by Joyce Alec
Settling her shoulders and drawing in a long breath, Emily looked out of the window and tried to calm her thoughts. Perhaps her first thought had been correct. Lord Wickton had taken ill somewhere. Lord Wickton had, mayhap, drunk a little too much and was now attempting to recover from such a thing. There was nothing more she needed to consider. There could not be anything truly concerning that had occurred, surely?
The hackney began to slow and soon Emily found herself looking up at White’s, entirely uncertain as to what she was meant to do. She could not go inside, of course, not even with her maid, and yet she still needed to find out if anyone within knew where Lord Wickton might have gone.
“You can’t go in there,” the hackney driver called, laughing at her. “What are you planning on doing?” He grinned at her as she turned her head, his yellowed, cracked teeth adding to the insulting way he was speaking to her. “You going to pretend you’re a fancy gentleman?”
Instead of being embarrassed, Emily suddenly found herself growing angry. Angry that this man, who did not have any right to speak to her in such a way, was deliberately mocking her when all she was trying to do was to help in the search for Lord Wickton. Suddenly, Emily’s spirit lit with a fierce anger. An anger that came from the years she had been downtrodden and spoken to without consideration, by both her father and the gentlemen who had simply ignored her very presence at almost every social occasion she attended. Why was it that the gentlemen of her acquaintance all seemed to think she was not worth treating with any sort of consideration or even good manners? Did she truly appear to be so browbeaten? Was it something about her demeanor that cried out to those around her that she did not deserve any sort of respect, and that she could be spoken to or treated in any way they wished?
“How dare you?”
She whipped around, looking the driver squarely in the face.
“How dare you speak to me in such a manner?” she exclaimed, her hands now planted firmly on her hips as she glared up at him, fully aware that her cheeks were now flushing with color. “If you think that you shall receive payment for your services after such behavior, then you may be assured that you are quite mistaken!”
The hackney driver had apparently forgotten that as yet, he had not been paid, for the color immediately began to drain from his face as his eyes widened and the grin dropped from his mouth. Stammering, he hurriedly climbed down from his seat and began to apologize profusely, as though it would be enough to bring him the money he was owed.
“It is not at all good enough,” Emily replied, holding up one hand to stem the words that flowed from the man’s mouth. “You show me no respect whatsoever when you can see that I am at a stumbling block and attempting to consider what it is I should do.” She shook her head, her anger still burning fiercely. Emily was aware that her fury was not only directed at this gentleman here, but also towards her father, the beau monde who had, for the most part, entirely ignored her, as well as Lord Davenport, who had treated her with such inconsideration. “I shall not have it,” she finished with a toss of her head. “You may go. I shall find another hackney.”
“No, miss, I beg of you,” the driver said, surprising Emily with his sudden deference. She half expected him to become angry, to demand that Emily pay him for his services, and had he done so, Emily was not certain how she would react. However, her fury and her sharp words seemed to have brought the fellow down low, to the point that Emily felt almost triumphant in her anger. There was no doubt in her mind that should she have displayed such an emotion towards her father, he would have set her in her place in no uncertain terms, but for whatever reason, this hackney driver seemed overcome by the sharpness of her tongue.
“Might I help you in some way?” he continued, as Emily allowed her gaze to settle on him for a moment. “Is there something in White’s that you want? Someone you need to see?”
Emily arched one eyebrow, aware that this was the answer to her problem. “I should like to speak to someone who was present three nights ago,” she said, looking directly at the hackney driver. “If you can find someone within who is willing to come and speak to me for a moment, then I shall pay you well.” It was her pin money, of course, which was not at all very much and certainly never given to her regularly enough, but for such a reason as this, Emily would gladly have spent it all. “Now, do you think you can do such a thing?”
The hackney driver only nodded before turning on his heel and hurrying towards the front door. Emily could only stand beside the hackney and wait, well aware that she might be the object of speculation for some who might pass her by and wonder what she could be doing. Glad that she had chosen to wear a bonnet that obscured a good deal of her face from the side, Emily lifted her chin and continued to wait, refusing to allow any embarrassment or prickle of shame to move her from where she stood. Her maid was a little behind her, waiting patiently, as Emily was, for the hackney driver to return.
It was some minutes later before the man appeared again, although, much to Emily’s relief, he had another man with him. A footman, it seemed.
“This man here says he was there three nights ago,” the hackney driver said eagerly, looking at Emily with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. “Might he be able to help you?”
“I must hope so,” Emily replied coolly. “I will require the hackney again in a few minutes, if you will wait.” She settled her eyes on the man who seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to realize that she was seeking some privacy for her discussion with the footman. Finally, the hackney driver turned away and climbed back into his seat, leaving Emily to talk with the footman.
“Thank you for coming to speak to me,” Emily said, handing the man a few coins for his trouble, which he took at once although no expression crossed his face. “I am seeking one Lord Wickton, who was present some three nights ago, but has not been seen since that time.” She managed a tight smile, in spite of the fact that her heart was suddenly beating quite painfully in her chest. “Did you sight him at all?”
