We must serve some turbot in aspic, perhaps. And sausages and maybe a bit of tongue.”
“Sausages! Tongue!” Smoke was outraged. “I will not allow any greasy sausages or tongue to be served in this house.”
“Well, then, some cold ham would do nicely,” Emily said hopefully.
A loud, urgent knocking on the kitchen door interrupted the argument. Harry, the footman, went to the door and after a short consultation with whoever stood outside, he approached his mistress.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, madam. I am told there is a message for you.”
Emily turned away from the squabble with a sense of relief. “For me? Where?”
“A young lad at the door, ma’am. Says he can only deliver the message to you.” Harry raised his hooked arm. “Shall I tell him to be off?”
“No, no, I shall speak to him.”
Emily went through the kitchens to the door and saw the grubby little boy waiting for her. “Well, lad, what is it?”
The boy stared at Emily’s bright red hair and spectacles and then nodded to himself, as if satisfied he had the right person. “I’m to tell yer that yer pa’s got to see yer right away, ma’am. He give me this note to give to yer.” A small slip of paper, rather badly stained from a dirty little fist, was dutifully handed over.
“Very well.” Emily dropped a coin into the boy’s palm, a strong sense of foreboding washing over her as she looked at the paper. “Thank you.”
The boy examined the coin closely, tested it with his teeth, and then grinned widely. “Yer welcome, ma’am.”
Harry stepped forward to close the kitchen door. The boy gazed in admiration and wonder at the hook and then took off running.
“We shall have to finish planning the buffet menu later,” Emily said to Smoke and the housekeeper as she hurried out of the kitchen.
She dashed upstairs, the note burning her hand. She feared the worst. When she reached the privacy of her bedchamber she closed and locked the door.
Trembling with dread she sat down to read the note from her father.
My dearest, dutiful daughter:
Disaster has struck. Fortune has been against me for the past several weeks. I have lost a rather large sum of money at cards and now must sell my few remaining shares and stocks to raise the blunt to settle my latest debts. Unfortunately, it will not cover the entire amount. You must help me, my dearest daughter. I pray that in this, my hour of need, you will remember the ties of blood and love that bind us forever. You know your dear mama would want you to come to my aid. I shall be in touch very soon.
Yrs,
Yr. Loving Father
P.S. Under the circumstances, you must not mention this little family problem to your husband. You know well enough he bears a deep, unnatural hatred for me.
Emily felt sick as she slowly refolded the note. She had realized something like this was bound to happen sooner or later. She had tried to pretend her father would show some sense in his gaming but she had known, deep down, that his passion for cards and hazard was too strong. Her mother had often told her he would never change.
And now he was calling on his daughter for help, knowing that in doing so he was forcing her to choose between her loyalty to her husband and her obligations as a daughter.
It was too much. Reality had intruded once more into her world, ripping aside the romantic curtain she tried to maintain around herself.
Emily put her head down on her arms and wept.
Emily was dressing for the theater that evening when Simon walked into her bedchamber through the connecting door. She gave a small start at the sight of him and then managed a wan smile.
“Thank you, Lizzie. That will be all for now.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lizzie bobbed a curtsey and left.
Emily met Simon’s eyes in the looking glass. Then her gaze slid away. He was so very powerful and compelling in his austere evening clothes. “You are going out, my lord?”
“I shall dine at my club this evening while you attend the theater with Lady Northcote and her daughter.” Simon’s gaze was watchful. “But I shall find you later at the Bridgetons’.”
Emily nodded quickly and the plumes in her hair danced. She was nervous and she knew she had to be careful or Simon would notice something was wrong. “I shall see you there, then. Did I show you the new pair of opera glasses I bought yesterday?” She reached for her reticule and started digging in it industriously. Anything not to have to meet that too-observant gaze.
“Very nice.” Simon nodded approvingly at the delicately designed glasses.
“They give a wonderful view. I was using them to watch a bird outside the window earlier and I could see the tiniest details on its wings,” Emily said, valiantly struggling to must
er an air of enthusiasm.
“I am certain they are an excellently made pair of opera glasses, my dear.”
Emily did not fancy the new speculation in Simon’s eyes. “Celeste and her mother have told me that the production of Othello we’re going to see this evening is one of the best that’s ever been done.”
“It should be quite exciting.”
“Yes, I am certain it will. Did I tell you I had a long chat with Smoke today about the menu for the buffet at the soiree?”
“No, you did not mention it. Emily, is something wrong?”
“No, no, of course not, my lord.” She summoned a brilliant smile and managed to meet his eyes briefly in the looking glass. “I am merely excited about going to the theater.”
“Emily—”
“As I was saying, Smoke is very reluctant to prepare the standard fare for our guests. He says you prefer his Eastern style of cooking, which I am fully aware is very tasty, but I fear our guests will find it odd.”
“Smoke will prepare whatever you tell him to prepare or he will be looking for a new position,” Simon said casually. He moved forward and put his powerful hands on Emily’s shoulders and seemingly willed her to meet his gaze once more. “Do not fret about the buffet menu, my dear. Tell me what is making you so anxious tonight.”
She sat very still and stared into the looking glass with an anguished expression. “Simon, I cannot tell you.”
Simon’s mouth curved faintly. “I am afraid I must insist. We communicate on a higher plane, so I already know something is wrong, my dear. If you do not tell me the truth, I shall be in torment all evening. Do you wish me to suffer so?”
Emily felt a pang of guilt. “Of course not, my lord. It is just that this is a … a personal problem and I do not want to bother you with it.” She sighed and added, “In any event, there is nothing that can be done. Fate has dealt its final hand.”
But even as she made that tragic statement, her eyes were reflecting a glimmer of hopefulness and she knew Simon saw it. His fingers tightened briefly on her shoulders.
“It sounds as though we are discussing a card game,” Simon said gently. “Is that the case?”
