by Anne Gracie
But Cal had known Ned Galbraith since school, and back then he’d been quite a different boy. War changed men; some more than others.
And now the rake was to be married. A convenient marriage to a levelheaded female. Cal gave an inward shudder. He couldn’t think of anything worse.
Why did people always think marriage was the answer to everything?
The headmistress’s words came back to him. Get them married off as quickly as you can . . . Make them some other man’s problem.
A tempting prospect, but such things weren’t so easily arranged. Not quickly, as any rate.
Still, with any luck Aunt Agatha would step in as he’d asked her to. She was his godmother, after all, as well as his aunt. Unlike Aunt Dottie, who was as soft and sweet as flummery, Aunt Agatha was not an aunt to be sneezed at. As a boy he’d been terrified of her—as had his father and every other adult he knew. Except, strangely, Aunt Dottie, but then Aunt Dottie had always been a law unto herself. She saw the world differently than most people, and Cal was beginning to see just how differently.
Aunt Agatha would soon sort the girls out.
* * *
Emm lay in bed that night, mulling over the events of the day. In the forefront was the tall man she’d met at the bottom of the stairs.
She met so few men—young men—these days.
Apart from the attentions of a couple of elderly widowers who attended the same church as she did, men even older than her father and suffering from a variety of ailments—there was a reason they lived in Bath, after all—with the life she lived, there was very little chance of meeting anyone her own age.
Let alone someone her own age who was so very attractive.
Those cold-seeming gray eyes had lit with humor when he realized Lavinia’s little ploy. A small exchange, a little humorous understanding—oh, she was making too much of it.
Wasn’t he delicious, miss? So stern and handsome and tall, and those eyes . . .
He was all that, and more. But Emm would never have been brave enough to comment on a man’s attractions, not aloud like that, and certainly not with such frank enjoyment.
Was it her age? Or a legacy of the way she’d left home?
A girl’s reputation is a delicate thing . . .
Emm pressed a hand to her stomach. In a few years she’d be thirty.
Year after year girls returned to the school, proudly displaying their husbands, and as often as not, with a babe in arms to show off and be cooed over. Emm did her share of cooing—she loved babies—but afterward . . .
Oh, it was shameful to envy the girls their happiness, their babies.
She’d lost all chance of that, and she had no one but herself to blame.
On the other side of the thin wall, she could hear the low buzz of Miss Johnstone and Miss Thwaites talking anxiously. Theale, Miss Mallard’s assistant, had let slip—accidentally on purpose—that Miss Mallard was thinking about retiring, causing a mild panic among the staff members. Would the school be closed? Or sold? And if so, what would happen to them?
Emm refused to worry at this stage. It might be just a malicious rumor started by Theale—it wouldn’t be the first time. The woman positively enjoyed upsetting people.
If the rumor was true, Emm was fairly confident she could get another job. Miss Mallard would give her a good reference, she was sure. Bath was full of girls’ schools, and Miss Mallard’s was one of the more select.
But Miss Thwaites and Miss Johnstone were elderly, poor and without family. They’d told Emm that if the school did close, they would pool their meager savings and rent rooms in a cottage by the sea, there to live out the rest of their days, perhaps eking out their income by giving lessons in music, deportment and French.
It was a depressing prospect. Even more depressing was the thought that her own future would, in all probability, be much the same. She too was poor and wholly dependent on whatever she could earn. And she had no family to turn to. There had only ever been Papa, and now he was gone.
As always at the thought of her father, guilt and grief surged up within her. If only she had seen Papa, spoken to him before he died. Explained, apologized. Made peace with him. Told him how much she loved him.
She’d thought—hoped—he’d come after her, but instead, in a rage that must have lasted much longer than his usual fits of temper, he’d disowned her—changed his will, leaving her nothing, not a penny. And then he’d died.
Of a broken heart, Mr. Irwin had told her. He’d bumped into her in the street, just outside the Pump Room—he was in Bath on his honeymoon—and had broken it to her, right in front of everyone—that her father was dead, had been dead, in fact, for almost a year.
You caused your father’s death. You broke his heart and killed him, he’d told her with spiteful relish.
Why would anyone need to inform you? he’d sneered in answer to her shocked, stammered questions. You disgraced yourself, refused his bidding and ran off, never to be heard of again. Your father wrote you out of his will—left you nothing, not a penny. When he died, there was no reason for anyone to contact you.
He’d added gleefully, You’ve lost everything—you have no family, no home, no fortune. Serves you right for being such a stubborn little bitch!
She’d always known Irwin would never forgive her for refusing him, but the vitriol in his voice and manner had shocked her.
Emm thought of what she’d told Lavinia that morning. A girl’s reputation is a delicate thing, and it rests almost wholly in the hands of others.
She was the living embodiment of the truth of that.
Chapter Four
It was his object to see as much as he could, with as little apparent observation.
—JANE AUSTEN, EMMA
In the days that followed, Cal did his best to simultaneously watch over his sisters, get to know them and keep them entertained. His efforts weren’t appreciated.
He’d decided to check whether the headmistress’s comments about Lily were true, so he’d asked her to read—and that had ended in tears on Lily’s part and fury on Rose’s when she’d learned what he’d done.
