“A name.” He patted his horse. “Ad—Addison Topsail. I’m at the posting inn in the village and will be for another day or two.”
“Pleased to meet you and good day, Mr. Topsail. Best of luck.” Valerian cantered away, the little encounter adding to his store of uneasiness. According to Hawthorne’s most recent gossip, Squire Rutledge had lost his prime morning hunter in a card game to Devin White, whose father owned the livery. In a display of stupidity such as only young men are capable of, White had sold that very high-quality gelding, a glossy chestnut, to his father for use in the family livery business.
A prime hunter ought never to fall so low, and that horse’s name was Topsail.
Who was this Addison person, what was his business in the neighborhood, and why had he been idling along the bridle path not two hundred yards from Emily’s back garden?
* * *
“Your cottage is… cozy,” Emily said, though cramped, humble, and dark had come to her mind first. “For a temporary home, it will do splendidly.” The housekeeper, whose half day it was, kept the place clean, but no amount of beeswax and lemon could compensate for a lack of sunshine.
“Nothing about this place is splendid,” Valerian said, propping a hip on a windowsill, “except that I’m to share it with you. What bothers you about it the most?”
Honesty came naturally to him, and Emily would have said the same about herself, but for that encounter with Adam in the garden.
“It’s dark,” she said. “I hadn’t realized how thick walls steal the light, no matter how many windows a house has.” And this cottage hadn’t nearly enough windows. The walls were of fieldstone, built to stand for ages against all weather, and thus nearly two feet thick. That was fine for creating window seats or growing an occasional fern, but such sturdy walls turned the inside of a room gloomy.
“We do have a terrace,” Valerian said. “I’ll show you.”
He rose and extended a hand, though Emily was reluctant to touch him. Her intended was so perceptive, she feared he would feel the secrets she was keeping and the turmoil they created. Why had Adam come home now, and what was to be done about him?
But then, she knew why he’d come home: She’d told him in many letters that Papa was mortally ill. At the time, she’d believed that to be the truth.
“How did your first parlor sessions go?” she asked, settling for a hand on Valerian’s arm rather than taking his hand.
“Not that well. Casriel says it gets easier, but I served as secretary for many of his hearings, and I did not observe that the job grew easier from week to week.”
Valerian led her down a narrow corridor to a squeaky door that opened out onto a stone porch. Perhaps a Lilliputian would consider the dozen squares of flagstone a terrace. Emily took one of the two seats arranged at a wrought-iron table.
“It is sunny out here. Tell me more about the parlor sessions.”
He took the other seat, the chair legs scraping against the stone. “When Casriel handed down his decisions, he did so from a certain distance. He’s been the earl for years, he nips off to London, he corresponds with half the peerage. I’m just… me. Valerian Dorning from up at the Hall. I’ve translated recipes for the menu at the coaching inn. I taught Woodmore Troke’s older brother how to smoke a cheroot.”
“And has Woodmore’s brother been brought up on charges?”
“Public drunkenness.”
This troubled Valerian, apparently. “If he was drunk in public, then he was a disgrace to his family and a nuisance to his neighbors.”
“I said as much, then I took the case under advisement and told Elmer I’d hear it again next month. If he stays out of trouble for four weeks, I’ll dismiss the charges because they are based on only Olive Cheaverton’s accusations.”
Talk of charges and arrests was hardly cheering. “Why is that name familiar?”
“Because Maysie Cheaverton is sweet on Woodmore, and Olive is May’s mother. Mrs. Cheaverton does not approve of the match.”
Four yards away, a half-grown rabbit lolloped between overgrown beds of sweet pea. No vegetables grew here, and what flowers there were had gone weedy and unkempt.
Much like Emily’s emotions, and perhaps Valerian’s too. “Do you disapprove of your own decision?” she asked.
“I am to apply the law to the facts, Emily. I took an oath to do that much and no more. I swore to do right by all manner of people according to the laws and usages of this realm, not according to my own fancies.”
