by Rose Pearson
“But is it enough to concern you?” Lady Smithton asked quietly. “Or will you simply leave it be?”
Emma hesitated, working through the tangles of her mind. “I am not quite certain,” she replied slowly. “I think I shall have to speak to Lord Morton of it again before I will be completely satisfied. It is not in my nature to leave a matter of uncertainty to such confusion.”
“I well understand that,” Lady Smithton said as Miss Crosby nodded her agreement. “Then may I suggest that, before he takes matters any further, you speak honestly to Lord Morton about what has just come to your mind.” She lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “It may be that there is a very simple explanation.”
“Such as, he did not know you well enough initially to speak honestly about his broken friendship with Lord Rochester,” Miss Crosby suggested as Lady Smithton got up to ring the bell for tea. “That would make complete sense.”
“Indeed it would,” Emma agreed, her uneasiness disappearing swiftly as she realized that her friends both spoke wisdom. “In fact, Sarah, I believe you are quite right.” Straightening her shoulders, Emma turned back to Lady Smithton, wanting to change the subject of conversation to other, less weighty matters. “And might I ask if any of the other young ladies within ‘The Spinsters Guild’ are as I am?”
Lady Smithton laughed, straightening her skirts as she sat back down. “You shall have to ask Miss Crosby about such a thing, I think,” she replied, giving Miss Crosby a knowing look. “For being supposed spinsters, each of you ladies has more than enough gentlemen within their reach!”
With wide eyes, Emma turned back to look at her friend, seeing how Miss Crosby blushed furiously, turning her head away to hide it from Emma.
“Sarah!” Emma exclaimed, half laughing, half astonished. “What is it that you are hiding from me?”
Miss Crosby turned around and was about to answer, only for the door to open and the maid to step in with a tea tray.
“I think you should wait for a time, Miss Crosby, until tea has been served,” Lady Smithton advised with a broad smile. “It will give you a few minutes to collect yourself—although I do not think you have anything to fear from telling Miss Bavidge the truth.”
Miss Crosby glanced back at Sarah and blushed again but nodded. “That is true,” she agreed quietly. “But let us wait until we have each a teacup and saucer prepared, for mayhap by then, my blushes will have faded!”
This made Emma laugh, the last remnants of concern and fright fading away from her as she saw her friend smile. A happiness filled her heart as Lady Smithton began to pour the tea: a happiness that was not only for her but for her friend also. She hoped desperately that Miss Crosby would find a joy in her own life in the same way Emma was beginning to discover one in her own. It was truly the most astonishing and delightful experience Emma thought she could ever have the blessing to discover.
Walking to the bookshop on her way back to her aunt’s, Emma was glad that she had chosen to walk instead of taking a hackney. Lady Smithton had, of course, offered the carriage, but Emma had refused it, thinking that the afternoon was fine and that she would have more than enough time to prepare for the ball that evening by the time she got back home. Her aunt, of course, had sniffed indelicately when Emma had told her that Lord Morton would be seeking her company out specifically at the ball, although she had made some comment about how Emma’s father would be delighted to hear of just how successful her aunt’s endeavors on Emma’s behalf had been. The fact that the ball was being thrown by Lord Knighton, the man who had almost been blackmailed by Emma’s father, had not gone unnoticed by both Emma and her aunt, however. It appeared that Lord Knighton was willing to set things aside regarding Emma, at least, and for that, she was very grateful. However, she was also quite certain that Lord Morton had involved himself a great deal in the matter of garnering her an invitation. Not that her aunt had been pleased or grateful for such a kindness!
Trying not to roll her eyes at the memory of this, Emma continued to make her way towards the bookshop, recalling what had occurred the last time she had stepped within. She hoped that Miss Jackson had not allowed the occurrence to affect her too greatly, although, at the same time, she prayed that the girl would know better than to accept the invitation of a handsome gentleman without any consideration for propriety or her own reputation.