The footman, who had a rather thin face and a long nose, appeared to be thinking as he looked away from her, although his face remained expressionless.
“I know there would have been a good many gentlemen that evening,” Emily continued, feeling an increased sense of desperation rise up in her chest. “If you wish, I could describe him for you.” She knew that this would not help her all that much, however, given that there would be a few tall, fair-haired gentlemen within White’s, but she had to do all she could. “He is—”
“I believe he was present, yes.” The footman nodded slowly, his gaze drifting away from hers as though he were still lost in thought. “He and Lord Davenport were having a… discussion of sorts.” He looked at her now, the look in his eyes a trifle unsettling. “Lord Davenport is, of course, well known amongst the patrons of White’s.”
“Yes, I am quite certain he is,” Emily replied, one hand clenched into a fist as she nodded, her tension mounting. “They were having a discussion, did you say?”
The footman nodded. “It did appear to become rather animated at one point. Lord Wickton left the premises soon afterwards.”
“Oh.” Emily’s heart dropped to her toes, her heart slamming into her chest again. “I see.”
“I cannot tell you where the gentleman went, my lady,” the footman continued, bowing his head deferentially. “Only that he hailed a hackney and left thereafter.”
Emily swallowed hard and nodded, trying desperately not to allow the footman to see the true depth of her emotions over this news. “I see. And you do not know where he went, you say.”
“Nor Lord Davenport,” the footman replied with a small shrug. “Although I can state that neither of them returned to White’s thereafter.”
This news arrested Emily for a moment and she froze, looking at the footman steadily. Her breath caught, her lungs beginning to burn as she watched him. “You are stating that Lord Davenport went out after Lord Wickton?” she asked slowly, her hands unclenching
by her sides. “Is that what you saw?”
The footman appeared a little puzzled at her question, his brow lowering down. “Yes, my lady,” he said firmly, as though he needed to convince her that he had spoken the truth. “Lord Davenport left the card game he was to be playing—much to the frustration of some of the other gentlemen, I might add—and then hurried off after Lord Wickton. I presumed it was to finish their discussion, although I cannot say whether or not that was done, as I saw Lord Wickton hailing a hackney.”
Emily nodded thoughtfully, her gaze dropping to the cobbled stones at her feet as her mind began to work quickly. Lord Davenport had, it seemed, been the last person to see Lord Wickton, which meant that he might know where Lord Wickton had gone. Then again, if the footman was correct and Lord Davenport had been unable to catch Lord Wickton as he was taken away by the hackney, then there was very little chance that he would know anything at all.
“I am sorry I cannot be of more help,” the footman said, sounding apologetic. “I have told you all that I know.”
“Oh, no, please.” Emily forced a smile to her lips as she looked up. “You have been inordinately helpful, I assure you. Thank you.” She pulled another coin from her reticule and made to give it to him, only for the footman to shake his head and hold up one hand.
“I have more than enough,” he said, gesturing to the pocket where he had placed the money she had already given him. “Should I discover anything else, might I send word to you?”
Emily hesitated. Evidently, her distress had shown on her features and the footman, it seemed, had a kind heart. However, she did not want her father to discover the notes that the footman might send to her, for fear that he would think of it all in a most unfavorable light.
“Send it to Lady Glenister, at Lord Wickton’s address,” she stated, giving him the address. “She is Lord Wickton’s sister and will be here within a fortnight. If Lord Wickton should return, however, then I will ensure that he attends White’s so as to show you that he is not disappeared as we first thought.” A small, warm smile crossed her lips and the footman nodded in agreement, still clearly concerned for her.
“I shall do everything you have asked,” he vowed, in what appeared to be quite an honest tone. “Have no doubt. Good day, my lady.”
“Good day.” Emily turned around and climbed back into the hackney, soon followed by her maid. The hackney driver waited until Emily had given him the address of where they were to go to next before moving off, clearly no longer as arrogant nor as foolhardy as before.
Emily sat back against the hard seat and let her mind fill with questions. She had very little idea as to where Lord Wickton might be and, in truth, her worry was growing steadily. The footman had been able to tell her that Lord Wickton had left White’s that particular evening, but if he had not been seen since, then there was no specific direction in which she was to go next.
You could go and seek out Lord Davenport.
The thought turned her stomach. Lord Davenport had not sought her out these last few days and the truth was, she did not want to go in search of him either. Even though the threat of Scotland was enough to scare her into allowing Lord Davenport to call upon her again, even though it had terrified her into agreeing to do as her father wished, she still did not want to see the gentleman any time soon. Her hurt was still present, her pain still raw. This was not going to be a pleasant meeting—at least, not for her—but if it was for Lord Wickton’s sake, then she would have to do so.
“But first, I must write to Charlotte,” she murmured to herself, her eyes closing as the heavy burden that had settled on her shoulders began to weigh her down. “And then, I shall write to Lord Davenport.”
7
“May I say that you look absolutely wonderful this evening, Miss Smythe?”