The words chilled her, for they brooked no exceptions or lenience. “You think you should have fined Mr. Troke? Sentenced him to hard labor over a few pints too many on the word of a woman who has a motive to slander him?”
Valerian stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankle. “I reasoned that this time of year, the family needs Troke’s muscle to tend the crops and maintain the farm. He has small children, after all. So I gave him a reprieve, but what if I have to lock him up next month, when we’ll be that much closer to harvest? Besides, if he can lollygag at the inn for hours swilling summer ale, his labors aren’t that pressing. I should have simply applied the law and let him suffer the consequences of his own stupidity.”
What would Valerian say about a man who’d been not merely sighted stumbling down a public byway, but convicted of stealing?
“Valerian, you had only the one witness to condemn Mr. Troke. Surely if a man is drunk in public, then more than one witness ought to have come forward.”
“Nobody wants to come forward against a neighbor, my dear, and yet, everybody knows Elmer Troke is fond of drink. Mrs. Cheaverton testified against him, and now I’m left with a choice between calling her a liar—a perjurer, more like—or letting a drunk pull the wool over the eyes of the law. I should have locked him up and been done with it. He’d be home by harvest, sober and more respectful of the law.”
“Is that what Casriel would have done?”
Valerian peered at her. “Very likely. A man who can boot his own brothers from the nest develops a certain resolve.”
As Papa had resolved to see Adam held accountable for a wrong he had not committed? “Well, thank goodness I’m not marrying Casriel, then. As I see it, you brought the weight of the law down on Troke by maintaining the charges against him. That suggests you took Mrs. Cheaverton’s testimony seriously. You can still lock Troke up the instant he lapses.” She rose, which caused the rabbit to dash into the overgrown sweet peas. “Why has nobody looked after this garden?”
“I was too busy finishing my manuscript and enforcing some accounting discipline on the family botanical venture.” He came to stand beside her, lacing his fingers with hers. “You haven’t seen the bedroom.”
His grip was warm and firm, and the exact timbre of his voice caused a fluttering in Emily’s vitals. She had dreamed of their interlude at Abbotsford, and she’d lost sleep over it too.
“Hold me, please.” She leaned into him, and he wrapped his arms around her.
“Having second thoughts, Emily?”
“Not about marrying you. Never that.”
“About?”
She was so tempted to tell him: I did see Adam in the village. Five years older, leaner, more weathered, and mature. Thousands of miles from where he was allowed to be and seeking to make peace with a father he believed to be mortally ill. In other words, committing a capital crime simply by going about his business in England.
“Matters at Pepper Ridge are growing somewhat contentious.”
Valerian kissed her brow. “Oh?”
The day was mild, with the sun beaming down on the overgrown garden, and yet, Emily tucked in closer to Valerian’s warmth.
“Papa is yelling again. For months, I longed to hear him ranting and shouting, and now that he’s regained his vigor, his temper is reemerging.”
Another kiss, more lingering. “You think our nuptials have set him off?”
“Yes, in a sense.” Oh, how lovely to be held, to be listened to. “Papa
is trying to run a complicated business by correspondence. He thought having his two lieutenants, Caleb and Tobias, at Pepper Ridge would make that arrangement workable. Instead, with only a few clerks and secretaries to order about, Caleb and Tobias compete with each other and bicker the livelong day.”
Valerian turned her under his arm and strolled with her back into the house. “That’s not the whole of the problem, is it? Has Briggs been difficult?”
“She’s been silent. A silent Briggs is far more worrisome than a Briggs who’s delivering scolds and lectures. I haven’t told her we’re engaged.”
Valerian drew Emily to a halt in the dim corridor. “Shall I tell her? Tell her you’ve stolen my heart and all my wits too? Shall I tell her I stare down the drive by the hour in hopes the boot boy is bringing the special license along with the post?”
Why did Adam have to be making an appearance now? And why did Emily feel so utterly miserable for behaving toward her own brother as she had? Why did English law have to be so bloody-minded and unforgiving?
