Chapter Six
It rained solidly for the next two days and Emma found herself constantly questioning her decision. Had she done the right thing? Almost she wished that Hunt had been furiously offended and withdrawn his offer in anger.
And how foolish to wish that he had behaved badly! Just for her own peace of mind. Because the more she thought about it, the more she thought that Hunt would be very angry at her reasons for refusing.
‘Harry.’ She dragged her mind away from Hunt and back to the present. ‘Concentrate on your sums and leave Georgie alone.’ The rain had made it impossible to take them out for any length of time and Harry at least was showing all the symptoms of confinement.
‘She’s only sewing.’ Thus the male disregard for female pursuits.
‘Really?’ Emma laid down the shirt she was sewing for him. ‘And of course you sew your own shirts, do you, Harry?’
He blinked. ‘Georgie’s sewing a sampler, not my shirt.’
Emma nodded. ‘An excellent point. She can practise on your shirts instead of me doing them.’
Harry flushed and Georgie set her sampler down with a thump.
‘I’m not sewing Harry’s shirts!’
A heavy knock on the front door forestalled the inevitable fight.
Harry’s face brightened. ‘It might be Lord Huntercombe and Fergus.’
‘Then make sure he finds you doing your lessons properly.’ Emma ignored the pang of guilt. She hadn’t told them Hunt would not call again. Perhaps it would be kinder to tell them rather than let them realise slowly, but she had not been able to do it. Nor had she been able to forget that kiss. She dreamed of it at night and woke up aching.
Bessie’s footsteps sounded in the hall, followed by the groan of the rain-swollen door. Bessie’s cheerful voice and—
‘Out of my way, wench! Where’s her fine ladyship?’
‘Beg pardon, sir, but—ooh!’
Bessie’s startled gasp was followed by uneven footsteps thumping along the hall. The parlour door crashed open and a stooped, elderly gentleman, supported by a cane, stalked in. Rheumy brown eyes scowled from beneath heavy brows. Emma’s breath seized, but she lifted her chin. ‘Good day, sir. Were we expecting you?’
Apart from being eleven years older, the Duke of Keswick looked much the same as ever, disagreeable and disdainful of mere mortals.
He glared down his considerable nose. ‘I do not choose to advertise my doings to the scaff and raff. This is your...home?’ His scornful gaze swept the shabby parlour.
‘As you see,’ Emma said coldly.
Keswick was looking not at her, but the children, particularly Harry. ‘So that’s the boy. No doubt he’s spoiled without a man’s hand, but that can be mended.’
Mended? By whom? Emma rose. Beyond Keswick’s totally unexpected appearance, there was something very wrong here. ‘Harry, take your sister upstairs and remain there until I call you.’
Bessie appeared in the doorway. ‘I’m that sorry, mum. Shoved right past me, he did.’
Emma gave her father-in-law a derisive glance. ‘Of course, Bessie. Good manners are for lesser mortals, not dukes.’
Bessie blinked. ‘Right. Well, young Jem Adams were passing and I told him to ask his dad to step around. Be here in a jiffy, he will.’
Adams, the master mason and her landlord. Emma readjusted. ‘Thank you. Take the children to the kitchen and keep them there with Mr Adams when he arrives.’
‘Yes, mum.’
‘Harry, Georgie—go.’
‘The boy stays.’ Keswick rapped it out.
Harry hesitated and Emma stepped between them. ‘Harry, do as you are bid.’
‘Damn your eyes, woman—!’
‘And yours, Keswick,’ Emma snapped. ‘I order my house and my children as I see fit.’
‘As their legal guardian,’ Keswick growled, ‘they’ll do my bidding!’
Fear ripped at her. ‘You are not their legal guardian,’ she said. ‘I am.’
‘Rubbish,’ Keswick sneered. ‘Their father was my son. Although I have not chosen to exercise it, the guardianship is mine, so—’
‘Peter’s will, duly witnessed and probated, named me sole guardian and specifically disbarred you from guardianship.’ At the time she’d thought Peter’s dying determination to ensure Keswick could not take the children was a waste of his time and strength. Now she thanked God for his foresight.
