"May I know what the rhyme was? Only if you think it is fit for my ears, of course."
Will blushed and hesitated. "I had best tell you. I would not have you hear it from one of my fellow officers. Or, worse, from Sanding. Prizes for All May be hoarding, When lucky Will Allmay leads boarding. That was what the men used to say. Not true, I should stress," he added quickly. "We didn't take prizes with every boarding I led."
"I see." He was too modest to trumpet his successes, but there must have been a lot of them. That frescoed bath house, for example, could not have been cheap, yet he had thought nothing of commissioning it. Will Alford Mayfield had left the Navy a very rich man. But that was not why Emma was going to marry him. "I think I must retract my acceptance of your proposal of marriage," she said, with mock formality. She ignored his sharp intake of breath. "I shall be delighted and honoured to become Lady Emma Mayfield instead. It has a happy ring to it."
His shoulders relaxed and he beamed at her. Then he lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them, one after the other. It was a kind of vow. Emma knew it and she was sure he did, too.
"I am afraid that you will not be Lady Emma Mayfield for long, my love. I heard from my lawyers a few days ago. The court has finally declared John legally dead."
"Uh? I'm afraid I don't understand," Emma said.
"No, you would not know, I dare say. It was a very long time ago. The fact is that, although they found Isabella's drowned body, they never found John's. Everyone assumed it was swept out to sea, and lost. But there was no proof." He took a deep breath. "Now that more than seven years have passed, John's title will become mine. So you will not remain Lady Emma Mayfield for long. Soon you will become the Countess Lambester." He took her into his arms.
Lambester. The Lamb House. That curious gold pin in Will's neckcloth. A replica of the worn stone lamb over the lintel, of course. It all came together. Emma had been looking in totally the wrong places. But it didn't matter a bit. Her decision had been made, for the right reasons, long before she'd learned any of this.
Will sighed and pulled her even closer. "I never wanted the title. It was John's by right," he said seriously, stroking her hair. "But after he died, I had no choice. I hope you don't object, my love, to becoming my countess?" He laughed softly. It seemed he could never stay melancholy for very long. "At least it's not half as difficult to spell as your previous name. I never could remember all those silent extra letters and the order they went in. That's why my notes were always addressed to Lady E. G."
Emma had to laugh, too. "Lots of people had trouble with it. I did, myself." Will would never know quite how many problems that name had caused her. If Emma had known how her surname was really spelt – and if Cosway hadn't made that mistake on the letter – she might have found out all about herself ages ago. And about her second husband as well.
Fate had been on her side with all those false clues and dead ends. It was much better not to know, she decided. Peerage books included dates of death as well as dates of birth. Emma did not want to know now, at the outset of their marriage, how long she and Will would have together. They were going to be married, they were going to be together and, from this day forward, she was going to make the most of every second of her allotted time with the man she loved.
~ ~ ~
Much later, they sat together by the fire in the master bedchamber, with Emma in Will's lap. He nuzzled her ear. It was heaven. She wanted him to take her to bed, now, but he was making no move to do so. He hadn't wanted to make love earlier, either.
"Are you not tired, love?" she asked hopefully. "Perhaps we should go to bed?"
He shook his head. "I don't want you to leave me yet."
"I don't plan to. Your bed is big enough for both of us."
"Ah," he said. "I promised myself that I would not make love to you again unless and until you were my wife."
She pulled back from him. "That, sir, was a rash promise. And one about which you did not consult me. Am I to have no say? What if I don't want to wait until I have your ring on my finger?"
"You won't have to wait long if you prefer not to, love. I, er, I took the liberty of procuring a special licence a few days ago. But if you would rather wait to arrange a grand society wedding, I promise I will not object."
"And you will be celibate in the meantime, too?" she asked, laughing.
He made a very glum face. "If you wish it," he said. "It would not be easy."
"No, you may be easy, my love. I do not wish to wait either. May we be married tomorrow?"