“It’s too soon for the special license to be arriving in the mail, Valerian.”
“Casriel sent a pigeon. It’s not too soon. We should be married by this time next week, my love.”
My love. My dear. How she craved those endearments and craved the man speaking them.
And how disappointed he’d be should he learn of her dishonesty. “I’d best arrange for my trousseau to be sent here if the ceremony will be in less than a week.”
“Have your trunks sent to the Hall,” Valerian said, resuming their progress down the corridor. “We’ll unpack what’s of immediate use and store the rest for when we remove to Abbotsford. Behold, Miss Pepper, our soon-to-be marital bed.”
He opened a plain wooden door and bowed.
The bed took up most of the room, leaving space for a hearth, a privacy screen in the corner, and a wardrobe next to the privacy screen. A chest that was very likely cedar-lined sat at the foot of the bed, and one window looked out on the overgrown garden.
The whole room was about the size of Emily’s dressing closet. The bed hangings were indigo, the curtains burgundy, the carpet woven of black, blue, and red with an occasional gold flourish. The wainscoting was oak gone dark with age, and nary a gilt frame or burnished sconce reflected what light there was. The window was open, bringing in much-needed fresh air.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Valerian closed the door. “The room is dark. Recall what I said about making love without illumination. The experience has much to recommend it.” He crossed the carpet in two strides and wrapped his arms around Emily’s waist. “Shall I demonstrate?”
Emily’s heart said yes, her body said yes please, but her conscience shrieked no.
“Kiss me,” she whispered, touching her mouth to his. “And lock the door.”
He smiled against her lips. “We’re alone here, and nobody with any sense would disturb us.”
“Valerian, people without sense are thick on the ground in some locations. I may soon become one of them.”
His smile was wicked and merry. “I live in hope.”
Emily turned to present him with the hooks of her driving ensemble—she had handled the reins from Pepper Ridge all the way to Dorning Hall’s driveway—and still the battle between her conscience and her heart raged.
She had promised Valerian honesty, but what relationship could withstand the constant weight of bald truth? That would be like applying the law without any grasp of human nature, wouldn’t it?
“We need only dwell here for a few months,” Valerian said, deftly undoing her dress. “Weeks, really, and if you’d rather dwell at the Hall for those weeks, I will arrange it.”
And if Adam should accost her on the very grounds of Dorning Hall? While the earl, his countess, or one of their legion of servants peered out a window?
“I will be happy with you here, Valerian.”
He turned her gently by the shoulders. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Emily? I would rather have your honest discontent than sham smiles and feigned happiness.”
She pressed her forehead to his chest. “I will be happy with you here. I am not lying.” About that. “Quarters such as these will be an adjustment, but I am absolutely certain I’d rather have a modest cottage to share with you than a whole palace without you.”
He enfolded her in a hug so complete and sheltering that Emily nearly started crying. I do not deserve this. I do not deserve you. But Adam did not deserve to be treated like a criminal just because the king’s justice had served him an evil turn.
Which was why Emily would meet her brother once more, exactly as he’d asked her to in the note she’d found in the morning mail.
Chapter Thirteen
Valerian unlaced Emily’s stays with the same sense of awe and wonder that had buoyed him ever since she’d consented to be his wife. They were to be married, possibly within a week as he’d said, and still, he could not trust that fortune had smiled on him to such a degree.
He was the Dorning brother who always made do with his lot, consoling himself with philosophical platitudes while heartily encouraging his more daring and talented siblings. But this time, he’d won all the games, taken top honors, and claimed the only boon that mattered—Emily Pepper’s heart.
“Into bed with you,” he said, patting her bottom when she was wearing only her chemise. “I can undress myself.” He wanted to see her in the bed where he slept every night, the better to dream of her there.
She passed a slow caress over his falls. “Be quick about your disrobing, please, and do not think of hiding behind that privacy screen.”