‘Harry! Go!’ Deliberately she stepped between Keswick and the door and gestured the children past her.
Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall.
‘What’s all the fuss, Lady Emma?’ Hugh Adams, solid as one of his own masonry blocks, filled the doorway. ‘Young Jem said some oaf pushed Bessie over and forced his way in.’ His shrewd eyes looked over Keswick. ‘This him?’
Some oaf...she would treasure that. ‘Mr Adams, would you please take Georgie and Harry to the kitchen and keep them safe there?’
‘Aye.’ Hugh had removed his cap. ‘I can do that, ma’am. You call if you need aught else.’ He held out his hand. ‘And how’s Miss Georgie?’
Harry and Georgie hurried out to him and Emma shut the door. ‘You will deal with me, Keswick.’ She pointed to a chair. ‘Be seated if you wish.’ She resumed her own seat.
Keswick remained standing. ‘I’m here for the boy, but I’ll take the girl as well.’
‘No.’
He stared. ‘No? Do you dare refuse me?’
‘Yes.’ Show no fear. ‘You have no claim. Their father’s will makes that clear.’
He snorted. ‘You think that can’t be set aside? A court given evidence of your loose morals will deem you unfit and hand them to me without hesitation.’
Her stomach roiled. ‘There is no evidence of anything of the sort!’
‘Hah!’ His triumph was palpable. ‘Pickford has a pretty tale to tell. And now I’m informed you’re waving your tail for Huntercombe!’
Her mind caught on that. Informed. Not that he’d heard gossip, but he’d been informed. As if—had the man following her been Keswick’s spy?
He watched her, his expression scornful. ‘Huntercombe was a bonus, but Pickford did enough that with a little help the gossip spread. No one will believe you innocent.’
Fear twisted, sick and cold, in her belly. ‘Why? Why, after all this time, do you want them?’
He banged his cane on the floor. ‘Don’t play games, girl! You must have known as soon as Thirlbeck died!’
The icy knot tightened. ‘Viscount Thirlbeck is dead?’ Thirlbeck had been Keswick’s eldest son and heir to the dukedom and Peter had been the second son. Panic lodged in her throat.
‘Harry is your heir.’
‘And being raised in a pigsty!’ Keswick sneered at the parlour. ‘God knows I tried, as soon as Thirlbeck was buried, to have Peter’s marriage disproved!’
‘You what?’
‘That prating parson wouldn’t budge, nor Fitzwalter. Sent a damned impertinent answer, too!’
Harry’s godfather, Major Harold Fitzwalter, had been Peter’s groomsman. As far she knew he was with his regiment abroad, but he probably didn’t know where she was or he’d have written to warn her.
Keswick went on. ‘I’ve no choice but to take the boy and raise him properly. And the girl for good measure.’
Through the churning fear, she forced herself to breathe. ‘Sir, this does not have to be a battle,’ she said quietly. ‘If you wish to see that Harry attends a good school, well, thank you. Of course I will bring him to visit you in the holidays so that he may know—’
‘The hell you will!’ Keswick’s face was mottled. ‘Out for what you can get! You ruined my son! Do you think I’ll let you near the boy? Or have you teaching the girl to whore herself? How much?’
‘What?’
‘How mu
ch for you to hand them over without a fuss? One thousand? Two?’
Rage ripped the fear to shreds. ‘My children are not for sale!’
His knuckles whitened on the cane. ‘You think you can rear a duke? Look at you! Dressed like a drab. Very well. I’ll apply to the magistrates and you’ll get not a penny from me.’
She raised her brows. ‘Really? I dare say a court would be most interested in a letter, penned by your secretary, in which I was informed that Peter’s annuity from his grandfather had died with him and categorically denied any interest in his children, stating that it was all one to you if we ended in the gutter where we belonged!’
He stared at her in shock and she knew a savage satisfaction. In her disgust she had nearly burned that letter, sent in response to hers informing Peter’s parents of his death. Fortunately she had kept it.