He beamed and pulled her close for a long, tender kiss. "We may. Sanding has taken the carriage to town. Your abigail should be here shortly to act as the second witness."
"Second wi—? I can see that this partnership of ours is going to require very careful managing. My partner-to-be seems to view me as an enemy ship to be outmanoeuvred so that it can be boarded and taken as a prize."
"You could never be an enemy, sweet Emma," he said, dropping kisses down her jawline, "but I think that the boarding and the prize will be worth the winning. For both of us."
~ ~ ~
Emma woke to find Bailey bustling around the blue bedchamber, unpacking and stowing clothes away. "I have brought a selection of your gowns, m'lady, so that you may choose which of them you wish to be married in. I brought your jewel case, also."
Oh dear. How was Emma to explain? If she got it wrong, it would sound sordid. Particularly to someone with Bailey's strong views on Christian morality.
'Bailey, I should tell you that Sir William and I— Um."
Bailey turned round from the clothes press and grinned broadly. "You mean your ladyship and Mrs Smith?" There was a distinct twinkle in the abigail's eye.
"You knew?" Emma asked, horrified.
"Of course I knew, missy. That man of yours ain't the only one who's fly to the time of day. I only wish you'd have trusted me enough to confide. I could have helped you. Sneaking out to a hackney in the mews is not what a lady of your station should have been doing, you know." She tried to look prim, but failed.
Emma burst out laughing. Trust was going to be important for her life in the Regency. And it seemed that she had people around her who merited both trust and love. She was truly blessed.
Bailey managed a little chuckle, too. She came across to the bed and gazed fondly down at Emma. "It is so wonderful to see you restored to full health, m'lady. When we first came up to London after your accident, I feared you might never be well again. Some days you were almost your old self, but so often—" She sighed deeply, remembering. Then she smiled brightly again. "There's no chance that you will forget who you are now. Not when you're so happy in yourself, marrying Sir William. Bless him, he's lifted that black shadow and brought you fully back to us again."
A black shadow? There had been a dark shadow in Emma's mind, she realised, shrouding and distorting her thoughts so that she trusted no one, not even people who loved her. But now she was whole again and free of it. Will had held her hand while she pushed the shadow away.
"You'd best make a start now, m'lady. The vicar will be arriving in an hour, Sanding says. Which gown shall I lay out for you?"
"I think you already know, Bailey. There can be only one. The gold lace."
~ ~ ~
Will put his hands behind his head and relaxed into the pillows of the great green bed. He looked like a very happy, and very satisfied, man. "So, my love, you are married to a rake after all. Are you content?"
"No," Emma said emphatically. She was rewarded by a sharp intake of breath and the muscles of his torso tensing under her fingers. She smiled knowingly. She had power over this man, her husband, as he did over her. "I am not married to a rake, sir, I will have you know. I am married to a loving husband who has sworn to be faithful to me and only to me. I do not think, therefore, that he qualifies as a rake, do you?"
Will laughed and pulled her very close. "I can see that I am going to have considerable trouble getting the better of the logic-chopping lady wh
o is now my wife. But I fancy I shall enjoy the challenge she is going to present."
"Mmm." Emma dropped a kiss on his bare chest. "I think your wife might enjoy the challenge also."
"I can't resist you, darling Emma. Your quick wit disarms me."
She looked up into his eyes. "And you, my love, can always make me laugh. There is no better way than laughter to charm a woman into your bed. May I say that I sincerely hope you will not be making other women laugh, in the future?"
He pushed her away a little so that he could lay his hand on his heart. "I swear I shall not laugh any woman into my bed. Except you, my darling wife."
"I do love your teasing," she said. But there was something about it that she needed to know, and had not yet found a moment to ask. "May I say that I am surprised by it, too? My image of a fighting sea captain is of a stern disciplinarian, self-contained and aloof. Rather humourless, in fact. I had not imagined a fighting captain could be a man who teases, or laughs, as much as you do."
