by Jane Feather
But did she have it? Alasdair asked himself as he carried the candle into the dressing room next door to continue his search there. She might have thrown it away. But he thought that an outside chance. Emma would not have thrown away anything that came from Ned, particularly after his death. He knew she kept all his letters. She was a hoarder, a highly secretive hoarder. She had always kept everything … every letter he and Ned had written her from school and Oxford … anything that had any personal relevance for her; hence her warren of secret hiding places.
His search of the dressing room drew another blank. Even the bookshelves were empty. Between the pages of books had been another of her favorite hiding places. But all her own volumes had been packed up and delivered to Mount Street. Alasdair supposed somewhat gloomily that he was going to have to go through them all. Through her books and through her writing case and all the drawers in her secretaire.
It was a hideous prospect. And in the present strained state of their relationship, well nigh impossible. He would have to find some excuse that would give him easy access to the house on Mount Street and the freedom to move around it at will. His position as trustee gave him access to Emma herself, but no right to roam her house.
But somehow it would have to be done. King and country demanded it. Or rather Ned demanded it. If Ned had died for this information, then his friend must do everything in his power to ensure that that death had not been in vain.
Chapter Four
“Oh, do look at that enchanting gown, Emma. It will suit you to perfection.” Maria leaned over and tapped the coachman’s shoulder. “Pull up, John. Lady Emma and I will get down here.”
John-coachman reined in his horses on Bond Street. He was accustomed to such frequent instructions from Mrs. Witherspoon, whose sharp eyes took in every shop window that they passed.
“Oh, Maria, must we?” Emma protested. “We have spent the entire day going from warehouse to warehouse, milliners to milliners, bootmakers to bootmakers. I don’t think I could endure to look at another ell of material.”
“This one, my dear, you will be glad to examine,” Maria said with firm confidence as she took the footman’s hand to descend from the barouche. “That particular shade of jonquil is so exactly suited to you, and you may wear it with the saffron kid slippers. So pretty it will look.” She bustled eagerly into the shop.
“Walk the horses, John,” Emma instructed with a little sigh, descending to the street. “We may be some minutes.”
“So I would presume, Lady Emma.” The coachman glanced rather pointedly at the mountain of bandboxes already filling the rear seat of the barouche.
Emma had forgotten how indefatigable Maria was when it came to shopping. Her own tolerance was much more limited, although she had no intention whatsoever of showing herself to London in outmoded gowns. It had taken her no more than a day’s observation to recognize that Alasdair had as usual been quite correct on the unfashionable condition of her wardrobe.
“I think, my dear, that we should pay some calls tomorrow,” Maria said when they were once more back in the barouche; the jonquil gown after some necessary alterations was to be delivered in Mount Street later that evening. “Now that you’ve done some shopping and are ready to face the world—that hairstyle by the by is all the rage—we should call upon Princess Esterhazy and Lady Jersey. Just to make sure about vouchers for Almack’s. Once it’s known that you’re ready to receive callers, we shall be inundated,” she added happily.
Emma didn’t reply. It had been close to a week since Alasdair had left town after their hateful quarrel, and she had had ample time to question the impulse that had fueled her challenge. They’d been living reclusively these last days, but the time for that was now past. And once the doorknocker started banging, and the invitation cards poured in, as they would surely do, she was going to have to make good her challenge. Niggling doubts she resolutely quashed. She would free herself from Alasdair’s control at the earliest opportunity. If only she hadn’t also issued that impetuous challenge about taking a lover. A husband would be easy, but a lover … ?
However, she’d sworn to do it and she wasn’t going to give Alasdair the chance to gloat. What he could do, she could do. Her mouth took a wry turn as she reflected how competitive they had always been with each other. Or maybe, to be brutally honest, it was she who had always felt the need to compete with Alasdair … and to a lesser extent with Ned. It was presumably a holdover from her early girlhood when she had always been afraid that if she couldn’t keep up with them, they would leave her out of their activities. Maturity, of course, should have lessened the compulsion to compete, but it hadn’t happened.