Emily inclined her head, aware that her stomach was twisting this way and that as Lord Davenport advanced towards her.
“What?” he continued, grinning at her as he tipped his head. “You have no compliments for me?”
“Emily.”
Emily closed her eyes at her father’s murmur, aware that he was standing just a little behind her as Lord Davenport drew near. He was doing as he always did—bringing her to the ball, ensuring that she was greeted by one or two members of society before finding an older lady of his acquaintance whom he might charge to keep an eye on Emily.
Except, this time, Emily feared that Lord Davenport might be the one her father sought out. It was not at all proper and she certainly did not wish to be on his arm for the rest of the evening, but it seemed she had no other choice.
“Good evening, Lord Davenport,” she replied, opening her eyes and looking up at him. “You are looking very fine this evening also.” Heat climbed into her face at the forced compliment, the flush growing darker still as Lord Davenport laughed aloud.
“You must forgive my teasing, Miss Smythe,” he said, bowing low as though he wished to ingratiate himself with her. “I am, of course, overwhelmed by your beauty and must insist that I sign your dance card.” He reached out for it, but to her surprise, Emily found that there was something within her that prevented her from giving it to him directly. Instead, she looked up into his face, seeing the same grey eyes that were so often filled with laughter now fixed upon hers with an appearance of puzzlement.
She was not doing as he demanded, it seemed, and this was astonishing him somewhat.
“Miss Smythe?” Lord Davenport asked, dropping his hand and looking at her in confusion. “Is there something the matter?”
Emily, glancing over her shoulder, was not in the least bit surprised to see that her father had left them both to their own company although, in this case, she was quite glad for his lack of consideration towards her. It meant that she would be able to speak freely to Lord Davenport, which, she was certain, would come as something of a surprise to him.
“Yes, Lord Davenport, there is something the matter,” she replied, returning her gaze to his face. “You recall the last time you wrote your name on my dance card?”
Lord Davenport’s brows furrowed, the smile fading from his face as he looked back at her. “I do not understand, Miss Smythe,” he said in a wounded voice. “Are you saying that you have not forgiven me, as you stated?”
She did not look away, not finding him to be intimidating in any sense. “You think that flowers and a note are enough to bring about my reconsideration of you, Lord Davenport?”
His frown grew lower still and the wounded note left his voice to be replaced with what appeared to be a thin trace of anger.
“It was a simple mistake, Miss Smythe,” he stated firmly. “I spoke to you clearly enough, did I not?”
“You did not speak to me at all,” she replied without hesitation. “You wrote a very pretty note, but when I responded to you, there came no reply from you. It has been now four days since I first replied and, as yet, I have heard nothing from you. It is only by chance that we have seen each other this evening.”
Lord Davenport put one hand on his heart, his expression now one of astonishment. “I did not receive any note, Miss Smythe!”
“No?” She tipped her head and looked at him, her heart sinking to her toes as she realized what sort of gentleman Lord Davenport truly was. “But then, you will be surprised to hear that I wrote to you again yesterday and brought the note to your door myself.” Lord Davenport’s eyes flared, although the attempt at astonishment seemed to fade almost at once. “Therefore, it is quite impossible for you not to have received the second of my notes, which was almost identical to the first,” she finished, spreading her hands wide. “So what excuse can you have for your lack of response, Lord Davenport?”
A small sense of satisfaction rose up in her chest as she looked at him, seeing the confusion, then the frustration cross his expression. He was unable to answer her, given that he had no excuse as to why he had not responded to her.
“I—I knew that we should be seeing one another this evening,” h
e blustered. “That is all. And, as you said, I have not made my apologies to you in person. You are quite right, Miss Smythe. A note is not nearly enough.” And, so saying, he bowed low, taking a long time to rise up again. “I am truly sorry for my treatment of you at the last ball, Miss Smythe. Lady Josephine should not have turned my head in the way she did. Nor should I have let my astonishment that she should so much as speak to me allow me to turn from my obligations towards you.” This was all very smoothly said and Emily began to feel the victory begin to slip away from her. Yet again, Lord Davenport was able to find a way to make himself appear the gentleman, as though he had simply made a mistake and was determined not to do so again. Emily was less than convinced. Over and over in her mind, she saw how Lord Davenport had looked at her, as Lady Josephine had said something quietly in his ear. He had made a choice in that moment—and the choice had been to reject her and turn towards Lady Josephine. He had deliberately chosen to shame her instead of doing as he ought. There was no excuse for that.
“You, therefore, must believe me when I say that I will not do such a thing again,” he finished, reaching for her hand and grasping the tips of her fingers as he bowed his head again. “It was a mistake that shall not be repeated.”
“I will keep my own counsel and make my own judgment, Lord Davenport,” she replied at once, suddenly realizing that he was telling her what her response to his apology ought to be. “I fear that words alone will do nothing to convince me that you are truthful.”
Again, there came that flicker in his eyes that spoke of anger and irritation that she was not doing as he expected.