For the next few days he was given the silent treatment—not by Lily, who simply avoided his gaze and whispered every response as if he’d whipped her—but from Rose. And from somebody delivering the silent treatment, she did it in the noisiest way possible, with long-suffering huffs and world-weary sighs.
But Cal wasn’t going to give in to that kind of nonsense, and when Aunt Dottie asked him what he’d done to upset the girls now, he snapped that he’d done nothing wrong, merely asked Lily—in the most reasonable way possible—to read a few lines of a letter to him.
Aunt Dottie looked at him as if he’d just admitted to strangling a kitten. “She’s very sensitive about it, you know.”
“I think I’ve worked that out, Aunt Dottie,” he said, but she was oblivious of sarcasm. She patted his hand. “They’ll come around, you’ll see.”
Keeping them entertained in the evening was also a trial. He’d suggested cards, which got Rose’s hackles raised because apparently Lily got cards confused—though how the hell he was supposed to know that, he couldn’t imagine.
Luckily he hit on the idea of spillikins, which Lily enjoyed and was good at. The evening finished on a much more pleasant note, but as Rose said before they retired for the night, “You can’t expect to keep us entertained with endless nursery games, you know.”
He cared about his sisters, he really did, but he was also chafing at the bit to be rid of these petty domestic problems and be back on the trail of an assassin.
He hoped Aunt Agatha would get here soon. He was fed up with sitting up late every night, simply to make sure the girls weren’t able to sneak out. And he was very fed up with having to watch what he said. Conversations with the girls was like picking his way through a treacherous swamp; y
ou never knew where the dangers lurked.
“I don’t know why you make such a fuss of having to wear black, Rose,” Cal said after one particularly trying meal where Rose hadn’t missed a single opportunity to snipe at him. “Mourning colors suit you perfectly.”
She sent him a suspicion-laden look.
“It’s the combination of the black with your guinea-gold hair,” he said and, after a pause, added, “Wasp colors.”
She laughed, tried to turn it into a cough, failed and gave up. So his sharp-tongued little sister had a sense of humor after all. He liked her the better for it.
“We don’t always have to be at dagger drawn, you know,” he said quietly.
Her smile died. “Don’t we?”
By the time Thursday evening arrived, Cal found himself looking forward to dinner with his friend Galbraith with a ridiculous degree of anticipation. York House was the finest hotel in Bath, and the food would be excellent, but even more than a good dinner with fine wines, Cal was looking forward to an evening of straightforward, uncomplicated, blessedly logical masculine company.
* * *
“I tell you, Ned, dealing with females is the very devil!” Cal said after a fine meal, washed down with some excellent wine. They were now settled in comfortable overstuffed armchairs in front of a cozy fire, and on their second cognac, and both men were feeling delightfully mellow.
“Thought you liked women.”
“I said females, not women.”
Galbraith considered that. “Not sure I see your point. Females are women.”
“No! That’s where you’re wrong. All women are females, but not all females are women.”
There was a short silence. “You mean some of them are those what-d’you-call-’em—man milliners?”
“No, of course not. I mean there is an age when a young female is not yet a woman—and, Ned, at that age they might look sweet and innocent and as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouth, but take it from me, they’re devils in disguise. A man cannot put a single foot right. One wrong move and they snap it right off!”
His friend snorted. “Too soft a heart with females, that’s your trouble. Keep cool, stand firm, and never compromise. Always worked for me.”
Cal shook his head. “All very well for you to say. You don’t have sisters. Believe me, being responsible for young females of that age—particularly young female relatives—well, it’s worse than . . . worse than . . .” He tried to think of an example that Galbraith would appreciate. “Remember that time when I was still wet behind the ears and was given that troop to command—most of them from the stews of London and only in the army as an alternative to being locked up in prison for God knows how long?”
“Lord, yes. Thugs and villains to a man. Scum of the earth.”
Cal nodded. “Trying to control my young sisters is harder than that.”
“Harder than commanding that riffraff?” Galbraith gave a snort of amusement. “Pull the other one. I’ve seen grown men—hard nuts they were too—shaking in their boots when called up before you for some infraction or other.”
“Yes, but they knew I could have them flogged.”
Galbraith gave Cal a sideways glance. “Don’t remember when you ever resorted to flogging.”
“I did once or twice—extreme circumstances.” Cal stared into his brandy glass. “But you can’t flog girls or even threaten it.”
“Suppose not.”
“And soldiers don’t burst into tears at a—very mild—reprimand, or flounce from the room, or sulk, or look at you with big wounded eyes! Or ignore my—very reasonable—orders and go their own merry way!”
There was a muffled sound from the chair opposite. Cal narrowed his eyes. “Are you laughing at me, Galbraith?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He met Cal’s gaze for a pregnant pause, then burst into laughter. “Lord, yes, I’m laughing. It’s priceless! Major Calbourne Rutherford, bested by a couple of schoolgirls.”
“Not schoolgirls,” Cal said gloomily. “The school wouldn’t take them back.”
“Don’t tell me you asked the school to take them back.”
Cal nodded. “Damned headmistress refused.”