A flicker of derision, as much self-directed as otherwise, crossed her eyes. Alasdair had hurt her badly, so she had hurt him back. The wounds they had inflicted upon each other three years ago had been too severe to heal over. And they were still hurting each other in a pride-fueled, spiraling competition to inflict the deepest injury.
She had given herself until February 14 to achieve both an offer of marriage and a liaison. If the same man could fill both roles, it would make things easier, but she’d sworn to take as husband the first man who offered for her, and maybe he wouldn’t fit the bill as lover. The possible inconvenience of being wed to a man whose bed you couldn’t imagine occupying was one Emma chose to ignore.
“My love, Horace Poole is bowing to you.” Maria nudged her arm.
Emma glanced up. The gentleman in question was beaming and bowing from the side of the street. “Odious man,” Emma murmured as she offered a frosty bow in return. “There hasn’t been an heiress in the last ten years for whom he hasn’t made a beeline.”
“Well, my dear, you know it’s only to be expected. They’ll all be around you like wasps at the jam,” Maria said. “It will be very tiresome, I’m sure. But you mustn’t despair of finding a man who is not influenced by your wealth.” She patted Emma’s knee comfortingly.
That, Emma thought, would be truly wishing for the moon, but she silently amended the conditions of her challenge: she would take the first offer made her by a man who was not a gazetted fortune hunter.
Maria glanced at her companion’s set profile and swallowed a little sigh. Emma had never before had to suffer the discomforts of being courted only for her fortune. She had been but three weeks into her debutante season when she and Alasdair had become engaged, and after their scandalous breakup, she had retired to the country, ostensibly only until the scandal had died down, but somehow she hadn’t fixed a date to return to town and Maria had soon stopped asking her.
While Maria was relieved that those years of Emma’s melancholy rustication seemed to be over, she was conscious of some anxiety about how Emma was going to deal with the social consequences of her wealth. She did not tolerate fools gladly, and she had an impetuous temperament, impatient of restraint. Her fortune and lineage should give her some leeway with the highest sticklers, if she transgressed the rigid rules of society again, but her high spirits had led her into trouble in her first season, even before the scandal.
There had been the incident of the carriage race with Lady Armstrong … Maria shuddered at the memory. That had nearly ruined Emma’s reputation. And then there’d been the ridotto at Ranelagh, when she’d gone dressed in britches and pretended to be a footpad. Ned and Alasdair had been largely responsible for that escapade, and had taken part in it themselves. And as for her other adventures, if they hadn’t directly participated in them, they’d certainly encouraged them. It was to be hoped that the intervening years had taught Emma some prudence. At least she wouldn’t have the encouragement of Ned and Alasdair this season.
Had Maria been able to read Emma’s mind at that moment, she would probably have succumbed to strong hysterics. Emma was contemplating the difficulties involved in taking a lover to order. The arrangement would have to be kept secret … from everyone except Alasdair, of course. So long as lovers were discreet, society would turn a blind eye to a liais
on if, by some miracle, it could be arranged that the love affair was a prelude to marriage. She and Alasdair had managed to conduct their own liaison without a breath of scandal until its abrupt ending.
But could this putative lover also be husband material?
As she went up to her bedroom to take off her pelisse and gloves, Emma was conscious of a stirring of excitement. A faint twitch of exuberance. The first she had felt in the months since the news of Ned’s death. She was twenty-two, too young to settle into a spinster’s passionless retirement. Alasdair, damn his eyes, had been right. She had found it very difficult to live without the lovemaking that had gradually become indispensable to her happiness, her bodily well-being. Alasdair had taught her the joys of passion, and once taught they were not easily forgotten. But they could be enjoyed with others. And she would enjoy them again.
Alasdair arrived in Albermarle Street as the evening was drawing in. He jumped down from the post chaise and walked briskly up the steps. Cranham had been on the lookout for his return and had the door open when his master’s foot was on the first step.
