The Forbidden Lord

by Sabrina Jeffries

“Yes,” Jordan said coolly, “do tell us what it’s like, Lady Emma.”

  Emily went blank…until she caught sight of Lady Dundee, looking out one of the upstairs windows. Bits and pieces of what the countess had told her floated into her mind, spoken in the woman’s homesick tones. Lady Dundee had made her see Dundee Castle and its lands with perfect clarity. After all, what was a place but what one saw in it?

  She gazed up at Jordan, but in her mind, she looked into Lady Dundee’s face, heard her wistful voice. “Scotland as a whole? I can’t begin to describe it all. But Dundee Castle in Campbell Glen, where we live, stands at the top of a grassy hill with slopes as soft as silk that careen down toward a perfect, clear lake.”

  “The Scottish call them ‘lochs,’” Jordan said dryly.

  “Yes, of course. I didn’t think you’d know that, being English.” She went on. “Beyond the loch is a craggy mountain where we played as children. The wind and rain have carved the rocks into fantastical shapes, so that it looks like gargoyles watching over us when we swim.”

  “Swim?” Pollock said. “Isn’t the water too cold for swimming?”

  “Most of the year, yes.” She stared off in the distance, lost in the tales the countess had spun for her. “But in the middle of summer, it’s warm enough. Even Mama swims then. And when the sun sets behind the hill, reaching out its fingers of gold and crimson as if to clutch the earth close a bit longer, there’s no place lovelier.”

  “It sounds beautiful,” a female voice said. “Like something out of a dream.”

  Only then did Emily realize she’d drawn the rapt attention of several of the ladies.

  Jordan rolled his eyes. “Yes, like something out of a dream. Or a fairy tale.”

  Mindful of her audience, she said, “The Scottish who live around Campbell Glen do claim that fairies live in the forests beyond Dundee Castle.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “If you venture into the woods at night, you can see them, like a thousand fireflies, swirling in circles with their tiny, gossamer wings.”

  When Jordan snorted, the women glared at him, then moved their chairs closer to her. “Do tell us more. You’ve seen the fairies?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” The general sigh of disappointment led her to add, “But I’ve seen traces of them, of course. Circles in the grass on the hillside.”

  “How lovely,” a young woman gushed. “I’ve always thought Scotland the most romantic place.”

  “Which only demonstrates that you’ve been reading too many far-fetched tales by that idiot Walter Scott,” Jordan said.

  “Have you no romantic feeling in you?” the woman retorted. “Can’t you see how such poetry and stories enrich the soul?”

  “Yes,” Emily said mischievously, “have you no romantic feeling in you, Lord Blackmore?”

  “Blackmore doesn’t have feelings at all, much less romantic ones.” Pollock lounged back in his flimsy wooden chair. “He doesn’t even believe in love. Just last night, he told me love was a fickle emotion for fools to indulge in. Ladies, you see before you a man incapable of romantic feeling.”

  Emily’s gaze shot to Jordan.

  “Pollock has caught me out, I’m afraid.” Jordan’s voice was as chilly and black as a coal cellar in winter. “I don’t waste time on poetry and ‘romantic feeling’ and such nonsense. As for love, it’s a luxury I can’t afford. I’m much too busy to waste time on spurious emotions.”

  “Then your life must be dreary indeed,” Emily said sincerely. “Life is worth nothing without such luxuries. I pity anyone who has no time for them.”

  His eyes narrowed to slits, yet she didn’t regret her words. Someone should have said them to him long ago. He shouldn’t go through life believing himself above the very human emotions of his fellow men and women. No wonder he had a reputation for coldness, for being completely controlled.

  Every eye was on the two of them now, but Emily ignored their audience, assailed by a profound curiosity to know what had shaped him into this ice figure. It must have been something very tragic. Or perhaps he was just the rare creature born without the urge to love. If so, she pitied him even more.

  When the silence stretched out and became awkward, Pollock suddenly said, “Lady Emma, would you take a turn with me about the garden? I don’t believe you’ve seen Lady Astramont’s roses yet.”

  Dragging her gaze from Jordan, she cast Pollock a smile. “I certainly haven’t. I’d be pleased indeed if you would show them to me.”