“Ah, Miss Bavidge. Finally, I am to have the opportunity to speak to you.”
She whirled about, seeing her maid staggering back as a gentleman thrust her aside, taking long strides towards Emma. A scream lodged in her throat at the malevolent figure of Lord Rochester, seeing just how furious he appeared to be, although she had no explicable reason as to why that might be.
“I have no wish to speak to you, Lord Rochester,” she told him firmly, making to turn around and continue on her way, only to feel his hand clamping down on her shoulder, his fingers vice-like. Pain screamed through her, but she remained as she was with an effort, refusing to turn back to him.
“Remove your hand from me, Lord Rochester,” she stated, firmly, even though her heart was thundering furiously within her chest. “How dare you behave in such a manner!”
This, much to her relief, seemed to have the effect she had been hoping for, given that Lord Rochester did remove his hand at once—only for him to come directly in front of her, stepping into her path.
“I have tried and tried again to speak to you, Miss Bavidge, but you have either dodged me or ensured that I am unable to do so,” he stated, his brows so low that all she could see were dark shadows were his eyes should have been. “You have done so purposefully.”
Emma, as frightened as she was, became aware that there were other passers-by near to them and so, knowing that he would not place a hand on her again for fear of what might occur, drew herself up with as much confidence as she could.
“I have avoided you entirely, Lord Rochester,” she stated, honestly. “I have no wish to speak to you, nor have I had any desire to further our acquaintance. I believe you are fully aware of this.” She arched one eyebrow, challenging him to refute her claim, but he did not. “Therefore, I cannot understand why you appear to feel so troubled towards me when I have made it clear that I do not wish to converse with you!”
“Lord Morton has told you lies,” he began, only for Emma to hold up one hand, silencing him. He was clearly shocked by her confidence, which gave rise to yet more assurance within her heart.
“I know that Lord Morton spoke to you of a particular matter and begged you to keep it secret,” she answered, seeing Lord Rochester’s jaw work hard. “But you did not. The trust of friendship was broken. Therefore, he has chosen to stay apart from you, and you, in turn, have sought to disparage him.”
Lord Rochester laughed harshly, his tone hard and grating, and Emma felt herself wince.
“You may believe that you know the truth of the matter, Miss Bavidge, but have you ever questioned what matter it was that Lord Morton discussed with me?” he asked, his glare sending a shiver down her spine. “Have you not questioned why he seemed so unwilling to tell you his reasons for asking you to keep away from me?” He laughed again, the sound setting Emma’s teeth on edge. “Oh, he took a great risk in telling you what he did, but you believed his words and, thereafter, decided to turn your back on me. I have sought to do what I threatened, but your aloofness and judgment have kept you from hearing the truth from my lips.”
Revulsion, mingled with fear, began to snake through Emma’s heart. “I have no wish to hear any supposed truth from your lips, Lord Rochester,” she stated, as calmly as she could. “Now, if you will excuse me, I—”
“Not even when it concerns your father?”
The words seemed to split the air between them, rendering Emma entirely silent with shock and horror. She could not help but stare at Lord Rochester, seeing how he was grinning at her with the arrogance of a gentleman who knew that he has said something injurious and inflammatory in equal measure.
> “I do not know to what you are referring, Lord Rochester,” Emma managed to say, her lips seeming to stick together as she tried to speak in a clear and confident manner. “Now, if you will excuse me, I—”
“Who do you think brought your father’s deeds into the light?” Lord Rochester asked, taking a step closer to her and narrowing his gaze, his lips a thin red slash across his face, his jaw jutting forward.
Emma closed her eyes, her breath shuddering out of her. “I am certain that I—”
“Someone knew of it, did they not?” Lord Rochester continued, silencing her. “Someone spoke of it to another and then another and then another, until the word spread about your father’s disgrace.” His lip curled, his eyes narrowing even further. “Someone told the beau monde of your father’s disgrace, and, in doing so, condemned you to your fate. They could have kept their knowledge close, could have told only those who were required to know of it, but they did not. They told everyone they knew, ensuring that the rumor mills began to work quickly and with great efficiency.” His breath was putrid as he leaned even closer, his presence blocking out everything else around her. “And I think, Miss Bavidge, that you need to ask yourself who would do such a thing, and why.”
