A Season in London (Timeless Regency Collection Book 6)

by Elizabeth Johns

  By the pink on Adele’s cheeks, Emily guessed it was a flattering letter. Was it a beau, then, and if so, did Lady Gerrard know anything about it? They could all save themselves the cost of a Season if Adele were to become engaged. And Emily could stay home and watch over her mother and help run the estate until Stephen returned.

  All too soon, the picnic was over, and the servants were packing up the food and drink. Emily found herself climbing into the carriage with only a brief farewell to Mr. Blackwood and his mother. He didn’t renew his sentiment of writing, but he had certainly held her gaze long enough to let her know that his wishes hadn’t changed.

  Her heart felt as if it might float all the way to heaven if she allowed her imagination to run away with her.

  In the carriage, Emily scanned for the letter on Adele’s person, but it was nowhere in sight. Adele looked perfectly pleased, as if she’d had an exceptional day. Lady Gerrard was also smiling to herself. The day had been a success for all of them, albeit in different ways.

  Once home, Emily made her exit as gracefully as possible and hurried up to the attic to check on the painting she was working on. She stood in the slanting afternoon light and surveyed her work. It was definitely Mr. Edward Blackwood. She’d gotten his nose just right. Fisticuffs, huh? The thought made her giggle. Then her imagination leaped to a scene of Edward standing on the edge of a fight ring, preparing to join in a fight.

  Before Emily could find a reason for her behavior, she’d set up a new canvas and twisted the cap off her oils. She dipped her brush in and started to paint.

  When Jenny appeared to announce it was time to dress for dinner, Emily already had the background painted and was starting on the male figure.

  “Can you please give my excuses?” Emily said. “I’ve started something new, and I want to get it right before it flees my mind.”

  Jenny came to stand next to Emily and stared at the painting for a long time. Normally, Emily wouldn’t allow anyone to view her work before it was completed, but Jenny was the keeper of many confidences, so Emily made an exception.

  “Oh, that’s . . .”

  “Yes,” Emily said. “Don’t tell anyone. It’s one I’ll never show anyway.”

  “Not even Mr. Blackwood?” Jenny asked.

  “He would be the last person to see it.” Emily gave a nervous laugh. “Regardless, I want to keep working on it.”

  “I’ll tell your mother you want a tray brought up,” Jenny said, turning to leave the room. She paused by the attic door. “You look different tonight.”

  Emily put down the paintbrush she’d just picked up. “How so?”

  Jenny lifted a shoulder. “It’s hard to explain. But the light is coming back into your eyes.”

  Emily knew exactly what she meant, but she didn’t want to confess to Jenny about Mr. Blackwood’s request for correspondence.

  The door clicked shut quietly, and soon Emily was lost again in her painting. Beneath her brush, the scene came to life as only Emily could imagine it. She’d never seen a fisticuffs match in person, had only read about them a few times, but she hoped to do it justice.

  Emily continued to paint, and when the shadows deepened in the room, she lit all of the lamps. She hoped that her mother wouldn’t venture up here, or Emily would be sure to receive a lecture. But all stayed quiet until, at one point, Jenny brought in a hot cup of tea.

  “It’s quite late, miss,” she said.

  Emily took the interruption as an opportunity to stretch and survey her work. “I’m nearly finished,” she said, marveling at all she’d accomplished in one afternoon and evening. “I’ll let it dry tomorrow, and then I’ll be able to store it before leaving for London.”

  Jenny set the tea down, and Emily tried to see the painting through her abigail’s eyes. There was no hiding the fact that the man in the painting was Mr. Blackwood, although Emily had obviously never seen him with his shirt off. But she did know at least that pugilists fought without their shirts, which meant it was not a gentleman’s sport at all.

  “Well,” Jenny said. “That’s certainly a deviation from your portraits.”

  Emily only nodded. This was another reason why the painting would never be for public viewing. It was completely and inarguably a creative piece.

