Mr. Sims eyed her with disapproval, as he’d done since the day he’d overheard her tell Anne she wasn’t sure which she despised more, England’s rainy weather or Grandfather’s constant control over everything they did. Their every day was controlled by the schedule he dictated, from the moment they woke up and had to practice waltzing and curtsying with a book on their heads with Mrs. Young, until the end of the night when they were required to practice the pianoforte and embroidery. She could not wait to be out from under his command. She wasn’t sorry the butler knew it, nor did she care much that he disapproved of her.
Jemma stopped on her way to the staircase as Mr. Sims cleared his throat. Anne collided with Jemma from behind, and Jemma turned to her sister and raised a questioning eyebrow. Honestly, Anne seemed awfully preoccupied lately. Jemma needed to find out what secret Anne was hiding.
“Did you need me, Mr. Sims?” Jemma asked.
“His Grace wishes to speak with you and your sister in his study.”
This was it! Jemma couldn’t help but grin. “Of course,” she said sweetly. “We’ll go straight there.”
Mr. Sims cracked a rare smile. “He’s most displeased.”
“Excellent!” she cooed, giggling when Mr. Sims frowned. As she sashayed past him, her stomach did a little flip. She hoped she hadn’t gone too far.
Anne caught Jemma at the elbow. “I hope you haven’t carried things too far!” she whispered.
Jemma gave a start. For all the times Anne made her think they shared very little in common for twins, whenever her sister voiced a thought Jemma had just had, it reminded her of their special connection. Jemma bit her lip. “Hopefully, it was just far enough to cancel my debut but not get me disowned.”
Anne’s eyes widened with obvious worry.
Jemma patted her hand as they neared the open door to Grandfather’s study. “Don’t worry so. It will be fine.”
Before she could say anything else, Mrs. Young appeared in the doorway. She nodded to Anne and then fastened her faded-blue gaze on Jemma. “Here is a bit of advice before I depart.”
“Depart? Where are you going?” Her heart skipped a beat. This could be good or bad. Maybe Grandfather had dismissed Mrs. Young because he’d decided he needed to hire a new tutor. Or could it mean Mrs. Young was leaving because Grandfather thought Jemma ready to debut? She gulped.
Mrs. Young’s lips puckered before her mouth pulled into a victorious smile. “If you are going to deceive someone, my dear, you need to remember to keep the deception up at all times. And that just might be the most important rule of being a member of the ton you will ever need to know.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
A derisive sound came from the woman’s throat. “I’m sure you do. Do you know what I saw from the library window yesterday when you were in the garden with the servant children?”
It took all Jemma’s concentration not to cry out in dismay. Her tutor must have seen her showing one of the servants’ daughters how to properly curtsy. They’d asked her to teach them, and she’d obliged, thinking she was alone.
“I haven’t the faintest notion,” she fibbed.
The woman snorted. “Your voice just faltered. Try holding your breath before you tell a lie. These are the things all proper English ladies know. But you are American, after all.”
“Jemma and Anne!” Grandfather’s voice boomed from his study. Jemma jerked where she stood, then cursed under her breath that the old goat ruffled her so.
Mrs. Young departed with a snicker, and Jemma pushed her shoulders back, tilted her chin up, and took Anne’s hand. “All will be well.”
Anne nodded, even as she sucked in her lower lip.
As they strolled into the study, Jemma’s gaze went to Grandfather’s desk but found the chair he usually sat in was empty. She located him in a small, blue velvet chair with delicately carved arms. She knew it had been her grandmother’s chair. She furrowed her brow. With his long legs and solid build, he looked positively stuffed into the tiny chair. Whyever would he sit there when he had so many more comfortable, more spacious options? Could it be that he actually missed her grandmother? She shook her head. No, the man was too cold to miss anyone.
Without looking up from what he was reading, he said, “Sit,” as if commanding two dogs, and flourished a hand toward the settee opposite him.