There was another shout of laughter from his unsympathetic friend. “So, what are you going to do?”
“I’ve written to Aunt Agatha.”
Galbraith’s brows rose. “You mean Lady Salter? That old tartar? Good move. She’ll knock the nonsense out of them. Knocks the nonsense out of everyone, your aunt Agatha.”
Cal swirled his cognac, gazing balefully into the firelight reflected in its smooth golden depths. “I don’t know. Rose will give her a pretty good run for her money, I’ll wager.”
“And the other one? What’s her name? Lucy?”
“Lily. Yes, she’ll probably eat Lily alive.” He frowned, imagining little Lily faced with Aunt Agatha. Then he shook his head. “But I can’t help that. I can’t lock them in their bedchambers, and I can’t and won’t let them wander the streets at night. Good God, Ned, anything could happen to them.”
“What about a governess?” Galbraith suggested after a moment. “Sort of governess-companion-chaperone type of female. With a bit of watchdog thrown in.”
“You mean a wardress,” Cal said gloomily. “But it’s too late. I’ve already sent for Aunt Agatha.”
Galbraith snorted. “Same thing, isn’t it?”
The two men sipped their brandy and stared into the flames. The fire crackled and hissed.
Cal drained his glass and stood. “It’s late. I’d better get going.”
* * *
It was cold as Cal walked back to his aunt’s house, the chill from the surrounding hills sliding down to pool and gather in the town. The scent of coal and wood fires thickened the faint mist. His footsteps echoed in the night silence. The streets were deserted.
Galbraith’s reaction had made Cal thoughtful. Had he been a little premature in sending for Aunt Agatha? She wasn’t a monster, just strict and a little intimidating. It was mostly men who were terrified of her. Particularly men related to her.
Aunt Dottie, her younger sister, wasn’t the least bit intimidated by her, and as far as he could tell from the letters that Aunt Dottie sent with the socks, Aunt Agatha led a very social life and had plenty of friends.
It had always puzzled him: Aunt Dottie, sweet-natured, gentle and affectionate, had never married, and yet her sister, sharp-tongued and formidable, had married three times.
To men who had died not long afterward, he reminded himself.
Had he overreacted in writing to her? The last couple of days with the girls hadn’t been too bad—if he didn’t count Rose’s occasional snipes. They hadn’t sneaked out or misbehaved in any serious way. As he’d thought on first acquaintance, they just needed a firm hand.
But he had no intention of hanging around indefinitely to provide it. He had a job to do that was a damn sight more important than playing watchdog to a pair of young hoydens.
Maybe Aunt Agatha had mellowed.
He turned the corner into Aunt Dottie’s street and squinted against the darkness. Three cloaked female figures were approaching the house from the other direction. Two walked with arms around each other, subdued and downcast. The third figure, a taller female, looked as though she was shepherding them along.
A trickle of foreboding slid down his spine. He strode forward.
A lamp outside his aunt’s house gave faint illumination to the scene. “What the devil are you two doing outside? I gave strict orders—” He broke off, looking closer. “What the hell happened to you?” he said in quite a different voice.
Rose had a burgeoning black eye, and Lily—the side of Lily’s face was red and swelling. Even in the poor light he could see it was going to be a nasty bruise. A cold rage filled him. “Who did this to you?”
; The tall female with them reached past him and rang the doorbell. It jangled in the dark house. “There was some trouble at the talk.”
He swung around and saw it was that teacher, Miss Something-or-other. With the mouth. And the eyes. “What talk?”
“By members of the Female Reform Society.”
The Female Reform Society? Politics? Rose and Lily? He didn’t believe it. “You took them there? Without so much as a—”
“She didn’t know we were there,” Rose said swiftly. “We went by ourselves.”
The door behind him opened and Logan stood there, blinking. Golden light spilled out from inside, illuminating the girls’ injuries more clearly. Rose’s eye was swollen almost shut and darkening by the second, and her smooth, soft complexion was abraded in places. The side of Lily’s face was dark and swelling and her soft, vulnerable mouth had blood on it from a split lip.
The girls flinched at Cal’s expression. “A man was bothering Lily—” Rose began.
Lily flushed. “I tried to push him away but—”
“He hit her, hit my little sister!” Rose’s voice was throbbing with rage.
“So Rose went for him and then I tried to—”
Cal cut them off with a furious gesture. Political rallies were notorious for erupting in violence. The thought of his little sisters having to fight off some filthy thug filled him with horror. And ice-cold fury. “Why the devil were you attending a political rally in the first place! No—don’t bother—I don’t want to know. The point is, you were supposed to be safely in bed. How often have I warned you how dangerous it is to venture out on your own at night and—”
Rose burst out. “You don’t want us to have any fun! What’s wrong with showing an interest—”
“Rose,” the teacher said quietly.
Rose glanced at her. “Sorry, Miss Westwood.” And said not another word. Not so much as a peep.
Cal blinked.
The teacher turned to Cal and said in a pleasant manner that barely disguised the acid beneath, “Shall we continue to stand in the street hurling accusations and counteraccusations, or should the girls be taken in out of the cold and have their injuries tended to?”
