by Sara Portman
The laughter died quickly. She pulled her outstretched hand back and clasped her two hands together in front of her. Her shoulders slouched. “Mr. Pritchard? In England. Why would he come here?” she asked, her voice low and fragile.
Did she realize she was doing that? He’d merely spoken the name Pritchard and she’d suddenly taken on the meek, deferential posture of a servant—a kitchen girl. John liked this demeanor even less than the prickly contrarian they’d seen all week.
“What could Mr. Pritchard want of me?” she asked.
“Our visitor was the younger Mr. Pritchard.”
She looked up slowly. Gone was her submissive stance. Her lips curled in a sneer as she asked, “The son? Mr. Randall Pritchard?”
“He was the son, yes. Are there more than one?”
“No,” she bit out. “One is quite enough.”
“You were not friends, then?”
“Friends?” Her laugh this time was barely more than a bitter exhale of air. Young innocents did not yet possess this sort of laugh. It was reserved for those whose illusions had been dismantled by the realities of their lives.
John hated that his pretty young sister possessed such a laugh.
“Randall Pritchard and I were never friends. I was the lowly kitchen girl. He was the drunken sod who shamed his parents and menaced every member of the household staff.”
John’s heart began to thud more heavily in his chest. It seemed to be reverberating in his ears. His jaw tightened. His chin lowered. His voice lowered. “And you?”
“What of me?” she asked.
He stared hard at her because her response to his next question was of pivotal importance. “In what way, exactly, was he menacing to you?”
She paused and bit her lip. “He did nothing I wasn’t capable of handling on my own.”
She had paused. That was answer enough. The man had better be on a boat by morning, or he’d be dead by the afternoon.
“What did he do to you?” John growled.
Charlotte lifted her chin. “He didn’t do anything. He tried to kiss me. Kitchens have knives—large, sharp knives.” Her eyes glinted with ferocity that belied her size. “They also have small, pointy knives—the kind you can hide in the fold of your skirt, so no one knows it’s there until it’s needed.”
John’s rage unfurled. If this bastard Pritchard was the sort to prey on household servants, he wasn’t going to make the trip all the way to England and be content to go home empty-handed.
Which meant he would be lurking about.
Which meant he would not be far enough gone to escape John’s wrath.
“You won’t have need for a knife here,” John said. He’d have a man following Pritchard within the hour. “I will take care of Pritchard.”
“What did he want?” Charlotte asked shrewdly. “If he followed me all the way here, he wanted something.”
“He wanted to elevate his station in life,” John said, “by marrying the daughter of a duke.”
Charlotte gasped. “He knows I hate him. What could he possibly believe would induce me to consider marriage to him?”
“Blackmail.”
“Blackmail? What sort of blackmail?”
“He suggested we might prefer presenting you to society as my sister who married into a respectable Boston family, as opposed to my sister, the former kitchen maid.”
It was not an idle threat. Duke’s sister or not, if society knew Charlotte had actually been a kitchen maid, she would not survive the social ruin.
Charlotte swallowed. “But…I was a kitchen maid,” she said, her voice losing much of the force her ire had given it.
“Yes, but we are not going to share that information. There are many here who would deem you beneath them simply because your circumstances required you to earn a wage upon which to live. Those people could make your entrance into society difficult. We will explain you are my sister. We will explain you were raised in Boston. We need not provide all the unnecessary details. I won’t have people looking down their noses at you.”
“What about the duchess?” she asked. “Does the duchess know?”
“The duchess knows you lived modestly in Boston. She does not care.”
“But does she know I was a servant?”
John looked steadily at his sister. “She does not.”
Charlotte pressed her lips together. She nodded her head slowly in acceptance of this admission.
It was not possible to make her understand. He had not intentionally hidden it from Emma. He simply hadn’t seen a need to share it.
“Will you tell her?” Charlotte asked.
“I believe I must. With Pritchard lurking about, she should know.”
“I thought you were handling Mr. Pritchard. You said I needn’t worry. Why should the duchess be in danger if I am not?”
“She will not be in danger. I will have my man following Pritchard every moment. He won’t be allowed to come near either of you.”
“Then she doesn’t need to know.”
John looked at Charlotte. “There is no reason to keep it from her.” He said it, but he could not have sworn to it. Emma’s frustration with Charlotte was high. Her frustration with him was higher still. Did he believe knowing Charlotte’s occupation as a servant would matter one whit to Emma?
No.
“I don’t want her to know,” Charlotte said. “Please.”
John considered his sister’s request. Charlotte needed Emma’s help. Emma was perilously close to denying that help already, due to Charlotte’s poor behavior. Perhaps he could satisfy both women in one exchange.
“All right,” he said. “I will agree to keep Mr. Pritchard and your past between us. But you must agree there will be no more missed appointments. You will cooperate with everything the duchess requests and be an apt pupil.”
Charlotte released the frustrated sigh of one who has been outmaneuvered. “Agreed.”
“You will attend all of it, Charlotte. I will know if you do not.”
“Yes. All of it,” she said, crossing her arms with a huff. “But not until tomorrow. The duchess is gone today.”
