Patience stared at her husband, stunned by his words. “Oh,” she murmured. Her face brightened after a moment. “Well, I suppose this is good news.”
Emelia gasped. “I was the messenger of it.”
Her mother nodded. “We sent it in by post, as well, just to back up what you were telling Mr. Pepperidge. So your gossip would seem more believable to him. I know you’re not capable of gossiping. ”
A knock at the study door had the three of them inhaling sharply. “Come!” Aimsley called out, deciding there was nothing more to be discussed. Whether or not Emelia ended up married to the Earl of Fennington depended on the two of them.
As for his opinion on the matter, he found he really didn’t have one at the moment. That is, until Hummel opened the door and announced that the Earl of Fennington was still in the vestibule.
Now, this should be interesting, he thought before helping his wife to her feet and then turning to his daughter and offering her a hand as well. “I’ll hear what he has to say. In the meantime, you two make yourselves scarce.” He bussed Patience on the cheek and led them to the study door. Turning his attention to Hummel, he said, “Give me a minute and then bring him here.”
“What will you …?” Emelia started to ask.
“Off with you,” he replied, pushing her toward the door. “I’ll see to the rogue.”
Emelia screwed her face into a determined scowl. “I want to be present when you do.”
Aimsley sighed and rolled his eyes for probably the twelfth time that day. “So you can pay witness to me challenge him to a duel?” he countered.
Her eyes wide in shock, Emelia shook her head. “Father, no!”
The earl took a deep breath and held it for a moment, making sure his face reddened enough to make him appear angry. “Will you promise to marry Fennington?”
Staring at her father in horror, Emelia gulped.
Chapter 36
The Offending Earl Makes an Appearance
Now, dear reader, they claim love is deaf and dumb. We believe it is stupid, too. At least, it seems to make some people do stupid things, and always with the understanding that they will be forgiven their foible. ~ The new editor’s first article in May 21, 1818 issue of The Tattler.
A moment later …
When he was sure the butler was headed to the front door and his wife was ensconced in her salon, Aimsley ducked back into his study. Rather than taking a seat behind the massive oak desk, he instead leaned against the front of it, his arms crossed and one knee bent so a booted toe rested in the Aubusson carpeting. When the butler appeared in the doorway with Lord Fennington in tow and stepped aside, Aimsley angled his head to one side.
Felix Turnbridge stopped just past the threshold, barely aware of how the butler seemed to slink away from behind him. He allowed an audible sigh and a deep nod. “I suppose you’re entitled to put a fist in my face,” he said quietly. “Heaven knows, I deserve it.”
Aimsley blinked, a bit surprised by the other earl’s comment.
The man had the gist of it, it seemed.
“I had a mind to,” he admitted. “And I might still do it. But I suppose I should ask you what the hell is going on?” He uncrossed his arms and stood up on both feet, his frame straightening to a height that nearly matched that of Lord Fennington’s.
Felix dared a glance behind him, aware the door was still open. He wondered how many servants might be lurking about, hoping to eavesdrop on two earls about to tussle over Lady Emelia Comber. He reached out and pulled the door hard enough so it swung and clicked shut on its own. “I’ve become rather enamored with your daughter,” he finally stated, his chin thrust out as he made the claim. He knew he had startled the other earl with his candor when Aimsley’s eyebrows both lifted in unison. “I very much want to make her my wife, but I have … I believe I have angered her.” His head drooped as he made the admission.
“Disappointed her, is more like it,” Aimsley countered with a sigh. He waved toward the chairs near the fireplace.
Felix shook his head. “I wondered if I might have the opportunity to press my case with her. She deserves an explanation, you see …”
“She deserves a better man than you,” the older earl countered with a roll of his eyes. He was suddenly aware of just how hurt the other man was, though. “But if she’ll agree to meet with you, then you have my permission,” he stated. He paused a moment. “First, though, tell me why an earl, of all people, would own a gossip rag. And go about in a disgusting disguise to gather gossip? Surely you must have others who could do the dirty work for you?” he half-asked with a good deal of annoyance.