‘You think you can fight me?’ Keswick demanded. ‘By God, I’ll see you in gaol for denying my right to my lawful property.’
Emma stood firm, her chin up. ‘You’ll have to prove that right first, Keswick. Now get out.’
He laughed. ‘Once you’re proved morally unfit, that letter won’t matter.’
Her stomach churned. ‘Difficult to prove what never happened. Even Pickford won’t lie under oath, so—’
‘Pickford,’ Keswick said coldly, ‘will say exactly what he’s told to say. I’ll return with a magistrate in day or so,’ he went on. ‘You’ll have the boy and his sister ready if you do not wish to end in Newgate for kidnapping.’
He rose and stumped out, slamming the door. Fear icing every vein, Emma rushed to the window and watched the carriage drive away. Her stomach churned. There was not a magistrate in the country who would support her against Keswick.
‘Mum?’
Emma swung around. Bessie stood in the doorway, Adams behind her. ‘You heard?’
‘Couldn’t help but hear,’ Bessie said. ‘Master Harry’s saying he don’t care who the old gent is, they ain’t leavin’ you.’
They would have no choice unless she could find a way to prove that she was not an unfit, immoral—she looked at the shabby parlour. Who was she deceiving? Even if she could prove that, any magistrate would judge that the children would be better off in Keswick’s custody.
A clap of thunder heralded a downpour of rain, streaming on the windows and blotting out the street.
‘Mama!’ Harry and Georgie rushed in.
‘We won’t go!’
‘We’ll run away!’
They clung to her and she hugged them. ‘I wouldn’t let you go. Ever.’ And knew it for a lie. She would not be able to prevent it.
‘I wish Fergus had been here,’ Georgie said. ‘He could have bitten that nasty old man.’
Emma froze. Not at the unlikely prospect of Fergus biting anyone, even Keswick, but at the thought of his master.
* * *
By the time Emma reached Mayfair the rain had eased slightly. Her umbrella had kept the worst off, but her skirts were soaked below the knee and her half-boots sodden, despite her pattens. The wind sliced through her as she squelched around from Upper Grosvenor Street into Grosvenor Square.
Shivering before the imposing façade of Huntercombe House, she hoped the note she had written for Hunt was dry under her pelisse. Even if he was home, his servants were unlikely to admit her. Once she would have taken such a house, if not quite for granted, as nothing out of the common way. Now, tugging on the doorbell, it looked forbidding, something from another world and time.
To her jangled nerves it seemed for ever until the door opened. The servant’s brows shot up as he took in her shabby but genteel soaked self and the lack of servant or carriage.
‘Yes, madam?’ His tone suggested that he was merely covering his bets with this form of address.
‘I have a message for Lord Huntercombe.’
The man’s face blanked. ‘I believe his lordship is not home, madam. If that is all—’ The door began to close.
‘Wait!’ Emma stuck her foot in the door. ‘I do not ask you to admit me.’ She drew the note, thankfully dry from under her pelisse. ‘Merely to give him this as soon as he returns.’
He hesitated, frowning, and Emma lifted her chin. She knew better than to beg. ‘I doubt that his lordship will thank you for interfering with his private correspondence.’ She held out the letter as one who expected to be obeyed, her expression imperious.
‘Ah, very good, madam.’ He took the note. ‘Who shall I say called?’
‘Lady Emma Lacy. Good day to you and thank you.’
She turned away as the door closed. Please God, he would give it to Hunt.
Hunt looked up from the Parliamentary papers he was going through with his secretary as Bentham entered the library. ‘I’m busy, Bentham. Whoever it was—’
‘Lady Emma Lacy, my lord.’
‘What?’ Hunt stared at his butler, tamping down the leap of hope. He’d spent the past two days hiding from Letty. ‘Show her in immediately!’
Bentham actually winced and held out a note. ‘She didn’t precisely ask to see you, my lord.’
‘She’s gone?’
‘Ah, yes—’
Hunt was on his feet. ‘Barclay—finish reading these. Make notes.’ He shoved the papers across the desk at his startled secretary and sprinted for the door.
