“You leave me little choice, do you?”
Emily nearly collapsed with relief. “Truly, you needn’t worry about me. I can handle myself. Besides, Mr. Pollock was the only one to take liberties. Every other man has been a perfect gentleman in my presence.”
“Even Blackmore?”
The woman’s perception was uncanny. Emily hesitated only a fraction of a second before lying. “Yes, even the earl.”
Now would come the questions about what Mr. Pollock had meant with his accusations. What could she say? How could she explain?
But apparently, Lady Dundee was as reluctant to probe that sore spot as she. “Very well. We shall go on as before.” When Emily started to thank her, she added, “Though I shall be a better chaperone from now on. I don’t want another occurrence like this.”
“Nor do I,” Emily said sincerely. Not even Lord Nesfield could expect that of her.
Chapter 9
Our opposers usually miscall our quickness of thought, fancy and flash, and christen their own heaviness by the specious names of judgement and solidity…
Mary Astell,
An Essay in Defence of the Female Sex
The language of the note Emily received the day after Lady Astramont’s breakfast was formal. The meaning behind it was not.
For the fourth time since it had arrived yesterday morning, Emily scanned the words scribbled on the back of Lord St. Clair’s card, trying to read between the lines.
Dear Lady Emma,
I would be honored if you would accompany me to the British Museum tomorrow. Lord Elgin’s marbles are on exhibit, and I believe you would enjoy seeing them. I could call for you at eleven a.m. if you decide to join me.
Your friend,
Ian, the Viscount St. Clair
She’d sent her acceptance at once, of course. She wasn’t about to pass up this opportunity. Still, the invitation intrigued her, coming from a man who proclaimed to be more interested in her cousin than in her. Tucking the card in her reticule, she walked over to where Lady Dundee stood in the foyer, choosing a cloak from among several that Carter, the butler, held up before her.
“Perhaps Lord St. Clair just intends this to be a friendly outing,” Emily said.
Lady Dundee raised her eyebrows. “Yes, and perhaps goblins truly do exist. St. Clair intends something more than a friendly outing, I assure you.”
“He certainly does.” Lord Nesfield had been watching them from his seat by the foyer table, his lorgnette bobbing back and forth as they talked. Now he scowled through it at Carter. “Lady Dundee can handle that herself. I will call you if we need you.”
They kept their silence while Carter walked away. The servants didn’t know about Emily’s masquerade, because neither the countess nor the marquess trusted them with the knowledge. Having never met Lady Dundee or her children, the servants had accepted Emily as the countess’s daughter without question.
Lady Dundee had even concocted a story to allow Emily to receive letters from her father without arousing suspicion. She’d told them that Emily, an expected guest, was traveling extensively before coming to London, and that they were holding her mail for her. That had allowed Emily to answer her father’s letters without alerting him to what was going on. All the subterfuge, however, made it difficult to talk when the servants were around.
As soon as Carter was out of sight, Lord Nesfield said, “The other night when St. Clair was here he questioned the servants about Sophie most thoroughly. I nearly revealed myself, I was so sure he was our man.” He sighed. “But then he left without so much as trying to bribe them to let him see her. I swear, I wish I knew what that scoundrel was about.”
“We’ll find out today,” Lady Dundee said.
“I do not see how,” he grumbled. “With you hovering about, he is not likely to say anything to Miss Fairchild. Let the chit go alone with him. She will find out more that way.”
“Randolph, I’m ashamed of you!” Lady Dundee picked up a snowy lace pelisse and handed it to Emily. “You would never send your own daughter on an outing unchaperoned. Have you no notions of decency?”
He scowled. “As if anything about this outing is decent. He is taking her to see the marbles, for God’s sake. Matters have come to quite a pass when a young man thinks that showing a young lady scandalous Greek art is the proper way to court her. I do not see what one more indiscretion will hurt.”
“That’s because you have peculiar notions about propriety.” The countess snorted. “Letting a young woman see great works of art is scandalous; letting her risk her virtue is not.”
“If you really want a chaperone, why not send Hannah?” Hannah was the lady’s maid they’d hired for Emily. “She is a timid sort. She will not prevent him from speaking to Miss Fairchild in private.”