"No, and perhaps I did not laugh as much then. But, if you had spent as many years fighting as I did, and seen as many deaths of good men, you would want to make light of the world also, I dare say."
Oh. She had not thought of it in that way. "Was it so very dark, Will?"
"No, not always. I had a good ship's company in most of my commands, with efficient officers who knew their work and could be depended upon. Much of the time, our duty was routine patrol, manning blockades off French and Spanish ports. Blockade can become tedious after weeks and months out of sight of land, especially if the resupply ships do not arrive and rations have to be cut. The men get restless when they have no fresh food and little water. That is when there can be trouble below decks and your stern disciplinarian comes to the fore. I can tell you that a captain takes no pleasure when he has to discipline his men. But order must be preserved aboard the King's ships. The captain's word is law, and must be understood as such by every member of the ship's company."
Shipboard discipline was brutal then, Emma knew, from reading Hornblower as well as history books. The thought of the cat-o'-nine-tails would make any modern woman shudder. And the sentence for mutiny was death. She would not, could not, ask if Will had ordered such punishments. He hadn't needed to tell her that he took no pleasure in it. She could well believe that he had hated it.
"And yet there were times when we worked so hard, and chased so hard, that we did not sleep for excitement." Will seemed to be shaking off his dark memories. "When the men thought there was a chance of a prize, they were more than eager for the fight." He chuckled. "I had some bonny fighters in my crew."
"Was Sanding one of those?"
He flashed a grin. "Sanding can certainly handle himself in a scrap. I have seen him fight with a pistol in one hand and a cutlass in the other. And take down two of the enemy. I would as lief have Sanding at my back as any of my officers."
"He seems very loyal to you."
"I would trust him with my life. What's more important – I have trusted him with yours."
There was nothing Emma could say to that. Poor Patience had been so wrong about so much. And she had certainly been wrong about Sanding. The man was as true as steel. It seemed that the bonds formed when a crew of men fought together at sea were stronger than anything that a civilian landlubber, like Emma, could ever understand.
She laid her hand over his, on his heart. "I dare say your years at sea were a great deal bloodier, and more dangerous, than you will ever admit to me."
"Yes, well. A lot of it was tedious, as I said. Though I did find that the solution to muttering among the men was a few hours of gunnery practice. By the end of that, most of them were so deafened by the noise that muttering was totally impossible. Everyone had to shout in order to be understood at all."
"And no one in their right mind shouts mutinous thoughts. Am I right?" Emma said with a wry smile.
"You are, my dear. You may not have spent time aboard ship but your sharp intelligence sees much that lesser men do not. I am learning, more and more, that the female of the species is not to be underestimated."
"True. And the female, they say, is deadlier than the male. Although I think that was a reference to venomous spiders, rather than human females. Female spiders have a habit of eating their mates once they have, um, performed their husbandly duty."
"I had not heard that before. You are a mine of fascinating information, Emma." There was a new gleam in his eye. He stroked a finger down her cheek to her jaw and said in a softer, deeper voice, "So if I were to… ah… perform my husbandly duty now, madam, would you sink your fangs into me?"
"I might. But, alas, my fangs are not venomous. My bite would do you no harm. Indeed, you might find the sensation enjoyable."
He laughed and swept her into his arms. And then there were no more teasing words. There were no words at all.
~ ~ ~
Emma made sure that Will was sound asleep before she crept out of their marriage bed. Their clothes were strewn all over the floor, starting at the door where Will had carried her over the threshold, and ending by the bed where Emma's stockings and garters had been very slowly removed. In between kisses, she remembered, with a shiver of pleasure.
She quickly donned her silk wrapper, retrieved her gold lace gown from the floor by the door and crept out, taking the lamp with her. It was only a few steps to the blue bedchamber. The room was empty, as she had known it would be. But Bailey's scissors were lying where Emma had left them, by the chest at the end of the bed.
Emma opened the chest. It smelled of the lavender that was used to keep the moth away. She inhaled deeply. She had known it would be lavender. She had smelled it that first day, when the museum store room showed her the man she loved.
