Emma shook her head. ‘No. I’ll see him. Go with Harry.’ She hurried them out and pushed them towards the stairs as the visitor pounded on the door.
Bessie came out, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Mum?’
‘Upstairs with the children,’ Emma said. ‘I’ll deal with it.’
Bessie looked uncertain. ‘Could run for Mr Adams again.’
‘No. Stay with the children. His lordship is coming soon.’
Bessie’s face cleared. ‘Right. Up with the pair of you, now!’ She shooed the children upstairs before her as the imperious knocks continued to rattle the door.
Arming herself with cold disdain, Emma jerked the door open, holding the lamp high. ‘Whoever you are—oh, my God!’
It was like seeing a ghost. The same unruly dark hair, the bright, tawny eyes she saw daily in Georgie’s small face. Her mind blank and throat thick, she could not speak as the years dissolved and memory poured through her in a painful flood.
She had never met this man, but she knew who he must be: Lord Martin Lacy. Peter’s youngest brother, ten years his junior, had been a school boy when she married. Peter had spoken of him often, been fond of him, enough to visit him a couple of times at Eton. He had been bitterly hurt when Keswick forbade contact with the boy.
‘You’re Martin.’ Even breathing was hard. His expression was cold as she had rarely seen Peter’s, but the face was painfully familiar. ‘He never mentioned how alike you are.’
‘No?’ Lord Martin’s voice was as wintery as his expression. ‘I’m surprised he bothered to mention me at all after you seduced him.’
Anger burned through the pain. ‘Of course. Your brother was a complete fool who couldn’t think for himself. The sort of idiot who can’t avoid a scheming hussy.’ To her intense satisfaction, he looked as though a mouse had roared at him.
She stepped back, gestured him inside. ‘I’ve had quite enough of your family for one day, but no doubt you wish to air your views.’ She stalked ahead, not waiting for him to open the parlour door for her. Any politeness would be a sop to convention; she could do without it. Even his voice hurt, tearing at memory.
She heard the door close behind them as she walked to the fireplace and turned to face him. He hadn’t bothered to remove his hat and she bit back the automatic invitation to sit. She was sick of returning courtesy for discourtesy.
‘Say whatever you have to say, Lord Martin, and then leave.’
‘You dragged him down to this.’ Lord Martin’s gaze flicked over the parlour.
Rage licked at her, but she kept her voice cool. ‘No. This is where I moved after he died.’ After your father refused to continue the annuity to help his grandchildren. She bit that back. Her own father had been just as culpable.
He gave a harsh laugh. ‘M’father said you’d squandered Peter’s money, had no notion how to manage.’
‘Did he?’ She reminded herself that Peter had loved Martin, that he wouldn’t want his brother to know how their father had behaved and, apparently, lied.
‘For God’s sake, woman! You can hardly imagine that this is the proper place to raise Peter’s children, let alone a duke’s heir!’
She raised her brows. ‘At least he’ll have a notion of the value of money and the privations his tenants may face.’
Lord Martin scowled. ‘Look, it’s obvious you aren’t raising the children properly. You married Peter for his money and—’
‘What?’ Emma’s temper snapped. ‘I married your brother because I loved him and I jilted a wealthy suitor to do so. You may accuse me of anything else, but not that!’
He glared at her. ‘How much will it take for you to release the children into my father’s care without the necessity of a court case that can only bring scandal to you and distress to them?’
Her breath came in hard. ‘Sell my children?’
His mouth flattened. ‘He wishes only to protect them!’
She laughed, a bitter sound that scraped her throat raw. ‘Odd that he hasn’t wished to do so before. And there is hardly a need to protect them from me!’ She could end this by telling him of her betrothal, but her own children did not know yet and some instinct warned that it would be better to hold that ace close to her chest.
‘Lady Emma, I promise you, any magistrate will award custody to my father. A court appearance can only damage your reputation.’ His lip curled. ‘What there is left of it. If you will not think of your own best interests, consider my mother’s distress at being denied her grandchildren.’