“That’s precisely what I’m afraid of,” Lady Dundee muttered under her breath as she chose a parasol for herself.
“What? What’s that?” the marquess asked, peering through his lorgnette.
“Nothing, dear.” Lady Dundee winked at Emily. “Randolph, you mustn’t fret. We’ll gain Emily a few minutes alone with the man. It’ll suffice, I’m sure. With any luck, we can eliminate St. Clair as a suspect and focus on Mr. Pollock. After Lady Astramont’s breakfast, Emily and I both believe Pollock to be quite capable of running off with Sophie. He does stand to gain the most by marrying her.”
“Do not forget Blackmore,” Lord Nesfield put in. “He is a suspect as well.”
Lady Dundee paused in her search through the parasols. “At first I thought that was a silly idea; now I’m not so sure. He has been hovering about Emily a great deal. I suppose we should consider him a possibility.” She glanced at Emily. “Did he say anything to you at Lady Astramont’s breakfast, my dear? Ask you about Sophie?”
“We had no chance to be alone, I’m afraid,” she said truthfully, praying that Lady Dundee hadn’t heard about her public refusal to walk with him. She’d considered telling Lady Dundee about Jordan’s suspicions, but now feared it would only prompt Lady Dundee to end the masquerade and spark Lord Nesfield’s anger. No, she would have to weather this alone.
Lady Dundee chose a parasol. “A pity you couldn’t speak to him. Oh, well, there will be other chances.”
That’s what Emily was afraid of. Even this outing worried her. After all, Lord St. Clair and Jordan were friends. Lord St. Clair might have invited her only so he could question her on Jordan’s behalf.
But what if Jordan were the very one they sought? Despite Lord Nesfield’s silly theory, she hadn’t dismissed the possibility that Jordan might have cared for Sophie, and the only way to determine that was to speak to him alone.
At the sound of horses clopping along the pebbled drive outside, then halting, Lady Dundee pushed Emily toward the parlor. “Quick, my dear, go in there. It won’t look good to have you standing about waiting for St. Clair. Randolph, you must disappear. You don’t want to scare the man off, do you? Oh, where has my reticule gotten to? I swear, sometimes I think these bits of cloth are sewn small purposely to thwart me! Carter, come here!”
As Lord Nesfield limped off down the hall, Emily wandered into the parlor. She wished she’d thought to make a fortifying tincture for herself. She needed one today.
Lady Dundee hurried into the parlor, and shortly afterward they both heard the opening of the entrance door and a murmur of male voices in the hall. Then Carter entered and announced Lord St. Clair.
As soon as the viscount came in, he cast Emily a warm smile. He really was a charming man most of the time, even if he occasionally disquieted her. With his black hair and blacker eyes, he reminded her of a panther she’d seen in a book, all sleek and quiet and deadly.
Today, however, he was quite friendly. The requisite greetings were made, the polite bows and curtsies. Lord St. Clair didn’t even seem to flinch when Lady Dundee announced her intention to join them on the outing.
“So I have not one, but two lovely ladies to squire about. A fine
day it will be indeed.” He rubbed his hands together. “Well, are you ready to see the marbles?”
At their murmurs of assent, he offered them his arms and accompanied them to the front door. As they began to descend the stairs, Emily glanced down and spotted Jordan, standing beside the carriage—his carriage.
She halted abruptly. Wearing a chocolate-brown frock coat and form-fitting tan trousers, he looked casual, confident, and handsome as always. His eyes were on her, full of smug challenge. As her heart began to beat a wild and foolish tattoo, she dug her fingers into Lord St. Clair’s arm.
“I hope you don’t mind that I invited Lord Blackmore to join us,” Lord St. Clair said smoothly. “My carriage is much too small to accommodate three people comfortably, and Lord Blackmore gallantly offered his in exchange for the privilege of going along.”
Stop staring at him like a ninny, Emily chastised herself. That’s what he wants—to unnerve you.
She didn’t realize she still hesitated on the steps until Lord St. Clair said in a concerned tone, “Lady Emma, are you all right?”