Felix sighed again. “The disguise was a bit much, I agree, but it was necessary as I wished to spend more time with Lady Emelia. I was already at the agreed upon limit as Lord Fennington, but by making her agree to meet with me as Mr. Pepperidge, I was granted another half-hour or so of her time and attention every week. I cannot tell you how blessed I felt, nor how ashamed I am at having pretended to blackmail her in order to get that precious time with her.”
Aimsley stared at Felix, his head barely shaking as he listened to the explanation. “Oh, my God, you do love her,” he whispered as realization dawned.
“I do,” Felix agreed, nodding twice. “I fear I may have made too many cakes of this to ever gain admittance to her kitchen again, so to speak, but with your permission, I should like to try. I owe her a thousand apologies. And an explanation, I suppose. I tried earlier, but …”
The other earl frowned at the mention of too many cakes and hoped his daughter’s kitchen hadn’t been literally visited by Fennington. His daughter’s kitchen had better be in pristine condition! Why, if there was a bun in the oven …
Aimsley shook his head, realizing Fennington meant the words metaphorically. He finally nodded and was about to reply when he remembered there was someone else in the study. Someone besides Lord Fennington.
He glanced toward the fireplace, aware that his chair—the one he had been sitting in during his conversation with his wife and Emelia, the one that was usually angled toward the fireplace—had been turned so it faced the wall. Although he wasn’t positive anyone was sitting in it, he was fairly sure it was occupied. “I believe you’ve had her undivided attention ever since you entered this room,” Aimsley murmured as he stepped away from the desk and moved toward the fireplace. There, in his favorite wingback chair, was Emelia holding a damp hanky to her nose. A few tears were apparent on her cheeks, but she was no longer crying. And her attention was decidedly not on him but on something in her mind’s eye. That is, until he cleared his throat.
“I used to think having a daughter would be easy,” he stated when she lifted her red-rimmed eyes to meet his. “Your mother only ever cried when someone died. Or that one time when Lady Pettigrew wore the very same gown as she did to some garden party …”
“It was the queen’s garden party!” Emelia whispered hoarsely, a brow furrowing at her father’s odd comment. “And mother wore it much better. She had the figure for it,” she stated firmly.
Her father frowned, not at all expecting a comeback such as that from his daughter. “Nevertheless, I have paid witness to your tears twice in one day. Seeing you upset like this makes me want to put a fist into the face of the one who has caused them.”
Emelia straightened in the chair. “Oh, no. Please don’t,” she answered with a quick shake of her head. “And these tears are merely leftover from when you last saw me only a few minutes ago,” she argued with a shake of her head. She lowered the hanky and angled her head, a move that copied what he did many a night at the dinner table.
For some reason, the familiar gesture had the earl allowing a grin. “I’ll give you two ten minutes, and not an hour more,” he teased.
Emelia’s eyes widened at the odd comment. “You’re going to leave me alone with him?” she whispered in alarm.
Her father shrugged. “You’ve spent far longer than that with him whilst in
the park, young lady. Just promise me you won’t kill the man. I don’t think your mother could abide the scandal, even if she was the one who would report it to The Tattler.”
Blinking, Emelia took a moment to realize her father was teasing her.
At least, she hoped he was.
She had no intention of killing Lord Fennington. Maiming him, yes. Or giving him a piece of her mind so that his ears would burn for a week, yes. “Assure Mother I shall avoid a scandalous act,” she said, her voice a bit louder.
Realizing she wanted to be on her feet—Lord Fennington was tall enough and certainly didn’t need to be towering over her as she listened to his apologies—Emelia stood up from the chair. She smoothed her skirts and wiped away the remaining tears from her face before coming out from behind the chair.
Barely aware of her father taking his leave of the study—her attention was entirely on Felix Turnbridge—Emelia dared a breath and dipped a curtsy when he gave a deep bow. She had barely straightened before he was suddenly right in front of her, his hands having captured one of hers to raise it to his lips to kiss the back of it.