“Tomorrow, then. You may go back to whatever you were doing.” He, on the other hand, would not be returning to his ledgers. He had an American to hunt down.
Charlotte turned to go, but stopped when she reached the door. She turned back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry that he’s followed me here and for the trouble that’s caused.” Her eyes were bright.
“No, Charlotte, I am sorry. You should never have suffered through so many of the trials you’ve experienced. I will make it right, I promise you.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
There were no knocks on Emma’s adjoining door for the next two nights. The day she rode to Beadwell, she returned in time for dinner, but John and Mr. Brydges were caught up in estate business. The ladies ate separately in their rooms. The following evening, John and Mr. Brydges did appear for dinner. John was pleasant, solicitous even, as though their row had never occurred. He also announced at dinner, to Emma’s great relief, that he would participate in a dance lesson the following day.
He’d been so pleasant that evening, Emma found herself waiting for him to come that evening, but he did not come. She fell asleep wondering if he would. Wondering if she wanted him to come.
Knowing very well that she did.
Still, she was encouraged when she awoke. He had committed to the dance lesson that day, and it was the day of Lucy’s arrival. She was grateful for both.
Charlotte was alone in the empty ballroom when Emma appeared a few minutes prior to the agreed upon time, followed closely by the housekeeper’s daughter, Eliza, who’d been recruited to provide music for this and the previous lessons.
Charlotte was standing in the center of the room with her back to the entryway, looking to the far wall of arched windows. She was so still and seemingly unaware of Emma’s arrival that Emma wondered what had captured her thoughts.
/> “Good morning, Charlotte,” she offered in the pleasant, but carefully unenthusiastic voice she applied during the young girl’s calmer moments. She chose not to remark on Charlotte’s early arrival, when she’d been either late or missing for all prior appointments.
Charlotte turned quickly. “I thought my brother was to be here.”
“He will have remembered our appointment,” Emma assured her. “I assume he will join us momentarily.” She waved for Eliza to take a seat at the pianoforte and the girl did so, limbering her fingers with a few chords before they began.
As though summoned by Emma’s words, John strode into the ballroom. “Ladies.” He barely spared her a glance, though he did give a small nod in her direction.
Emma did not bother gracing him with the warm smile she would have had for him, if only he would reciprocate.
Then Mr. Brydges sauntered into the room.
Emma groaned inwardly. She’d been hoping for a productive session.
“Why is he here?” Charlotte demanded.
Mr. Brydges graced the ladies with a wide, tooth-filled grin. “News of Miss Brantwood’s great skill as a dancer has reached even me, and I have come to witness it firsthand.”
“That’s Lady Charlotte to you,” Charlotte said, predictably rising to his bait.
Emma sighed. Didn’t the man have a horse farm to run? “Shall we begin, everyone?” she suggested in an attempt to head off the inevitable skirmish.
“Yes, let’s begin,” John concurred. “Brydges, you will behave yourself or you will be removed. Find a seat and endeavor to be civil, will you?”
“But of course,” Mr. Brydges replied in a mocking tone that threatened to rile even Emma’s temper. He swept himself dramatically toward the window alcove on the far side of the room in which a small grouping of chairs remained arranged, and perched himself upon one of them.
Disregarding these theatrics, Emma gave instruction to Eliza regarding the piece of music to be played. John had joined Charlotte in the center of the room and both took the opening position for the simple dance that had been the subject of Charlotte’s lessons thus far.
Eliza began playing with enthusiasm, but it became apparent only a few bars into the tune that Charlotte had failed to retain any memory of the steps from her previous lessons. She was quite obviously watching her brother’s movements for direction, under the misguided presumption that the lady’s steps would always mirror the gentleman’s.
Emma held her hand up to Eliza to halt her playing.
“It appears we will require some review of the steps before proceeding,” she said, approaching the pair who had abruptly stopped when the music was silenced. “Charlotte, if you will step back a few paces, I will demonstrate the steps with your brother—a few at a time—and you can step in again to practice them. Will that be all right?”
Charlotte shrugged.
Aware she would receive no stronger confirmation than that, Emma proceeded with her suggestion. She stepped up, nodded at Eliza, and turned to smile at her husband.
Unexpectedly, he smiled back.
It was pleasant and warm, and Emma nearly missed her first step when the music began. She righted herself, thankfully, and followed the simple steps of the dance, speaking them aloud as she moved, for Charlotte’s benefit.
Her attention, however, was on John. The dance did not require that they touch at all, but his attention was on her and hers on him. It was a rare moment of intimacy despite the others present. He felt it too. She knew he did. She hated to break the connection, but the lesson had to continue.
“Let’s stop there,” she said, “so you can take my place, Charlotte.”
Charlotte stepped up as instructed and Emma once again nodded to their musician. This time, as Charlotte attempted the steps from memory, Emma stood more closely and gave spoken directions as the pair danced.
Charlotte was doing well. Quite well. She recalled nearly all of it. Just as Emma had hoped, John’s presence had inspired a greater effort on Charlotte’s part.
Emma instructed Charlotte through the first set of steps a second time then positioned herself across from her husband again to demonstrate the next steps. They began and she watched him move through the dance, His steps were perfectly made and perfectly timed, but lacked the flourish some would no doubt find artistic, but he would view as superfluous.