Drizzle and an icy wind slapped at him as he flung open the front door and stared around the square. There! At the south-west corner by Upper Grosvenor Street—
‘Emma!’ He pitched his yell to carry over a storm at sea as he leapt down the steps. The figure in the familiar brown pelisse stopped, turned back and he breathed a sigh of relief as he strode along the wet pavement. What was she thinking coming out in this weather? His longer strides had him meeting her over halfway to the corner.
He took one look and swore. Her face was pale, the soft lips blue with cold. ‘Emma, you idiot!’ He took her hand. The worn leather glove felt like a wet, half-frozen fish. ‘You could have sent me a note through the post if you have changed your mind.’ He started walking her briskly towards the house. ‘You must have known I’d come!’
‘It wasn’t that.’ Her voice shook. ‘I... I need help. I didn’t dare wait.’
‘Wait? I asked you to marry me less than a week ago! If you think I’m that bloody inconstant—’ He broke off. She’d said she needed his help. Fear stabbed. ‘Emma, is one of the children ill?’
Her breath shuddered out. ‘No. But I need your help. For them. Please.’
* * *
Once he knew the children weren’t ill, he refused to hear another word of what she had to tell him until he had her seated in front of a roaring fire in the library. He sent Bentham scurrying for more coals, a tea tray and towels. Barclay, showing all the discretion for which Hunt employed him, had swept up the Parliamentary papers and departed without a word.
He’d just about ripped her damp pelisse off, noting with relief that her gown was dry underneath except for the skirts which clung wetly to her legs. Her hands—he’d peeled the sodden gloves off—were frozen and he doubted her feet were any better.
He knelt, shoved her skirts to her knees and began unbuttoning one of her boots, trying very hard not to notice the slender curve of her calf, or the sweetly turned ankle as he drew the boot off.
‘Hunt! What are you doing?’
He gave her a withering look. ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’
She flushed. ‘You’re taking my boots off, but why?’
‘Because—’ he tossed the first boot aside ‘—even if you won’t marry me, it doesn’t suit me to have you expire of an inflammation of the lungs!’
A throat cleared behind him. He looked around. Bentham stood there with the tea tray, his expression bemused. ‘Good. Set that down on the table there.’
The porcelain o
n the tray rattled. ‘Very good, my lord.’ The tray met the table with what sounded nothing like Bentham’s usual finesse. ‘I took the liberty of adding the brandy decanter, my lord. Brandy being a warming thing on a cold day.’
‘Excellent, Bentham.’ Hunt started on the second boot. ‘Now go away and find a cloak, or anything that isn’t damp, for Lady Emma. We’ll need the carriage in half an hour.’
Emma stiffened. ‘I can—’
‘No, you can’t.’ He chopped off Emma’s protest ruthlessly. ‘Half an hour, Bentham, and leave the door open.’ That was all he could do to safeguard Emma’s reputation without having his housekeeper in and he very much doubted Emma wanted that.
‘Ah, warm slippers for my lady?’ Bentham suggested.
‘Oh, yes, Bentham. Thank you.’ Emma beamed at the butler who looked gratified.
‘A pleasure, my lady.’ Bentham bowed and hurried off.
Hunt removed the second boot and peeled off her stockings.
‘Right.’ Hanging the stockings over the brass foot fender, he stood up. ‘Tea.’ He poured two cups, added cream, sugar and a liberal splash of brandy to each. He handed her one and sat down.
‘Now. Tell me what this is all about.’
‘Were you aware that our affaire is the talk of society?’
Our what? All he could do was stare at her.
Her cheeks flamed. ‘According to my mother it’s all over town that we are engaged in an affair.’
Hunt found his tongue. ‘Nothing like being the last to know. Is that what brought you here?’
‘No. Not exactly.’
Chapter Seven
His temper smoked, his control smouldered and he clenched his fists as Emma stumbled through Keswick’s visit, wishing his Grace’s neck was there to twist into a choking pulp.
She looked up when she had finished. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but will you help me?’
His Convenient Marchioness Page 8