Emma wanted to reach out and push Lord Rochester away, wanted to push him from her vision and from her mind, but his words had dug too deeply into her thoughts and began to bury their way into her heart. She could barely breathe, for her breaths were shallow and hasty, her eyes blinking up at the gentleman before her who now stood there, his gaze calculating.
She was numb. Her fingers were cold, her limbs frozen in place. She knew precisely what Lord Rochester was suggesting but did not want to believe it. It could not be that he was the one who had spoken of her father’s behavior to the beau monde, surely? It had never once been a question in her mind before this moment, for she had simply presumed that word had got out somehow and that attempting to find the person responsible was both futile and without merit.
However, if what Lord Rochester stated was true, then it meant that Lord Morton had not simply been seeking her out due to his knowledge of what she had to endure. It was because he knew precisely what would occur for her return, given that he had been the one responsible for spreading the story about.
Lord Rochester cannot be trusted.
A small whisper entered her head, just as her world began to spin about her. Could she really trust what Lord Rochester was saying? He who had been seen with Miss Jackson in such an inappropriate manner? It did not seem as though he were the sort of man she could trust implicitly, yet his words did raise a question in her mind. Questions that she needed to answer.
“Lord Morton told me that you were once friends,” she whispered, wobbling slightly on her feet as she spoke to Lord Rochester. “That you betrayed him.”
Lord Rochester scoffed, his face ugly. “I told him not to speak to anyone else about what he had discovered, but he did not listen to me. He might wish to blame me for that, but I will not accept it from him.”
Emma shook her head, a vision of Lord Morton filling her mind as she did so. He was a gentleman who had spoken such gentle and comforting words to her that she could not immediately believe that he was a liar. He had not behaved cruelly towards her but had rather shown compassion.
I have no ill will towards you.
The words once spoken by Lord Morton ran through her mind again, steadying her somewhat. “I do not believe you,” she stated as firmly as she could even though her mind was racing. “I cannot accept it from you, Lord Rochester.”
“Of course you do not,” Lord Rochester replied, irony in his voice. “Then I shall leave you to decide whether or not you wish to discuss the matter further with Lord Morton himself. Otherwise…” He shrugged and made to turn away, only to look back at her. “You might wonder, mayhap, why you do not know of this from Lord Morton’s own lips, Miss Bavidge. Why has he not told you that he was the one who discovered your father’s intention to blackmail the Earl of Knighton? Could it be that he is ashamed of what he has done?” A smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth, making Emma shudder violently. “Mayhap, you should ask, Miss Bavidge, why a gentleman should hide such a thing from his young lady if he feels no guilt or distress over it? What is it, Miss Bavidge, that your Lord Morton is trying to hide from you?” With this question, he straightened his hat, gave her a quick, jerky nod, and strode away from her.
Emma blinked rapidly, feeling a fog closing in about her. Struggling to breathe, struggling even to stay upright, she had to fight for every moment, strive for every breath until, finally, she felt it begin to clear.
No, her mind screamed, no, it cannot be true. Lord Morton would not hide such a thing from me. The rational part of her wanted to try to find an excuse for him, wanted to make her see that, should he have had a part in revealing the depths of her father’s mistakes, then he had every reason to be afraid of speaking to her of it. However, she could not be that rational, not when she feared that there was more truth to Lord Rochester’s explanations. If Lord Morton had spoken to others in the ton about what he knew, then it would explain why he had watched for her during her first few weeks of the season. Perhaps it had been a way of assuaging his guilt.