  Jenny left again, and Emily continued to paint. Tomorrow, final preparations would be made for leaving to London, and the following day they’d set out on their journey. Tonight was Emily’s only chance to finish this painting. She wasn’t sure why she felt so driven, but the lateness of the hour didn’t deter her.

  As Mr. Blackwood’s form took shape and gained definition over the next thirty minutes, Emily found herself smiling. Here she was, cloistered in the attic in the middle of the night, painting her neighbor in a fisticuffs match. It was as if they shared a great secret between them. If her father were still alive, Emily knew he’d be amused, and perhaps a bit impressed, too.

  And yet, she’d never be able to show this painting. To show it would reveal Mr. Blackwood’s secret hobby and bring embarrassment and scandal to her. The painting would just have to remain her secret.

  Chapter Seven

  Edward reined in his horse before the ground became too uneven around the ruins. The morning mist had yet to lift from the surrounding meadow, and it gave the illusion that Edward was the sole person in the entire county. He dismounted his horse and let her graze while he trudged to one of the crumbling walls—the exact place he and Miss Foster had sat during the picnic.

  She’d been gone a fortnight now, and Edward had almost given up on her ever writing him. Surely, she was beset with balls and musicales and trying to please Lady Gerrard and Miss Gerrard. Edward had been incredibly busy with learning all that went into running an estate and the surrounding properties. It was an exhausting prospect. When one problem was solved or a repair made, another one came up. Thankfully, his brother had kept immaculate accounts, and the finances were in order. It was just a matter of keeping it all in top shape and running smoothly.

  Edward had been at his desk early this morning, as usual, when the post arrived. The butler had brought it in, and Miss Foster wasn’t even on Edward’s mind when he shuffled through the envelopes. His hand paused at the thick folded paper of snowy white, sealed with dark wax. The handwriting was decidedly feminine, but certainly not one he recognized.

  “That will be all, Johnson,” Edward had quickly told the butler, dismissing him so the man wouldn’t see Edward’s interest in the envelope. The return address bore no name, but he knew the London street was where Lady Gerrard owned a house. As understanding dawned on him that the letter must be from Miss Emily Foster, he realized how much he had been hoping she’d write.

  And now, Edward had come to the ruins in order to read the letter with absolutely no distractions. It seemed fitting to be in the place he’d last seen Miss Foster and to read her words here. If he’d taken time to step back from the situation, he might have thought it was a bit strange to go through all of this trouble just to read what was probably a simple and mundane correspondence. Miss Foster had been his neighbor his whole life, and he’d had many opportunities to speak with her at various gatherings and dinners held during the holidays over the years. Yet the arrival of this letter felt vastly different.

  Edward settled onto a level part of the wall and broke the seal. Exhaling, he slid the folded paper from the envelope. There were two pages, and judging by the shadowed script on them, she’d filled them both. Edward was tempted to read quickly and get to the end, then start over. But instead, he read slowly, line by line. And when he finished, he was smiling, and his heart was pounding.

  Miss Foster was certainly more observant and wittier than anyone had ever given her credit for, he decided. She described a couple of the balls she’d attended with her cousin and aunt and detailed humorous descriptions of the who’s who—specifically, the men her aunt was hoping would court Miss Adele Gerrard.

  I believe my cousin Adele has a secret, per
haps a secret love? She goes about with one of those Madonna smiles on her face and agrees with everything her mother says. More than once, I’ve caught her reading a well-creased letter, only to have her hastily put it away. What do you make of that, Mr. Blackwood?

  What did he make of that? Edward hadn’t written Miss Gerrard, so whatever letter she so treasured wasn’t from him.

  Edward continued to reread.

  I suppose you know the names of all the great pugilists and perhaps follow their competitions. I must admit I’ve never taken much interest in the sport until I discovered that my lifelong neighbor has a great secret. Now I find myself looking forward to the morning papers each day so that I might read any news. I’ve had to become quite secretive about my new interest and have hidden away the fisticuffs report when I’m unexpectedly called upon.