Her comment reminded Valerian that his bride had experience, and that was a good thing. She knew what to expect and knew how to ask for what she wanted.
“You are not to bring Mr. Troke or Mrs. Cheaverton to bed with you,” she went on, folding back the quilt and climbing under the covers. “I shall be quite severe with you if you are a distracted lover.”
“Perish the thought.” Though Valerian sensed that Emily was distracted. The cottage really was dark, now that she’d pointed that out, and she’d mentioned discord between Osgood and his underlings. She’d also made no move to remove his clothes here in the bedroom, and her kisses had been restrained.
Tender, rather than demanding.
Valerian pulled his shirt over his head and draped it across the cedar chest. “Is Briggs to retire upon our nuptials?”
Emily thumped a pillow rather soundly. “At this moment, I would rather share our bed with Mrs. Cheaverton’s goats than hear a mention of Briggs, Valerian.”
No attempt at false cheer there, none whatsoever. “So we’re to share the bed with Briggs, Mrs. Cheaverton, Troke, Caleb, and Tobias?”
Emily flopped onto her back. “A rather crowded undertaking. I am simply not accustomed to trysting. I desire you with all my heart, Valerian, but my mind is chattering on fourteen different topics at once. Kiss me some more, and I’m sure the noise will stop.”
He stepped out of his breeches, which made it apparent to any observer that he was not yet overcome with desire, much to his own consternation. He’d pleasured himself twice since rising, and that had been merely to take the edge off his anticipation.
“I have heard a grand total of eight cases as magistrate,” he said, considering his nearly flaccid member. “Two of them I dismissed for want of evidence, and one I took under advisement, but all eight are demanding a rehearing right this moment. How is it judges and barristers have any children?”
Emily’s smile was crooked. “I truly do love you, Valerian Dorning. That you care about your cases means you are the right person for that job.”
And he loved her. Madly. “Let’s have a cuddle, and you can tell me about the fourteen topics that plague you.”
Emily shifted to the side of the bed nearest the window, and Valerian spooned himself around her. For form’s sake, he wished she’d protested—no, you must make passionate love with
me!—but for the sake of their future dealings, the alacrity of her assent was a relief.
As his suggestion had clearly been a relief to her.
“Briggs can afford to retire,” Emily said, wrapping Valerian’s arm about her waist. “Her menfolk were very bad managers of money, so she’s careful to a fault with her own funds. But she’s pouting because the decision to retire will be taken from her, or that’s my best theory.”
“Are you sure she’s well fixed?”
“Positive. Papa had me read her contract so I would know exactly what her duties are. I read the whole thing—one should always read the entire agreement—and she can’t possibly be worried about money. Papa knew her family could be no use to her financially, and thus he was uncharacteristically generous.”
“But something troubles her.”
“She thrives on frustration. Tell me about your other cases.”
Valerian told her, and in the recounting, they lost much of their weight. Mrs. Tolliver was convinced her companion had stolen half a ream of vellum, while the companion insisted she’d used only a few extra sheets because cheap ink blotted so terribly, and one could not send out blotted invitations, could one?
“How did you resolve that situation?” Emily asked, drawing a lazy pattern with her fingers on his forearm. “Briggs hated writing invitations for Papa, but she had such beautiful penmanship, and she was much faster at it than I was.”
Who would do Osgood’s invitations once Emily and Briggs were both gone? “I pointed out to Mrs. Tolliver that the coin saved because of the cheap ink was very likely comparable to the coin spent buying extra paper. I suggested she buy better-quality ink and monitor the paper consumption more closely. Casriel says Mrs. Tolliver and Miss Grimstead get into a dust-up about twice a year, so they will likely come before me sometime over the winter.”
“And already, you dread that.”
“I don’t dread it.” Not as much as he would have before sharing the particulars with Emily. “What do you suppose Caleb and Tobias are feuding about?”
A Woman of True Honor: True Gentlemen Book Eight Page 20