“And he did not tell me precisely why he was afraid to talk to me about Lord Rochester,” she said aloud, her heart still pounding furiously as blood roared in her ears. When she had asked him, he had prevaricated for a prolonged length of time and had only spoken the truth—or as much of the truth as he had been willing to share with her—when she had insisted that he do so. The outcome of which had been that she had set her mind against Lord Rochester and had determined not to even speak a word to him unless she was forced to. Had she not even written a note to Lord Rochester, informing him that she had forgotten another social engagement as a way to escape his request to take her to the theatre? Perhaps Lord Morton had breathed a sigh of relief when she had agreed to be accompanied by him instead of by Lord Rochester. Perhaps none of what he said he felt for her was true.
This thought brought a sudden swell of pain to her chest, leaving her eyes blinking back tears. It did not make sense, given that Lord Morton had been so attentive to her of late, for surely if he had been attempting to ensure that she never discovered the truth, he would have done his best to stay away from her? None of it seemed to make any sense, and question upon question began to stack on top of each other in the depths of her mind. Stumbling forward, Emma attempted to make her way home without revealing the agony that ravaged her soul to any other passer-by. Her steps were heavy, her arms hanging down by her sides as even a sliver of peace refused to come to her. All she felt was pain and confusion, her heart broken, and her mind tormented.
Just what was it Lord Morton had done?
Chapter Thirteen
“This one, I think.”
Nathaniel looked down at the beautiful silver pendant that lay in the silk-lined box and felt certain that this one would do perfectly for Miss Bavidge. Waiting until the gentleman on the other side of the counter had pulled it from the box and handed it to him for inspection, Nathaniel held it carefully, examining it from every angle.
The pendant was quite lovely, with a single blue sapphire in the center surrounded by a delicate silver. It was not too heavy and certainly not too gaudy, and he was quite confident that it would suit Miss Bavidge very well indeed. It would bring out the color of her eyes: eyes that he could barely forget for even a moment.
“Yes, thank you,” he told the shopkeeper, who looked delighted that he had made such an excellent sale. “If you would wrap it, then I should like to purchase it at once.”
The shopkeeper bowed and murmured something, taking the pendant back from Nathaniel and replacing it in the box. Leaving the fellow to do his work, Nathaniel continued to look around the shop, although his mind was not at all fixed on the many jewels that were displayed. Instead, they were fixed on one person alone: Miss Emma Bavidge.
Tonigh
t’s ball was to be a rather splendid affair, given that it was hosted by the Earl of Knighton himself. The earl who had been saved from being blackmailed by Miss Bavidge’s now disgraced father now considered Nathaniel a great friend and had, of course, invited him to the ball without hesitation. However, it had come as something of a surprise when Nathaniel had begged an invitation for Miss Bavidge also. However, as gracious as he was, the Earl had considered what Nathaniel had said and thus had done as he had asked. An invitation had been issued, and Nathaniel was glad to know that Emma had accepted. It would be an excellent evening, Nathaniel was certain, for it would show the beau monde that the Earl himself had set matters between himself and Miss Bavidge aside, which Nathaniel hoped would bring an end to the whispers that continued to dog her, albeit less of them of late. It would be made all the more wonderful if Nathaniel was able to do as he intended and asked Miss Bavidge to marry him.
Ever since Miss Bavidge had kissed him so unexpectedly, Nathaniel had been unable to forget that moment. The softness of her lips, the astonishment in her eyes at her actions, and the words spoken thereafter had refused to leave him. He had awoken at night, his first thought one of her, and thus, he had been convinced that the urgent desire in his heart had to be satisfied in the only way he could think. He had to ask Miss Bavidge to marry him and pray that, with his confession given to her about the role he had played in father’s downfall, she still might accept him. There was no doubt in Nathaniel’s mind that he had to be nothing but honest. Every word he spoke had to be the truth. He would tell her why he had not spoken to her of it before, be open about his guilt and his confusion. In vulnerability, he would set everything else aside and open up his heart to her scrutiny.