Jemma and Anne sat, pressed close together, and waited in silence for him to speak. The longcase clock ticked the seconds by, and Jemma felt her temper start to rise at his high-handed treatment. She narrowed her eyes. What the devil was he reading anyway? She leaned nearer to check the title, barely held her gasp in, and nudged Anne.
Anne gave her a questioning look as Jemma jerked her head at the magazine for ladies that Grandfather was reading. Anne’s eyes were like twin pools of astonishment when she met Jemma’s gaze.
Grandfather lowered the magazine and nodded to Anne. “You look well today, Granddaughter.”
That was the only compliment he ever gave.
“Thank you,” Anne murmured.
“I had something special made for you debut.”
A genuine smile lit Anne’s face that made Jemma smile, as well. “What is it?” Anne asked graciously.
Grandfather stood, went to his desk, and retrieved a box with the hand that was not holding the magazine. He brought the gift to Anne and stood over them as she opened it. Inside was a pair of lovely white satin slippers.
Jemma frowned. It was nice, a startling gesture of thoughtfulness and kindness from a man who had not showed either of them any true affection since meeting them six months prior, but it was odd.
“Er, thank you,” Anne said.
Grandfather chuckled, and Anne and Jemma both flinched in surprise. “Pick them up,” he instructed. “One has a thicker heel than the other to accommodate the leg that is shorter.”
Anne picked it up with an exclamation of delight and jumped up to hug him. To Jemma’s amazement, he didn’t disentangle himself as he usually did when Anne tried to hug him, but he did have a pained, uncomfortable look on his face that twisted his features as he stood there, stiff as a board. When Anne released him, Jemma heard his sigh of relief. What her poor grandmother must have endured being married to such a cold man...
As if he knew she was thinking of him, he trained his piercing blue gaze on her. “You are your mother’s daughter,” he said in an emotionless tone.
Jemma arched her eyebrow. “I don’t suppose that’s a compliment?” she replied, her irritation at his utter lack of emotion making her forget to temper her tone so she would not sound as snarky as she felt.
“I don’t suppose it is today. Mrs. Featherstone is beside herself that you and Anne slipped out of the house this morning without her. You’re not to go out without your chaperone. Am I clear?”
“Yes, but I don’t need a chaperone. I’m perfectly capable of—”
“Getting into trouble,” he interrupted sharply. “I know of your race in the park today. For a smart girl you make incredibly stupid decisions. You are in London now. There are apparently very different rules for how ladies behave here than those to which you had to adhere in America.”
She fisted her hands behind her. Not really, but she didn’t want him to know that.
“I thought perhaps you might need more time to learn how to behave properly,” he continued, “but Mrs. Young informed me of your curtsy lesson in the garden yesterday and suggested you were willfully playing ignorant to irritate me.” He stared at her, unblinking, and despite how hard she willed it not to happen, heat rose to her cheeks. Her grandfather’s eyes narrowed. “Very well. You will cease trying to irritate me. It’s worked, but you will still debut.”
“But—”
He dropped the magazine into her lap. “I purchased this for you. I thought you might wish to browse the fashions for your trunks once you are married.”
Her plan had failed, which meant she now had to move on to a game of cat
and mouse. She was, of course, to be the hunted mouse, with her grandfather, she supposed, as the unbending, ever-controlling owner. Truly, he thought her his chattel to govern as he wished.
Two years. She would be one and twenty in two years. She could do this. She could save the money and run her own bakery. She gripped the magazine so hard that the pages crinkled under her grasp.
Boiling inside, she flipped open the magazine and turned the pages, stopping at a drawing of a gown that looked particularly daring and scandalous with its low cut. Really, it shocked her, but if she ordered all her gowns created like this one, surely Grandfather would not let her go out in them. She had just found a temporary reprieve to beginning the Season! She grinned until a shadow fell over the page. She jerked her gaze to her grandfather’s and forced a smile that she prayed appeared sweet. “When might Anne and I go into Town and order our gowns for the Season?”