Fighting to regain her composure, she forced a smile to her face. “Yes, of course. I…I just have a bit of a headache, that’s all, and coming out into the sun aggravated it.”
“If you have a headache, I’m sure St. Clair can postpone,” Lady Dundee put in.
“Indeed I can,” Lord St. Clair added, though he sounded disappointed. “Do you need to sit down?”
She wanted so badly to say yes, to flee into the house and claim that her headache would prevent her from going. But if she ran from him like a coward, Jordan would be even more convinced of her identity than before.
His mocking smile decided her. “No, I’m fine. It’s not that bad. I wouldn’t miss this outing for the world.”
As they reached the bottom of the steps, Lord St. Clair turned to hand Lady Dundee into the carriage, then followed her in, leaving Emily with Jordan. Their contact as he handed her in was brief, so brief no one would have remarked upon it, but Emily felt it clear to her toes. His fingers, supple but strong as they curled around her gloved hand…his thighs brushing her skirts…his other hand resting in the small of her back, warm and hard and shamefully familiar.
At least she didn’t have to sit beside him. Lord St. Clair had properly taken the seat facing backwards, leaving her to sit next to Lady Dundee.
Having Jordan facing her, however, proved no better. His carriage was roomy, to be sure, but not roomy enough to keep his booted feet from meeting her slippered ones. As the carriage set off, he stretched one leg out next to the door. Then Emily felt his calf brush against hers, the movement blocked from Lady Dundee’s view by her skirts.
She sucked in a breath as her gaze shot to him. Had he done it purposely?
His gaze met hers, knowing and sinful. Oh, yes, he’d done it purposely. When he smiled, letting his gaze trail meaningfully over her attire, she went all liquid inside.
It didn’t matter that she was wearing a perfectly respectable walking gown, with a pelisse layered over it and thick stockings beneath. It didn’t matter that gloves covered her hands, and a bonnet nearly all of her hair, leaving the oval of her face as the only bare skin showing.
She might as well have been naked. She felt his gaze over every inch of her skin beneath her clothes…like a forbidden caress. Then he stroked her leg with his foot, slowly, deliberately, making her blood pour hot through her veins, a fiery liquor warming every extremity.
She inched her leg away as unobtrusively as possible. The wretch merely inched his over in the same direction, and this time he laid it against hers with abject insolence. She couldn’t move any farther away without the others noticing. Curse him!
She tried to ignore the limb pressed so intimately against hers, tried to tell herself that it meant nothing because he was wearing Hessians and she was wearing stockings.
But when he rubbed his calf against hers in another long, sensuous stroke, her breath stopped in her throat. All her attention was focused on that terrible, delightful contact between them. He stroked again and again, his leg making love to hers with an easy, subtle motion.
The carriage was suddenly far too small. When his next caress sparked a deep, sinful urge in her most private areas, she shuddered involuntarily.
“Are you cold, Lady Emma?” Jordan asked in a mocking tone.
She cast him a pleading look, but he smiled and very deliberately ran the toe of his boot halfway up her calf, eliciting another shudder.
He grinned. “Would you like a blanket? I’m sure I have one somewhere.”
“I’m…I’m fine, Lord Blackmore,” she managed to stammer. “I’m quite comfortable, thank you.”
Lord St. Clair shot her a searching glance, and when Jordan traced the curve of her ankle with the toe of his boot, he scowled, making her wonder if he’d seen it.
“Let’s tell them about the marbles, shall we, Jordan?” the viscount suddenly remarked in a hard voice.
Jordan smiled at her, oblivious to his friend’s disapproval. “Certainly. You tell them.”
Lord St. Clair hesitated. Then with a calculating glance at Jordan, he said, “The marbles are beautiful, priceless sculptures from the Parthenon. Lord Elgin brought them back to England during his tenure as ambassador to Greece, and sold them to the British Museum two years ago. Now they’re on display.”
“Brought them back?” Jordan scowled, and his leg went still against hers. “He stole them, you mean, just as surely as if he’d crept into someone’s house at night and palmed their silver.”
This was obviously a subject that Jordan and his friend had discussed before.