“A pleasant visit, I trust, sir.” He took Alasdair’s curly-brimmed beaver and his caped driving coat, reverently smoothing the folds. His eyes darted to Lord Alasdair’s boots and he nodded grimly. Whoever had been responsible for their care during my lord’s travels had not known the finer points of champagne blacking.
“Tedious for the most part, Cranham,” Alasdair said, entering his own front door. He picked up the pile of missives on the table, flicking through them. Invitations, bills, a couple of sealed letters on scented writing paper. One sealed sheet of plain vellum he tucked into his waistcoat pocket. He went into the salon, where a fire burned brightly in the polished grate and a decanter of claret reposed on a silver tray on a marble-topped console table.
He tossed his mail on a sofa table and poured himself a glass of claret. “I’ll dine at White’s tonight, Cranham.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll unpack your portmanteau, sir. I daresay I’ll find your clothes in a sad case.”
“Doubtless,” Alasdair said with a slight grin. “Although I considered I managed quite well for myself.”
Cranham didn’t dignify this impossibility with a response. He bowed and withdrew.
Alasdair’s grin faded. He’d spent the last four days racketing around the Hampshire countryside, staying in damnably uncomfortable inns, because he couldn’t return to London without having been away a sufficient length of time to justify a trip to Lincolnshire. Emma would have made some comment. It was possible, of course, that she would hear from the Grantleys of his visit, but he considered it unlikely. There was so little love lost between Hester Grantley and her niece that communication would probably extend no further than yuletide greetings. However, if it did come out, by that time this business should be settled once and for all.
He took the sheet of vellum out of his pocket and opened the wafer with his fingernail. It was from his contact at Horseguards. He scanned the vigorously penned lines. Charles Lester was a man of unsoldierly bearing, but his stick-thin frame, hunched shoulders, and concave chest belied a mind as sharp as a razor. He spoke in short, concise sentences and he wrote as he spoke.
It has come to our attention that others are interested in the document in question. We are making further inquiries, but you should be on your guard. I will keep you informed. CL.
Alasdair scrunched the missive in his fist and threw it into the fire. Very informative it had been, he thought aridly, refilling his wineglass. Telling him to be on his guard without the slightest clue against whom.
He glanced at the clock. It was close to seven. Was Emma dining at home? he wondered. Once he would have thought nothing of dropping in and inviting himself to dinner, claiming the privilege first of an old friend and then of a fiancé. He shook his head impatiently and went into his bedchamber next door, where Cranham was laying out his evening clothes.
Half an hour later, he was walking across the hall when his upstairs neighbor came down the stairs almost as if on cue. “Lord Alasdair, you are returned,” said Paul Denis with his charming smile.
“As you see.” Alasdair nodded politely, taking the other’s outstretched hand. “I am going to dine at White’s. Are you a member?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. Prince Esterhazy put up my name. He is an old acquaintance of my father’s. I was on my way to dine there myself, as it happens. Perhaps I could …” He waited politely.
“By all means,” Alasdair said. He was not averse to company after four days of his own, and it was always useful to maintain good relations with one’s neighbors.
The evening was convivial, and when the company moved to the card tables, Paul Denis was quick to take his place at the first invitation to join them. Alasdair brought to the gambling table the same clearheaded skills he brought to investing. In fact, the two activities were inextricably combined. What he won at the card tables, he augmented at the Exchange in stocks and shares. It would have explained to Emma his apparent ability to live on air, had he chosen to enlighten her. Ned had known of his uncanny skill at making much of little. It had presumably been one reason why he had entrusted his old friend with Emma’s fortune.
But not the only reason. Although Alasdair hadn’t admitted it to Emma, he agreed with her that Ned had hoped to achieve a reconciliation between his sister and his friend by throwing them together in such intimate conjunction. It would have grieved him to see how far off the mark he’d been. Alasdair took up his cards, a tiny sigh escaping him.