  Pollock offered his arm and she clasped it eagerly, glad to escape Jordan’s dark looks and bitter opinions. But as they walked away, Jordan called out, “Lady Emma?”

  She halted and turned her head to look at him. “Yes?”

  “After you’re done with Pollock, I want a word with you.”

  He said it as if there was no question of her agreeing. Everyone’s eyes were on her, and they clearly expected the same. After all, he was quite an eligible catch. If he wanted a word with her, she was expected to drop all other amusements to indulge him.

  But she knew what he wanted to discuss. He wanted to trick her into revealing the truth, especially now that she’d roused his fury by criticizing him. She daren’t allow that.

  “I’m afraid that will be impossible, Lord Blackmore. I promised Mama that we could leave as soon as she finished seeing Lady Astramont’s house, and she must be nearly done. I’m sure she’ll meet up with us while we are in the gardens.”

  An angry flush darkened his handsome face. Being refused anything by a woman was clearly as unfamiliar to him as taking tea on the moon. Well, too bad. As long as he couldn’t be certain she was Emily Fairchild, he wouldn’t dare to expose her.

  “Another time perhaps,” he clipped out.

  “Yes, another time.” Feeling more sure of herself, she walked off with Pollock.

  Another time, indeed. If she had her way, it would come when pigs flew and fish took ferries, and not a minute sooner.

  Chapter 8

  Whom do we dub as Gentleman? The

  Knave, the fool, the brute—

  If they but own full tithe of gold, and

  Wear a courtly suit.

  Eliza Cook, English poet,

  “Nature’s Gentleman”

  Minutes later, Jordan stormed out of Lady Astramont’s after taking quick leave of his hostess. How dare Lady Emma rebuff him before a crowd of people!

  He leapt into his carriage and ordered Watkins to drive to his club, her words still burning his ears. Then your life must be dreary indeed. The little chit had actually pitied him! Him! The Earl of Blackmore! A man who’d accomplished more in his lifetime than a dozen noblemen!

  Just because he didn’t wander the streets in a perpetual state of infatuation like that fool Pollock didn’t mean his life was hollow and meaningless. No, indeed. He was respected, envied even, by all who knew him.

  Perhaps he did go to bed alone most nights. And there was the occasional time—more often, now that his stepsister had moved out—when his house felt like a pharaoh’s rich and cavernous tomb. Sometimes life worked out that way. Chasing after love’s dubious promises only brought disappointment, as he’d learned very young. If one allowed oneself to crave affection and happiness and to hope for more than simple contentment, one suffered pain. It was a fact of life.

  Yet her voice still troubled his thoughts. Life is worth nothing without such luxuries.

  As if a woman her age knew anything about life! He snorted as he gazed out the window at the dingy dusk laying a gray, unforgiving cast over every muddy walkway, especially in this part of London. An aging strawberry seller trudged silently homeward, tugging a cart of half-sold berries with bare, chapped hands. Farther along, a whore stood under the oil lamp seeking companions before the sun had even hidden its face.

  Though he’d been raised with wealth and privilege, he’d seen a great many such sights, especially once his reformer stepmother had married his father. Indeed, sometimes he felt guilty that he’d escaped su
ch penury. Anyone who did escape it should feel fortunate enough, without asking for more.

  Yes, love was a luxury, more so than Emily…Lady Emma…whoever she was…could ever know. Until Nesfield and Lady Dundee had dressed her up and set her on display, she’d never even left the country. What did she know of love’s fickle nature, the way some people held out a promise of it, then snatched it away?

  He curled his fingers into fists. She was a babe in the woods with her teasing and flirting and lofty statements about life. She thought that because she wore satin gowns and spoke eloquently, because her companions lapped up her every fanciful word, she could say what she pleased and act irresponsibly.

  Well, she was wrong. Such behavior would bring her a great deal of attention in the worst quarters. If she weren’t careful, men would treat her as some fast-and-loose sort, and she’d be in deep trouble.