  Edward chuckled at this. It seemed Lady Gerrard’s home had become a house of clandestine reading and hidden letters and papers. Miss Foster’s letter was begging for a reply, and Edward knew that before the day was out, his note back to her would already be posted.

  After reading the letter for perhaps the third, or maybe fourth time, Edward tucked it into the safe confines of his pocket and mounted his horse, then rode back to his home.

  The scents of warm scones reached him as he entered the hall, and he made his way to the morning break room. His mother turned from where she stood at the sideboard, filling her plate with food.

  “You’ve been out?” she said, not needing her quizzing glasses to make such a deduction.

  “I went for a short ride,” Edward replied. “I’ve been working on accounts since early this morning and needed a break.”

  His mother studied his face for a moment. “Johnson said he already delivered the post to you. Any invitations?”

  Edward didn’t answer for a moment, wondering if Johnson had told his mother about the letter from London.

  “I haven’t opened everything,” Edward said. “But nothing looked like an invitation.”

  “That is surprising.” His mother turned away then, and he wasn’t sure if he understood her right. The social events were at a minimum with the London Season and many of their neighbors in attendance.

  When Edward had filled his plate and sat down at the table, his mother said, “You are looking peaked.”

  “Peaked?” Edward said, taking a bite of warm potato.

  “Flushed,” his mother amended. “Was your ride so long?”

  “Only to the ruins and back,” Edward said. He took a sip of juice and wished his mother would for once focus on something other than him. “What are your plans today, Mother?”

  “Well . . .” she started.

  Edward snapped his gaze up to meet hers. His palms were suddenly moist as if he dreaded his mother’s next pronouncement as if she were about to inform him they would be hosting a dinner tonight.

  “I’ll be having tea with Mrs. Foster,” she finished.

  “Oh.” That was all. Tea. Nothing he had to be involved with. But if it was at the Fosters’ home, perhaps if he went along, he’d be afforded a view of Miss Foster’s portrait work. “Do you mind if I accompany you?”

  His mother couldn’t have looked more surprised and pleased. “Why, that would be wonderful, Edward. But whatever can you have interest in at a ladies’ tea?”

  “I thought if Mrs. Foster gave us permission, we could view her daughter’s paintings,” he said as nonchalantly as possible. “I remember hearing about them at our dinner the other week.”

  “Ah, yes,” his mother said. “Frankly, I was intrigued as well.” She gave him a conciliatory smile. “Come with me, and I am sure Mrs. Foster will not turn down our request.”

  It was all Edward could do not to smile and show his immense pleasure. He merely nodded and returned to his food as his mother spoke of some matters pertaining to the gardens. Then she switched the topic to something far less pleasing. “Miss Marybeth Sorenson has written to me,” she said.

  The name was familiar, in fact—

  “Peter’s betrothed asked specifically after you,” his mother continued.

  That’s right. Marybeth Sorenson had been engaged to his brother. Edward hardly remembered her. It had been years since he’d first met her, and that was long before Peter was interested in marrying her.

  Edward forced a polite expression on his face as his mother said, “I wonder if it wouldn’t be too forward to invite her here, with her younger sister, of course, so that it’s all proper.”

  “So that what is all proper, Mother?”

  “Marybeth’s visit, of course.”

  Edward blew out a breath, trying to curb his frustration. “If you’re going to be entertaining and hosting her, I don’t think there will be a question of propriety.”

  “Oh, you are very right,” his mother said. “But there is an unmarried man in our household.”

  Of course there was. Edward shook his head. “I have many responsibilities, Mother. I can’t be caught up in whatever entertainments you might plan.”

  “That’s rather blunt, son.”

  Edward picked up the napkin next to him and wiped his mouth. He had other things to deal with. And arguing about houseguests with his mother wasn’t one of them. He excused himself and returned to his study where he took out a couple of fresh sheets of paper. He wanted to write Miss Foster right away, but would it be too fast and presumptuous? Perhaps he should wait until after the ladies’ tea and he could give her his good opinion of her paintings? No, he decided. He’d rather not sound like he’d been spying on her home and her artistry. Better to respond only to her recent letter.