She agreed. His manner was more…male.
Perhaps she was affected by the unanswered anticipation of waiting up for her husband to visit her the prior evening, but it seemed to Emma just then that everything about him was more masculine than other men. Her eyes roved over him with both a woman’s interest and the benefit of her wifely knowledge. His lean muscular legs. His trim waist. His strong shoulders that were nearly too broad to be fashionable. Her inventory brought her to his strong features and ended inevitably at his deep blue eyes.
Deep blue eyes that stared hotly back at hers.
Oh my.
She’d been ogling her husband like a bit of forbidden candy, and he was clearly aware of her having done so.
He smiled knowingly at her and she was certain her temperature gained several degrees.
“Shall we allow Charlotte a turn through the set we’ve demonstrated?” he suggested, his eyes still locked with hers.
“Yes.” She sincerely hoped no one else of their number noted the slight croak to her response. In an attempt to recover the moment, she granted John what she hoped was a placid smile before yielding her place to Charlotte.
Though Emma’s mind had wandered through the previous set, Charlotte had clearly been well focused. She moved unerringly through the steps a first and second time, and in no time at all, Emma was once again readying herself to partner with John for a demonstration of the third and final portion of the dance.
“I beg your pardon, ladies,” John spoke before Emma reached him. “But I fear my new steward cannot yet be expected to work very long without requiring my guidance on some matter or another. I should not neglect him.” John turned to where Mr. Brydges had been sitting quietly in the alcove. “Brydges, you’ll take my place.”
Emma was weak enough in that moment to feel truly stung. She would have sworn on everything important to her that she had not been the only one aware of the significance of the moments they’d shared while dancing.
Yet he was avoiding her. He’d been closeted with Mr. Brydges and this new steward for days. Surely the man could manage another half an hour on his own.
“But why must you leave now, when we are almost finished?” Charlotte asked, echoing Emma’s thoughts. Charlotte’s expression looked as deflated as Emma felt.
“I’m afraid my responsibilities call. Brydges will be obliging enough to complete the lesson.” He turned again to where his friend still sat. “Be a sport, won’t you, Brydges?” He did not stay to hear his friend’s response.
Mr. Brydges rose. He strode regally across the room to stand in front of Emma and gave an exaggerated bow.
Emma wanted to roll her eyes, but resisted. She allowed him to lead her through the steps just once then moved back and motioned to Charlotte to take her place. “I’m sure you’ve got the idea now.”
He leered comically at Charlotte. “Do recall this lesson is for dancing, my dear, and not pugilism. I understand your last dance master may have been the victim of confusion over that very issue.”
“I’m not going to dance with that…that…jackanapes.” Her flush deepened to crimson as she turned to Emma. “If learning to dance with boorish oafs is necessary to the education of an English lady, I’m proud to say I’m not one.” She punctuated her speech as she did all tantrums, by pivoting about and stomping toward the wide double doors that stood open at the ballroom’s entry.
Honestly, Emma had seen more of the girl’s back than of her face, but she didn’t get far this time. Mr. Brydges followed her with long strides and caught her before she reached the threshold. From behind her, he placed his hands on either side
of her slip of a frame and, with seemingly little effort, lifted her from the ground.
“Let me go!” Charlotte’s feet continued moving but no longer propelled her forward.
Mr. Brydges calmly turned and carried her back into the room.
Ignored by her captor, Charlotte hollered more loudly, swinging her fists blindly behind her. “Put me down, you…you…bastard.”
Having the advantage of arm span, Mr. Brydges merely held Charlotte farther away from his body so that her fists caught only air.
“I hate you,” she spat.
“And I you, my dear,” he assured her sweetly.
Emma watched in awe and horror. She should, of course, step in immediately and object to such gross mistreatment of a lady. The trouble was, she’d wanted to do much the same thing herself many times over the past several weeks—and would have done if only she possessed the physical strength to do so.
Charlotte was back on her feet but still red-faced and shouting when the footman entered and addressed the duchess with a perfectly unaffected demeanor.
“You have a visitor arrived, Your Grace. A Miss Lucy Betancourt.”
Lucy’s arrival was the best possible diversion she could imagine. “We are clearly done with the dancing lesson for today,” she announced.
Charlotte crossed her arms and glared threateningly at Mr. Brydges. “I’ll be in my room.”
He met her gaze with equal menace. “You should go greet your guest.”
“She’s not my guest.”
“It’s good practice.”
For heaven’s sake. If the two of them wanted to bicker like children, Emma was happy to leave them to it for once. She hurried into the hall to meet her friend.
“Lucy!”
Her pale hair was no more golden than it had been just days before and her familiar smile no more beaming, but to Emma at that moment, Lucy appeared more angelic than she had ever been. The sight of her so warmed Emma’s heart, she had to measure her steps for fear she would set off into a run most inappropriate for a duchess.
Lucy’s eyes widened just as Emma reached her, and Emma turned, cringing, to see Mr. Brydges following behind her—again holding Charlotte by the waist so that her toes hovered inches above the floor.