‘And I am to be denied my children?’
He frowned. ‘Nonsense.’
‘Those were your father’s terms.’
He cleared his throat. ‘Look, I’ll tell him you wish to see the children, ah, every so often and—’
‘Get out, Lord Martin.’ She held his furious gaze.
He stalked towards her. ‘Do you think I’ll leave my brother’s children to the care of a harpy who didn’t even tell his family they existed?’ Scorn spat from his eyes. ‘Or aren’t they his, after all?’
‘That’s enough, Lacy.’
Hunt’s deep voice sliced with bone-chilling anger.
* * *
Hunt wasn’t well acquainted with Martin Lacy, but knew he held a position at Whitehall involving the Foreign Office. No one seemed to know quite what it was that he did.
He gestured to the footman following him, laden with a large basket. ‘Set that down, Philip, then wait in the hall, if you please.’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
‘This is none of your business, Huntercombe!’ Lord Martin cast Emma a sneering look. ‘Just because you’re tupping—’
Fergus let out a growl, took a step forward.
‘Fergus—sit. Lacy, you’re half my age, but that won’t stop me calling you out.’ Hunt spoke very precisely, his temper in a death grip. ‘You will apologise to Lady Emma and leave.’
Lord Martin snorted, a wary eye on the seated, still-growling dog. ‘Oh, I’ll leave all right.’ He glared at Emma. ‘But I’m damned if I’ll offer an apology! I hoped to appeal to her better nature and spare my brother’s children the distress of being removed forcibly by a magistrate tomorrow morning, but—’ At Emma’s frightened gasp, he laughed. ‘Yes, madam. A magistrate has agreed that the children should be in my father’s custody until the case is heard. Does that give you to think?’
Hunt glanced at Emma. Her white face stabbed at him. ‘Out. Lady Emma and her children have suffered enough from your family for one day.’
Lord Martin clenched his fists. ‘All my father wants is to protect the grandchildren she has denied him! You can’t possibly believe that they should be raised here!’
‘As a matter of fact, I don’t,’ Hunt said in equable tones that slid over the searing anger. ‘Neither do I know how Dersingham and Keswick have reconciled it with their consciences all these years. But you’d need to discuss that with them. Goodnight, Lacy.’
‘All these—?’ Lord Martin’s eyes widened. ‘Are you suggesting—?’ He cast Emma an icy glare. ‘I’ll bid you a good evening. No doubt the magistrate will get to the bottom of who is lying!’ He turned on his heel and walked out past Hunt with a curt nod. ‘Huntercombe. My compliments on your dog.’
* * *
As the front door slammed, Hunt bit back several curses. He held out his hand. ‘Emma—don’t—’
She was in his arms before he could get another word out. His arms closed around her trembling body and the world seemed to stand still for an instant. How long had it been, he wondered, since there had been someone for Emma to turn to, to lean on? And how long had it been since anyone had turned to him in such trust and confidence? Or since a woman in his arms had felt so utterly right, as if she anchored something that had been adrift. As if he had needed her as much as she had needed him.
Thi
s wasn’t what he wanted.
Of course he wanted her to trust him, turn to him for help. But this sensation of rightness...it threatened to grab his serene, ordered existence by the scruff of the neck and shake it like a terrier with a rat. His life was comfortable as it was. He wasn’t supposed to need her.
He drew back a little, brushed a kiss over her mouth. ‘Get yourself and the children packed.’ Her jaw dropped as he went on. ‘If Keswick has a magistrate in his pocket we need to act.’
‘But—’
‘Emma, possession is nine-tenths of the law. If he takes the children, even once we’re married it will be the devil’s own job to get them back and our betrothal won’t be enough to stop him.’ Fear flashed into her eyes and his gut twisted. He took her hands and realised they were shaking. ‘Better to get them out of here tonight,’ he said.
Be practical, concentrate on the problem and a solution.
‘Not knowing where they are will slow him down and give us time to marry.’
Those midnight eyes stared up at him. ‘But—where? Where can we go?’