  If she were Lady Emma, she would find herself compromised by some fortune hunter. And if she were Emily in masquerade? He scowled. Nesfield wouldn’t help her one whit if she got herself into trouble. Jordan couldn’t fathom what Nesfield was about—or Lady Dundee, for that matter, who’d seemed to be an intelligent woman—but it was obvious the man hadn’t created this masquerade to help Emily. Nesfield would merely take what he wanted from her, and leave her with nothing. So whatever she planned to achieve was doomed to failure, no matter what she thought.

  Ah, they’d reached Brook’s at last. He left the carriage and hurried inside. Brook’s was the favorite gentlemen’s club of many Whig members of Parliament and almost as old as its predominantly Tory counterpart, White’s, across the street. Its sedate atmosphere and stodgy décor generally soothed his temper immediately.

  Not today, however. He didn’t understand it. Here, among his sensible peers, he ought to be able to relax. There were none of Astramont’s silly tittering females around, with their talk of fairies and romantic feeling.

  But there was also no Lady Emma. She was back at Lady Astramont’s, with Pollock. Pollock was the one brushing against her, smelling her lavender scent, listening to her melodic voice. Deuce take the man! And deuce take her, too. How dare she choose Pollock? Of course she’d done it to evade Jordan’s interrogations. It had to be. Still, whether she were Lady Emma or Emily, no one else had the right to her but him, and he’d make Pollock understand that the next time he saw the devil.

  The servant took his greatcoat, informing him in respectful tones that Lord St. Clair awaited him in the Subscription Room. He muttered a curse. He’d forgotten all about his appointment with Ian.

  When he entered the Subscription Room it took a few moments to find the viscount through the haze of tobacco smoke, but at last he spotted him in a corner. Ian lounged in a chair beneath a sconce, with a pipe in one hand and his pocket watch in the other. He glanced up and saw Jordan, then tapped the face of his watch as Jordan approached.

  Jordan settled into the armchair opposite him and grumbled, “I’m here, Ian. You can put away the watch and the incredulous look.”

  With a grin, Ian snapped the watch cover crisply shut, then restored it to his waistcoat. “That’s twice now, Jordan. Since you’re never late, I can only assume this is the early onset of senility. If you’re not careful, you’ll soon be doddering about with unlaced boots and talking to yourself.”

  “Very amusing, I’m sure. Last night was Pollock’s fault. Tonight, I simply forgot. It happens, you know, even to me. I’ve a great deal on my mind these days.”

  “Lady Emma perhaps?” When Jordan scowled at him, he added, “You said you were planning to attend Lady Astramont’s breakfast, but I really didn’t think you would. You find her as annoying as the rest of us.”

  Jordan took a cheroot from the gold case sitting on the table between them with its array of the Times and other papers. He lit it, then drew the soothing smoke into his lungs. “Yes, but Emily Fairchild was there. And I told you, I’ll do what I must to prove she’s an impostor.”

  Drawing deep on his pipe, Ian shrugged. “Why not just write to Miss Fairchild’s father and ask where she’s staying in London? If he gives you Nesfield’s town-house address, then you know Lady Emma and Miss Fairchild are one and the same.”

  “I already thought of that, but I doubt it would do any good. Her father would have to be part of the scheme, or else why would he have let her come? Besides, the minute a letter arrives from me, questions will be raised about how Emily knows the Earl of Blackmore. You know how those country towns are: nothing but gossip.”

  “Why is that a problem?”

  “Because I was almost caught having a tête-à-tête with her in a carriage a couple of months ago.”

  “You in a carriage with a complete innocent?” Ian tapped his pipe on the arm of his chair. “You really are entering senility. How the bloody hell did that happen?”

  A business acquaintance approached from behind Ian, looking as if he might speak to them, but Jordan’s patented scowl made the man redirect his steps in a hurry. Then Jordan told Ian what had happened that night, leaving out the kisses, of course. “So you see, it wasn’t either of our faults, and we got out of it fairly well. But a letter from me would make people wonder about the night we were thought to be together. And if by some chance I’m wrong about Emily—”

  “Ah, so you admit you could be wrong. You saw her by moonlight, for God’s sake.”

  “I know.” Jordan puffed hard on the cheroot. And Lady Emma had described Castle Dundee in such loving detail. Yet there was something about her…“I don’t think I am. But I can’t take any chances. If Lady Emma isn’t Miss Fairchild, I wouldn’t want to ruin the latter woman’s reputation. The Miss Fairchild I met didn’t deserve to be gossiped about.”