He waved a dismissing hand. “Don’t you recall being measured by Madame Alexis when you arrived here?”
Dread curled in Jemma’s belly, but she tried to ignore it. Surely, she had a say in what she wore. “Of course, but I assumed Anne and I would choose our gowns for our debut.”
“They’ve already been chosen by me,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. Jemma had to clench her teeth to keep from telling him what he could do with his authoritarian ways and debutante gowns. Everything Mother had said about him was true. He was a cold fish who liked to have everyone and everything around him under his thumb.
She rose on trembling legs. “Might I go now?” she choked out.
“In a moment. I want to speak to both of you of your dowries.”
“Our dowries?” Jemma could not help but gape.
Grandfather nodded. “I’ve decided to settle ten thousand pounds on each of you.”
Anne gasped, and Jemma’s own breath caught in her throat.
Grandfather waved a hand at them. “No thanks are necessary.”
“Thank you,” Anne quickly murmured.
Thank him! Jemma grasped at her neck, finding it difficult to get air. This was dreadful. A dowry would bring out all sorts of rakes desperate to marry her for the money. She could well imagine two long years of trying to avoid marriage proposals. That dowry did her no good. No good at all. She wanted no part of marriage.
Grandfather eyed her for a moment, then said, “My stipulation with your dowries is that they must remain a secret. After my experience with your father seducing your mother right under my very nose, I’ll take no chances with either of you being trapped into marriage with the wrong sort of man because he wants your dowry. Of course, I’m more concerned about Anne.”
Jemma tensed. “And why is that?” she demanded.
He frowned at her. “Because you’ll marry Lord Glenmore, of course.”
Jemma bit her tongue so as not to reply.
Grandfather studied his nails for a long moment before continuing. “A word here, a whisper there. It won’t be hard to convince the ton that I’ve refused to dower the two of you because of your mother’s betrayal. Servants talk, so I’ll be sure to mention it around them.”
Yes, the servants do talk, Jemma thought, her stomach clenching into a big knot. He had never forgiven Mother, and he was only giving Jemma and Anne dowries because he wanted to control their lives. He was high-handed, to be sure, but in this instance, for Anne’s protection, Jemma was glad. Anne wanted to marry, though it boggled Jemma’s mind that Anne could even think of trusting a man.
“Anne, don’t fret.” Grandfather’s words made Jemma’s brow crease. “I’ll find an excellent husband for you, as well.”
Anne’s face drained of color, which Jemma completely understood. Had Anne thought Grandfather was going to let her choose? Maybe now Anne would decide to avoid marriage as Jemma had.
Jemma needed to be alone. Her emotions swirled inside her, and she was afraid she’d forget herself and tell her grandfather what she really thought of his generous dowry. “I’m in agreement. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go bake.”
His mouth turned down. “I’ve allowed it thus far because I know that’s all the two of you knew in America, but really, Granddaughter, ladies do not bake. Or cook. We have servants to do that for you.”
“I enjoy baking,” she said through clenched teeth. It was the one thing that kept her from going insane. It was the only time she could make any of her own decisions.
“Very well.”
A short time later, she was pounding the dough with her fists as one of the cooks gaped at her. She offered a weak smile. “The dough needs to be very flat.”
The cook snorted. “If that dough were once alive, it’d now be dead. It’s flat, Miss Adair.”
Jemma nodded and gave it one extra smack to lessen her anger. She inhaled a long, slow breath and recited in her mind, He won’t lord over me forever, as she baked.
Philip sat in Aversley’s study and faced his longtime friend.
Aversley steepled his fingers and surveyed Philip with eyes too keen for Philip’s liking. “What brings you here today?”
Philip cleared his throat. “The loan. I cannot yet pay you back. I’m sorry.”
Aversley waved a hand. “Think nothing of it.”
Philip flinched. “I do think something of it. I borrowed it with a promise to pay you back, and I’m a man of my word.”