‘Grosvenor Square.’
Her hands tightened on his. ‘What? Your house? But—’
‘They don’t know we’re betrothed,’ he said. ‘Grosvenor Square is the last place Keswick will look for a woman he believes to be my mistress. I’ve already applied for a special licence. We’ll marry as soon as I have it in my hand.’ They could weather the inevitable gossip. What mattered now was protecting Emma and the children.
* * *
Panic still gripped Emma as they bundled the children into the carriage with their belongings. This was too soon, too fast. She had counted on a week or more for the children to become accustomed to the notion of her marrying Hunt... Oh, why deceive herself? She had counted on a week or more to become accustomed. They hadn’t even told the children yet. Only that they were moving to Lord Huntercombe’s house. Hunt had embraced Harry’s reiterated suggestion they should all run away.
‘Excellent idea, Harry. That’s exactly what to do.’
Now they were all, Bessie and Fergus included, crammed into the carriage. Bessie had been stunned, muttering that she’d go bail his lordship had hundreds of servants.
‘None for the nursery and the children know you.’
The children, far from being scared, now viewed the entire situation as a high adventure. With Hunt in charge, apparently nothing could go wrong. Emma could see plenty that could go wrong, but the devil had the whip hand here. The first priority was to remove the children. She could worry about what came later...well, later. How long did it take to get a special licence?
Georgie was snuggled on her lap with her favourite doll, all fright forgotten in the excitement. Harry sat quietly, but she could feel him wriggling occasionally.
‘Mama, how long can we stay with Lord Huntercombe?’
‘For ever,’ Georgie said confidently.
Oh, Lord! ‘Let’s talk about that when we arrive,’ Emma suggested. She sought Hunt’s gaze and he nodded slightly. Thank goodness. That was one conversation she’d rather not have in a carriage.
* * *
Georgie and Harry stared around the entrance hall of the Grosvenor Square mansion in shocked awe. Emma knew exactly how they felt. Despite having grown up in almost equal splendour, the gleam of black and white tiles, the glitter of crystal and mirrors, the blaze of light from wax candles and the discreetly liveried footmen made her feel out of place.
Fergus however, damp with the steady rain, shot past them and shook himself with cheerful disregard for any consideration of his master’s dignity or the grandeur of the house.
‘Fergus—sit!’ A footman stepped forward armed with a towel as the dog sat and grinned up expectantly.
‘Thank you, Mark.’ Hunt smiled at Emma. ‘They’re all used to him.’
Emma glanced to where the footman was being enthusiastically licked as he rubbed the dog dry. ‘I can see that.’
‘You really won’t mind him in the house?’
She tried not to laugh at the diffident tone of his voice. ‘Even if I did, I’d be outvoted. Hunt, I don’t mean to change your life.’
He looked relieved. ‘That will disappoint my sisters. They deplore what they refer to as my “bachelor habits” and hoped that poor Fergus was one thing my bride would change.’
Emma swallowed hard, wondering what other ‘bachelor habits’ he might have, and glanced at the children, but Harry and Georgie were helping the footman with Fergus and appeared oblivious to all else. She did not imagine that Hunt had lived like a monk for the past eleven years. It was different for a man. Gentlemen, married or otherwise, frequently had mistresses and no one cared. No one referred to a man’s loss of virtue—unless he cheated at cards.
Except she would care. And, given the terms of their agreement, she really had no right to. He was not offering love. Neither was she. She doubted that he would want it. But, she wanted something. A loyalty beyond the bargain they had been forced to strike. Something they could choose to give and had not been forced to offer.
‘I’m afraid they’ll be disappointed, then,’ she said lightly. In all likelihood that wasn’t the only way in which she was going to disappoint his sisters. Especially when they found out that she had moved in to his house already.
* * *
Hunt’s staff decreed the library to be the best place for an informal supper. Very quickly a table was placed by the fire and the cold chicken, ham, bread, cheese and plum cake he’d taken to Chelsea were set out.