  “There may be another, perfectly logical reason for Lady Emma’s resemblance to your friend Miss Fairchild.”

  “Oh?”

  “Lady Dundee is originally from the same area, is she not?”

  “Yes. The Nesfield seat is in Derbyshire. I imagine the countess spent her childhood there before she married.”

  “Then she and the Fairchilds may be distant relations. Plenty of second sons go into the clergy. Perhaps Mr. Fairchild is Nesfield’s cousin or something. That may even be why he was given the living.”

  Jordan drummed his fingers on the carved oak arm of the chair. He hadn’t considered that. An uneasy knot formed in his belly. What if all this time he’d been tormenting the woman for no good reason? Though both women shared similar features and spoke their minds, Lady Emma did differ markedly from Emily. Her coy flirtations bore no resemblance to Emily’s moralizing. And the way she kissed…

  Good God. He could be completely wrong. And that changed everything.

  “If you want to know for certain,” Ian continued, “why not go to Derbyshire?”

  “I fear that wouldn’t be any less discreet. But I could send Hargraves, if he can’t find anything out from Nesfield’s servants.”

  A dark look passed over Ian’s face. “I don’t know how much luck you’ll have there, even with Hargraves tackling the task.”

  “Why not?”

  “While you were at the breakfast, I went to Nesfield’s town house, hoping to speak to Lady Sophie. But the servants very politely rebuffed me, saying she was too sick for visitors. Don’t you find it odd that she should be ill so long?”

  Jordan blew out a puff of smoke. “Not necessarily. If ever a young woman was prone to illness, it’s Lady Sophie.”

  “True, but I think it’s her bloody father’s fault. I suspect that if she escaped his iron thumb, she’d be fine. Unfortunately, I have to go through Nesfield to get to her.”

  Jordan cast his friend a covert glance. This new preoccupation of Ian’s with marrying was beginning to disturb him. “I’m sure she’ll be well in a few days, and you’ll find a way around her father’s objections.”

  “I’m counting on Lady Emma to aid me with that.”

  “Lady Emma?”

  “If I can speak to her
alone. But for that I need your help.”

  Jordan regarded his friend thoughtfully. “I’ll be glad to help. As long as you help me speak to her alone as well.”

  Ian scowled. “See here, if you’re planning to browbeat the girl—”

  “I won’t browbeat her. I merely want to ask her some questions.”

  “I can well imagine,” Ian said with a snort.

  “I won’t do it any other way.”

  With a sigh, Ian set his pipe aside. “You’re really interested in her, aren’t you?”

  Lady Emma/Emily consumed his thoughts, bedeviled his sleep, and made him behave like a slobbering dog in a butcher shop. No woman had ever blown him off the carefully plotted course of his life before.

  Jordan glanced away. “I’m interested in determining the truth, that’s all.”

  “I take it your sally into the dark caves of Astramont proved pointless?”

  “You could say that.”

  “You couldn’t draw near your prey? Or when you did, she proved too wily for you?” The mocking way he said “wily” made Jordan bristle.

  “The girl evaded my questions, if that’s what you mean,” Jordan snapped. “If you’re dying to know everything that happened, ask Pollock. He was there, too.”

  “Pollock witnessed this great contretemps? This grows more interesting by the minute. Perhaps I’ll have Pollock help me with Lady Emma instead.”

  Jordan spoke without thinking. “If you do, I swear I’ll hang that preening popinjay with one of his own ridiculous cravats!”

  Ian broke into a grin. “By God, you’re jealous!”

  “Jealous! Of that dandy? Don’t be absurd!”

  But when Ian’s grin widened, Jordan busied himself with stubbing out his cheroot and hunting in the case for another. He wasn’t jealous. It merely disturbed him to think of an exquisite creature like Lady Emma with an idiot like Pollock. Unfortunately, thanks to his own fit of temper, she was probably strolling through the extensive Astramont gardens with Pollock at this very moment.

  What if she truly were some laird’s daughter looking for a husband? Could she possibly think Pollock would suit her, a man whose idea of entertainment was to drive about town in his phaeton showing off his newest gaudy waistcoat?