  Edward smoothed the pages of the letter from Miss Foster and reread the words, finding himself smiling all over again as he imagined her secreting herself away to read the reports of fisticuffs matches. His gaze went to Miss Foster’s closing salutation. She’d written “Your Friend, E.F.”

  She was his friend, he realized. They hadn’t interacted much during their childhood, but they were certainly familiar with each other. And now that familiarity had transitioned into friendship—one in which they could confess their secrets to each other.

  Edward picked up his pen and began to write.

  Dear Miss Foster,

  It was with surprise that I received your letter this morning. I’d nearly given up hope that you’d write and regale me with the intricacies of the London Season. I’m pleased that you are enjoying yourself and in good spirits. I’m also pleased to see that you’ve increased your interest and knowledge of my favorite sport, which I won’t mention here unless this letter falls into ominous hands.

  Edward chuckled at his own quips and imagined that Miss Foster would surely be smiling at this point in his letter. He continued to write of the rather monotonous activities he was engaged in about the estate and how he hadn’t quite given up on his “pugilism” just yet. He just hadn’t found an opportunity in the country.

  When Edward closed his letter, he added:

  Someday in the future, I hope you will show me your paintings. I’ve been looking forward to seeing them ever since your aunt brought your talent to my attention. And perhaps someday, I’ll take you on a tour of my personal library, which is not the family library, mind you. Each book in my personal library has been read more than once and is dear to me for one reason or another.

  Your friend, E.R.

  He studied “your friend” for a few moments, wondering if he should have closed differently than she. But if anything, it was honest. And it felt good to share parts of his life with someone. He was certain she’d tease him about having a personal library. Only his family was aware of the collection that he kept separate from the main library of the home. He kept all of his favorite books there, ones he wasn’t willing to let guests browse through or neighbors borrow.

  But Miss Foster might just prove to be the exception.

  Chapter Eight

  Emily smiled up at Mr. Gifford as he complimented her on her dark green dr
ess. It was not quite the fashionable pastels most of the other women were wearing, but since she was in half-mourning, it would do. Besides, she was not a debutante.

  Mr. Gifford was nearing forty, and a widower in need of a wife for his two young boys, according to Emily’s aunt. Mr. Gifford also happened to be a second cousin to her aunt. Emily decided that Mr. Gifford was a decent man, if a bit hairy about the ears and eyebrows. And he had the habit of leaning quite close when she was speaking, which told her he was hard of hearing. It would be rude to comment upon a man’s hearing loss; her aunt had admonished her after she overheard Emily complaining to Adele.

  “Shall we?” Mr. Gifford said, offering his arm to escort her into the musicale that was to start in a few moments.

  Emily had arrived at the Jensen’s home with her aunt and Adele. The musicale was another in a long string of events they’d been attending since their arrival in London. Tonight, her aunt had urged Adele to pay particular attention to the Jensens’ eldest son, Bartholomew. Adele had simply smiled and agreed with her mother.

  Emily had yet to discover with whom Adele was in secret correspondence. And of course, Emily made certain that no one in the household knew about her letters written to and received from Edward Blackwood. Jenny delivered her letters to the post office and then retrieved anything that came from Mr. Blackwood. Emily was collecting quite a few, and now had nearly a dozen locked away in the bottom drawer of her jewelry box. In fact, a letter from Edward had arrived with the evening post, but Emily had decided to save it until she returned home that night.

  Mr. Gifford led her to a chair, and they sat next to each other. Emily’s aunt passed by them, offered an approving nod, and then sat one row up to the right.

  Adele was sitting next to Bartholomew Jensen, enjoying herself, if her smiles at his comments were any indication. But Emily knew better. Adele was hiding something.

  When another man sat on the other side of Adele, greeting both her and Mr. Jensen, Emily watched in fascination as Adele’s face and neck flushed pink. What was the new man saying to Adele to cause her to blush? Emily didn’t recognize him, but admitted to herself that he was young and handsome. Perhaps too young to be looking for a wife.