Lingering far longer than he had a right, Felix continued to hold her hand to his lips. When he finally straightened, he left his head bent so his forehead nearly touched hers. “Please, forgive me, Lady Emelia. Forgive my ruse. I never intended for you to feel threatened by my words …”
“But I did,” Emelia countered.
“I know that now, of course,” Felix agreed. “I know you would never tell secrets. It’s not in your nature to be a gossip.”
“And yet, you are.”
Felix inhaled sharply. “It’s true, I publish The Tattler. I do so because …” He paused, not sure if he wanted to admit just how desperate he had been for funds when he had the idea to profit from what he thought was harmless gossip.
“Because?” Emelia prompted him. The scents of amber cologne and citrus laundry soap suddenly washed over her, enveloping her in a familiar comfort. She wanted nothing more than to simply allow herself to fall against him, to allow his arms to pull her close, to rest her head in the small of his shoulder and pretend nothing untoward had happened.
But it had.
Felix Turnbridge was the publisher of The Tattler. He was Mr. Pepperidge, her blackmailer. He was everything she loved and despised all in one package.
“I wanted to be able to support a wife and family,” Felix finally admitted.
Emelia frowned. “But, you’re an earl,” she retorted.
Felix nodded. “I was a very poor earl. Thanks to his excessive gambling, my father left the estate in a disaster of debt, I’m afraid. I sold every unentailed property to help cover the debts, but I still found myself owing thousands of pounds to bill collectors. To gaming hells. I discovered my father had spread his debt far and wide, you see.”
Shaking her head, Emelia wondered how that could be. Felix was always impeccably dressed. His townhouse appeared, at least from the outside, to be one of the premiere properties in Bruton Street. He drove a sporty phaeton. He owned a matched set of greys that must have cost a fortune at Tattersall’s as well as a Percheron that was his prized possession. “No one would believe you are poor,” she argued with another shake of her head.
Angling his head to one side, Felix sighed. He had never thought to speak of money to a woman before, but now it seemed necessary. Essential. “Because I am no longer poor, my lady. Thanks to what I’ve made from the weekly sales of The Tattler, I have restored the Fennington earldom to its former state of glory. I have bought back the furnishings I had to sell, the lands adjacent to Fennington Park in Gloucester, the property in London. My bank account is once again flush and able to cover the monthly bills and afford me the opportunity to court a woman with the intention of marrying her, and all because people are willing to pay for gossip.”
Emelia couldn’t help but flinch at that last bit. “Will you continue to profit from gossip, my lord?” she asked in a quiet voice. “After you are wed?”
Inhaling sharply, Felix considered her question. “That depends, my lady.”
Furrowing her brows, Emelia shook her head. “On … on what?”
Felix sighed. He really didn’t wish to answer the question, but realized she would learn the truth if he didn’t provide it first. “On the dowry of the woman I marry.”
Emelia gasped and nearly stepped back, but one of his arms had moved to the back of her waist and kept her close. “Surely your earldom brings you some income, I should think,” she countered with a shake of her head.
“A bit. Enough to cover the expenses to repair cottages for the farmers and to pay the servants. To buy seed and cover pensions for those who have retired from service to the earldom. But that is all.”
Emelia swallowed. The Aimsley earldom must have been far more profitable for her father. She never heard him bemoan his financial state. There had been the one time when he complained about having to set aside the funds for her dowry, but he had made the comment in jest.
At least, she thought he had made it in jest. Was fifty thousand pounds a lot of money?
For a man to rely on his wife’s dowry to provide financial support for the rest of their lives meant he had no other means of income. An aristocrat wasn’t exactly allowed to work. No wonder Lord Fennington had worn a disguise when he was Mr. Pepperidge. The ton would have a field day when they learned Felix Turnbridge was Mr. Pepperidge!
If they learned he was Mr. Pepperidge.