Aversley sighed. “I know that, but you are also family now. If you cannot pay the loan back, I don’t care.”
Philip leaped out of his seat and paced in front of Aversley’s desk. “It’s a matter of pride and honor. I will pay you back. I want you to know that.” He stopped, placed his hands on the desk, and stared at Aversley.
Aversley nodded. “Very well. I understand about pride, and I commend you. Do you have a plan?”
Philip motioned to the sidebar. He needed a drink before he voiced his plan. Hell, he needed a drink to be able to voice his plan. “May I?”
“Certainly.”
Philip started toward the sidebar and stopped midway, dragging his hand over his face. He stared down at the swirling pattern of the green-and-burgundy rug. How had it come to this? His father had put them in the debt, but Philip blamed only himself for somehow not managing to get them out of it. “I’m seven and twenty and on the verge of being destitute. And I am taking my unsuspecting mother and Eustice down with me.”
“Eustice?” Aversley asked from behind Philip. “Who’s Eustice?”
“The cousin I am now sponsoring for the Season,” Philip said, continuing to the sideboard. He poured himself two fingers of brandy, then turned and faced Aversley once more.
Aversley shook his head. “You’re too nice. You should have said no.”
Philip took a sip of his drink. “Is that what you would have done?”
Aversley frowned. “Perhaps at one time, when I was more of a rake, before I met your sister.”
“You were still a rake when you met my sister.”
“True.” Aversley grinned. “She has told me before that all women know reformed rakes make the best husbands.”
The words sprang an idea in Philip’s mind. “That’s it!” he exclaimed.
“What’s it?” Aversley asked, his face a mirror of bewilderment.
Philip strode back to the chair and sat down. “I need to become a rake to catch a wealthy bride.”
“You wish to do what?” Aversley bellowed, his brows dipping together.
Philip sliced a hand through the air, ignoring Aversley’s question and his astonished look. “You and Scarsdale were both rakes who professed not to want love. You both lied to the women you ended up with, didn’t particularly show them love to begin with, and yet you both captured the woman you wanted.”
Aversley’s jaw fell open, and he stared at Philip for a long moment. “I beg your pardon? I must not have heard you correctly.”
“You heard me,” Philip said and took another, deeper drink of his brandy. The liquid warmed his stomach but not his he
art.
“There must be another way to pay your debts besides becoming a rake and finding a wealthy wife.”
Philip shook his head. “Believe me, I’ve considered every option. It is my only one.”
“What about employment, since you won’t borrow?”
“And what do you think the ton would say?” Philip growled.
Aversley arched an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware you gave a damn.”
Philip swigged back his drink and slammed the now-empty tumbler on the desk. “For myself, I don’t. But to protect my mother from anything that may make her slide back into the grip of laudanum, I would sell my soul.”
A dark look passed over Aversley’s face, and the man nodded, rose, walked to the sidebar, and came back carrying the decanter of brandy and a glass. Facing Philip, he leaned against the desk and filled both of their glasses. He raised his drink, and Philip did the same.
Aversley took a long breath and said, “May you not regret this.”
Philip took a drink and allowed the liquor to warm him. He swirled the amber liquid around as he stared into his glass. “What do you think my chances are of securing an heiress whom I love?”
Aversley tilted his glass back, drank the brandy, and set the crystal tumbler down. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“How honest are you going to be?”
“I’m certainly not going to announce to the entire ton that I need to marry an heiress because my father was the worst money manager to ever live. Yet, if a woman I’m courting asks me directly if my family is in financial trouble, I’ll not lie.”
Aversley shrugged. “Five percent, then.”
Philip leaned forward, cupping his chin in his hand. His thoughts were too damn heavy to hold his head up any longer. He looked sideways at Aversley. “Would it make me a liar if I don’t offer the truth unless asked?”
My Enchanting Hoyden (A Once Upon A Rogue Novel, #3) Page 5