Lord St. Clair glanced down at her skirts, then went on, a mischievous smile on his face. “But Jordan, Elgin had permission from the Ottoman government to take them.”
Jordan snorted and straightened in his seat, thankfully moving him out of range of her leg. “You might as well say he had Napoléon’s permission. The Ottomans invaded Greece as surely as Napoléon invaded Italy. They have no right to give the Parthenon away. The Greeks are the ones Elgin should have asked. But he didn’t, and from what I’ve heard, they were none too happy about it.”
Now that Jordan had stopped tormenting her, the conversation was beginning to interest Emily. “I don’t understand. He just took these sculptures from the Parthenon and carted them back here?”
“That’s exactly what he did.” Jordan’s eyes burned with a sudden zeal. “Thanks to Elgin, half of the Parthenon has been sent piecemeal to England. It defaced the building abominably.”
“But Jordan,” Lord St. Clair said, “the building had already been defaced by the Turks and God knows who else. The Greeks weren’t taking care of it. And if it hadn’t been for Elgin, the French might have taken those sculptures.”
“At least the French wouldn’t have let them sit in a dank storage shed for six years deteriorating while Elgin tried to persuade the British Museum to buy them. Do you think that did the marbles any good? My contact at the museum—a man charged with cleaning them—said they were terribly damaged by sitting in the damp London air all that time. What right had Elgin to destroy a historical monument of enormous importance for his own personal gain?”
“But how could anyone allow him to do such a thing?” Emily asked as the enormity of it hit her.
Jordan let out a sound of disgust. “How indeed? Our countrymen didn’t so much as censure the devil.”
“That’s not true,” Lord St. Clair said dryly. “You’ve publicly censured him enough to make up for the rest of us. I’m surprised you even agreed to come along to see them.”
“I’m on the museum’s board of directors. I like to keep an eye on how the marbles are treated.” For a moment, his mouth was taut, his expression angry. Then he looked at Emily, and his anger seemed to fade. “Besides, I couldn’t resist the chance to accompany two such lovely ladies.”
When he punctuated his comment by stretching out his leg again and laying it agains
t hers, Emily glared at him, then ground the heel of her slipper into the top of his boot—a totally pointless endeavor. His only response was to hook his boot behind her calf and caress her halfway to the knee.
Curse him!
Lady Dundee said, “Well, I, for one, am quite eager to see the sculptures, no matter how they got here. We seldom have the opportunity for such enrichment in Scotland, do we, dear?”
That gave Emily an idea. “Oh, don’t say that, Mama. You will only confirm Lord Blackmore’s poor opinion of our country.” She smirked at Jordan.
“Poor opinion?” the countess asked, eyes narrowing.
Emily eagerly enumerated all his insults to Scotland from the breakfast party, forcing Jordan to explain his words to Lady Dundee. Let him fend off the countess for a while—the scoundrel deserved it.
As Jordan frowned, she and Lord St. Clair exchanged congratulatory looks. By the time they’d reached the British Museum, Lady Dundee had been waxing poetic over Scotland’s glories for several minutes, and Jordan was scowling as thunderously as the god of war himself. It was all Emily could do not to laugh.
Her glow of triumph continued when Lord St. Clair made sure he handed both women down from the carriage. Even better, Lord St. Clair took her arm, leaving Jordan with Lady Dundee. Emily wanted to kiss the man. Obviously, he had been completely aware of how Jordan had been annoying her.
But she was surprised a few minutes later when Jordan suddenly expressed a desire to show Lady Dundee a painting in a separate room, and Lord St. Clair said that he and Lady Emma would stay behind to finish viewing the works in the room they were in.
She hadn’t expected this, though it was certainly convenient. Not only was she rid of Jordan for a while, she was also able to speak to Lord St. Clair in private.
With a quick glance to make sure their companions had gone, Lord St. Clair led her into one of the rooms that contained the Parthenon Marbles Exhibit. Emily caught her breath when she saw the first one—a horse’s head so intricately carved that each hair on its mane bristled and the jaw muscles flexed.
The Forbidden Lord Page 14