The subject, as he’d expected, came up within a very short time.
“I hear Emma Beaumont’s back in town,” Lord Alveston commented, pushing a rouleau of guineas across the table.
“Yes, and, as no doubt you’ve also heard, under her brother’s will I am her trustee,” Alasdair said coolly, making his own bet.
“Deuced awkward, that,” remarked a gentleman with a startlingly painted face.
“Oh, and why is that, Sketchley?” Alasdair inquired with a raised eyebrow and a voice with an edge that would cut steel.
Viscount Sketchley blushed beneath his paint. It produced a rather interesting color scheme, Alasdair thought. “Oh, no reason … no reason at all.”
Alasdair inclined his head in mocking acceptance and continued with his play. There was a short awkward silence, then the duke of Bedford, who held the bank, declared, “Rich as Croesus she is now, I hear.”
Alasdair again acknowledged this with an indifferent nod.
“If she still has her looks—” continued the duke.
“Oh, believe me, she has,” Alasdair interrupted, laying his cards upon the table. “My hand, gentlemen.”
“I keep promising myself I’ll not play at your table, Alasdair, and then I forget how damned lucky you are,” Lord Alveston complained, throwing down his own cards in disgust.
“Oh, it’s not luck, George,” Alasdair said with a laugh. “Can you not recognize pure skill when you see it?”
“So, is she hangin’ out for a husband?” the duke persisted.
“What unattached woman is not, Duke?” asked Lord Sketchley with a little titter.
“You’re not still in the lists, Alasdair?” Alveston asked bluntly.
Alasdair was relieved to have the question at last brought into the open. Once it was dealt with, categorically denied, he hoped the past would be allowed to die. “No, I am not. Emma and I agreed that we would not suit. Nothing has changed. Do you deal, Duke?”
The duke picked up the fresh pack placed at his elbow by a groom-porter and shuffled deftly. “So the field’s wide open, then?”
“As far as I know,” Alasdair agreed.
“And you’ve no say in the matter?” Sketchley inquired closely.
“None whatsoever.” Alasdair made his bet and changed the subject, wondering uneasily just how far Emma was prepared to go with her challenge. Surely not far enough to take such a painted fop as Sketchley for a husband. Or lover? He glanced ac
ross the table with a violent surge of revulsion at the image of that simpering fool’s hands on Emma’s glorious body. No, it was not possible that she would be so lost to sanity.
His eyes swept the salon, brightly lit by chandeliers whose crystal drops threw back the light of their myriad candles. Was there a man in this room whom he could tolerate in Emma’s bed? The answer was immediately apparent. It seemed he was suffering from a virulent case of dog in the manger.
“But I daresay your opinion would weigh with Lady Emma?” the duke suggested. “Being her trustee and such a good friend of her brother’s. If you spoke up for a man …”
“Lady Emma has a mind of her own,” Alasdair stated flatly.
Paul Denis played carefully, as befitted a man who was not too plump in the pocket. His émigré status was well understood, and a wealthy émigré was a rarity. He offered no comment on the subject of Emma Beaumont, and his silence went unremarked. He could not after all be expected to contribute to a conversation concerning people he didn’t know. And no one would guess the rapid calculations clicking behind his smooth olive-skinned forehead. If Lady Emma Beaumont was to be besieged by suitors, he could join their ranks without comment.
“Do you return to Albermarle Street, Lord Alasdair?” he inquired as the table broke up in the early hours. “May I walk home with you?”
“By all means.” Alasdair took a glass of iced champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. “Give me half an hour. There are some people I haven’t spoken to this evening.” Glass in hand, he circled the room, making certain that everyone there understood that Alasdair Chase was not holding a candle for Emma Beaumont. That the mortification of three years ago was forgotten. Then he went in search of Paul Denis, who was sitting in the bow window that looked out on darkened St. James’s Street, perusing a periodical.