Bentham, having left the footmen to this task, reappeared and drew Hunt aside. ‘Mrs Bentham wishes to know what sleeping arrangements should be made for Master Harry and Miss Georgie.’
‘Ah...’ Hunt stared at Bentham. ‘The nursery? Surely that—’
‘The nursery, my lord, is under holland covers and much is packed away in the attic. I fear it will not be possible to use it tonight. The children’s nurse and Mrs Bentham have assured me they can have it ready tomorrow.’
Hunt had no idea what was necessary to make a nursery habitable, but if Bentham said it was impossible, then it was impossible.
‘Perhaps, my lord, her ladyship might have a solution?’
Hunt could only nod. ‘Bentham, you’re a genius.’ He glanced at Emma, catching her eye. She rose from where they had been showing the children a large globe and came over.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘The nursery will not be ready tonight,’ Hunt said. Would she be upset? Annoyed? He knew so little about her, he realised. Certainly not enough to predict her reaction to a domestic problem.
Emma smiled at Bentham. ‘Of course it won’t. Put a truckle bed in my room for Master Harry. Miss Georgie may share my bed.’
Bentham blinked. ‘Very good, my lady. There is already a truckle bed in the Marchioness’s dressing room if that would suffice.’
Emma nodded. ‘Excellent. There is a room for the children’s nurse?’
‘Certainly, my lady. The nurse’s room in the nursery is being made ready for Mistress Hull.’
Hunt took a careful breath. Putting Emma in the Marchioness’s rooms, which adjoined his, while the right choice, created all sorts of issues. Namely issues of propriety, although having the children in there should take the sting out of any gossip.
‘And Lord Cambourne called while you were out, my lord.’
‘He did? He’s in town?’ He’d thought James out at Chiswick with his wife.
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Good. You can take a note over.’
A few minutes later, the servants dismissed and a discreet note dispatched to Cambourne House, the four of them were seated at the impromptu supper table. Emma served the children while Hunt served her and himself. Bentham had placed a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice and Hunt poured two glasses.
‘Don’t we have some?’ Harry asked.
Hunt raised his brows. ‘Certainly not. Mrs Bentham will be wounded to the quick if you don’t drink the lemonade she made for you.’
‘Lemonade?’ Georgie wriggled in delight. ‘Mama said she used to have lemonade at parties. Is it nice?’
‘You tell me.’ Hunt poured some for her and Harry.
Georgie sipped and beamed. ‘It’s awfully nice. Thank you, sir.’
Harry tried his. ‘It’s very good, sir.’
Memory stabbed at him. Sitting here with Anne and the children, enjoying an informal supper when their schedules had permitted it, usually a Sunday night. Harry, sitting where Simon had once sat, eyes shining in the lamplight, devoured a chicken leg as if half-starved. Something rose up inside him, hard and painful. Resentment. Shocked, he forced it down, shoved it away. Shameful to resent the boy sitting there. But the wave of longing for his own children, something he thought he had come to terms with long since, washed over him, threatening to drown him... He fought free of the wave, cleared his throat of the bitter lump.
‘Harry?’
Harry swallowed a large mouthful of chicken. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘I have something important to ask you—and Georgie,’ he said, thinking that his own daughter would have been deeply annoyed at not being consulted. ‘I should like very much to marry your mother. Will you mind if I do?’
Opposite, Emma’s eyes widened and in them he read her unspoken question: What would he do if one of them objected?
Georgie’s eyes lit up. ‘Will Fergus come and live with us, too?’
‘Don’t be silly, Georgie.’ Harry didn’t take his eyes off Hunt. ‘A marquess can’t live in a house like ours. We’d have to come and live here.’
‘Oh.’ Georgie thought about that. ‘Well, Fergus would still live with us, so that’s all right.’
‘Harry?’ Hunt watched the boy. He was old enough to know there was more to marriage than that.
‘Would we still live with Mama?’ Harry twisted his napkin. ‘I—we don’t want to go and live with the Duke.’
His Convenient Marchioness Page 10