“How is it you’re able to hide your avocation from the ton, my lord?” Emelia wondered in a quiet voice, not the least bit bothered by how his free hand came up to cup the side of her face. By how his lips seemed to hover just inches from her own.
“A very poor disguise, it seems,” he murmured.
“Mr. Pepperidge is not a very handsome man,” she agreed.
“But the Earl of Fennington? What do you think of him, my lady?” he whispered.
“Oh, Lord Fennington is a very handsome man, my lord,” Emelia replied quietly, wondering if she should simply stand up on tip-toe and kiss the man. God knew she wanted to.
Even if he was Mr. Pepperidge.
Eeewww.
“For that, I think I should bestow a kiss on her ladyship,” Felix murmured, his arms moving to pull her against the front of his body. From her manner, he realized she must have forgiven him. Must have understood his reasons for having become Mr. Pepperidge.
Perhaps talk of money was necessary when gaining a woman’s trust. A woman’s agreement to marry him.
“Not unless that kiss includes a marriage proposal.”
The two suddenly moved apart as if a strong wind had blown them away from one another, although Emelia held onto one of Felix’s hands as if to ground herself.
Mark Comber stood in the doorway of his study, his head angled to one side as he regarded his daughter and the Earl of Fennington. “I gave you ten minutes …”
“You said an hour,” Emelia argued, her free hand moving to rest on a hip to indicate her annoyance.
One of Aimsley’s bushy eyebrows ascended to nearly his hairline. “For that, young lady, I may force you to marry Fennington,” he warned. “Especially now that I have your Mother convinced. I do hope you understand how difficult that was to accomplish.”
Emelia dared a glance at Felix. “He hasn’t yet offered, Father,” she replied with a shake of her head, one of her own eyebrows arching up in a counter warning.
The earl’s eyes widened, and he suddenly gave a short bow. “Carry on,” he sighed as he quickly took his leave of the study. Before he had closed the door, Emelia realized her mother was also out in the hall.
Faith! Was the entire household listening at the door to the study?
Emelia turned to regard Felix, her eyes suddenly hooded. “He had a point,” she whispered.
“A kiss first,” Felix replied, pulling her into his arms and covering her lips with his own.
Emelia was about to
protest, but what good would it do? She wanted the kiss as much or more than he did. A kiss that matched the one he had bestowed on her in Lord Weatherstone’s garden. The one that had launched all the events of the last eight weeks into motion. The one that had her imagining how she might spend her days and nights in Felix Turnbridge’s company. Imagining a life as a countess of a poor earldom, but one with tenant farmers who were content and pensioners who could afford their retirements. Imagining an heir and a spare and daughters to keep them in their place.
When Felix finally ended the kiss, mostly because he needed to breathe and partly because he needed to propose before they were interrupted again, he allowed a wan smile when he watched as Emelia slowly opened her eyes.
“Yes, I will marry you,” she said with a nod.
Felix sighed. Spared from having to form another verbal proposal of marriage—he had asked her in Lord Weatherstone’s garden only the hour before—he simply nodded. “Thank you,” he replied.
Before the two could give up their holds on one another, the door to the study burst open and Patience Comber stepped in. “Well?” she said, her eyes wide and bouncing back and forth between Felix and her daughter.
“We are to marry,” Felix replied with a nod.
And with a good deal of relief.
Chapter 37
A Gossip Rag Becomes the Talk of the Town
May 15, 1818 in the offices of The Tattler
Patience Comber entered the back office of The Tattler and regarded the fine furnishings and the carpet. She admired the bookshelf and its collection of reference books, rather glad she had negotiated to have them included in her purchase. She took note of the inkwell and the pens at the top of the blotter. She studied the seal for correspondence, deciding it would do. She took a seat in the large leather chair, rather liking how balanced it seemed. But her favorite item had to be the nameplate that the sign painter had mounted on the office door only moments ago.
The Gossip of an Earl (The Widows of the Aristocracy Book 1) Page 27