Closing the chest again, she laid out the gold lace gown and picked up the scissors.
~ ~ ~
It was nearly dark when Richard finally made it home on the day of the inquest. Little Chloë had been in bed for ages. Melanie was in the kitchen, quietly singing to herself as she made a pot of tea. Without a word to her, Richard sank into an empty chair by the table and dropped his head into his hands.
Melanie said nothing. She simply poured him a mug of tea and set it down by his hand. He didn't move to take it. He didn't even raise his head.
She took a deep breath and sat down opposite him. "Is it over?" she asked quietly. "The inquest?"
His head jerked up, as if he were coming back from a long way away. "What? Oh. Oh, yes. It finished this afternoon. But late, so I missed the fast train back." It seemed the tea registered with him, at last. He picked up his mug and took a large swig. "Natural causes."
"But…but she'd been attacked, hadn't she? What about that blow to the head? And the way you found her…?"
"There was no attack, according to the pathologist. She'd had a fall, he said, and hit her head on the edge of the pavement by the staff entrance. Forensics found her blood there. They think it was almost certainly an accident. Followed by a brain haemorrhage an hour or so later, inside the museum. All caused by a malignant brain tumour."
"A brain tumour? Good grief. And she didn't know?"
"Apparently not. There's no record of her having been to her GP or the hospital. You'd imagine she'd have had terrible headaches, wouldn't you? And now I think back, she did call in sick with migraine once or twice. But that wasn't the strangest thing." He shook his head, took another drink of his tea, and sat silent for a long moment, gazing vacantly out towards the garden.
Melanie reached out to put her hand over his and bring him back to earth. "Did the inquest explain why you found her in her underwear? And with that ruined ballgown?"
"What?' He gave a crack of mirthless laughter. "Oh no. I… Actually, no one asked me what she was wearing when I found her. The police knew, of course, and so did the coroner, but no one asked about it, so I didn't volunteer anything. It was all so…so surreal, somehow, finding her half-naked in the research room, with the lace ballgown and
all that blood. It looked as if she was about to try on the gown, in spite of the state it was in. But why she would do that? I can't imagine that she would ever do anything so unprofessional. In any case, she shouldn't have stayed at the museum. She should have gone to the hospital to have her head looked at. Or called an ambulance. Her brain must have been playing tricks on her. The tumour, I suppose. She got fixated on that blasted ballgown. And then she had the brain haemorrhage and…and died."
"But you did say she'd become obsessed with this Regency Lady Emma, didn't you? She was over the moon when she found the Cosway portrait."
"Yes, that's true enough." He made a face, clearly bewildered. "Yet she was a dedicated professional in every other aspect of her work. Maybe her obsession was caused by the brain tumour, too?"
Melanie nodded in sympathy.
"I'm glad I wasn't asked about the underwear, anyway. The papers will make enough of it, as it is, without giving them that sordid picture to perv over. Imagine what the headline could have been – Death during Sex Romp in Museum. Or worse. Eugh. She was a good colleague and a good friend to us. I didn't want some muckraking journo to trash her reputation. They probably will, though."
"How can they? If you didn't mention the underwear, I mean?"
"Because she told the police that her ex-husband was stalking her. She'd reported several incidents, they said. Phone calls, loitering outside the museum. That sort of thing. Threats, too, apparently. The police thought, at first, that the blow on the head might have been down to him. They were actually looking to arrest him. And that's the really strange part."
"Didn't they find him?"
"Oh they found him all right. In Australia."
"Australia?" Melanie gasped.
"Yes. And he'd been there all the time."
"But—"
"When the police looked again at all Emma's reports of stalking, they discovered there was no evidence to corroborate any of it. No phone records, no CCTV, nothing. At the time, they'd put it down to bad luck – camera malfunctions, that sort of thing – but the evidence from Australia was solid. He'd never left. She couldn't have seen him, because he was never here."
Lady in Lace: Regency Timeslip Page 27
