As it was, Edward slept very little that night, anticipating the journey as well as the woman he’d see at the end of it. They took two carriages since Edward knew he’d most likely be returning sooner than his mother, and she could ride back with Mrs. Foster.
Word had been sent ahead to prepare their London house, a townhouse that Edward had only stayed in briefly in the past. They arrived just before nightfall, and separated from Mrs. Foster, promising to return for the dinner that Lady Gerrard had invited them to.
Edward’s valet brushed out his clothing and shaved him for the second time that day. In the glow of the lamplight in the townhouse bedroom, Edward checked his reflection. The circles beneath his eyes were barely noticeable, at least he hoped, since he didn’t want any comments from someone asking after his health.
And then it was time to journey to the Gerrards with his mother. Edward met her in the foyer.
“You look nice, Edward,” his mother said, lifting her quizzing glasses as if he’d never made that sort of effort before.
“And you look lovely,” Edward said. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” she said, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
With dread, Edward wondered if somehow his mother had worked Marybeth into the attending guests tonight. He wouldn’t be surprised if his mother had.
The carriage ride was short, and Edward realized that the Gerrards’ London house was within walking distance on a fine day. As he helped his mother out of the carriage, he glanced up at the house and the warm glow coming from the large windows. The thought of Miss Foster behind those windowpanes somewhere made his heart rate quicken.
They walked up the handful of steps and were greeted by a butler, then led inside.
Edward saw her first, but it wasn’t long before Miss Foster raised her gaze to meet his. She wore a dress of deep violet, which set off the dark curls that had been arranged about her face as a cascade.
Lady Gerrard came forward to greet him and his mother, but Edward hardly heard a word she said. Miss Foster’s hint of a smile seemed to wend its way around his heart. He watched as she greeted her mother first, then his mother, and finally she was standing before him. There was so much that he wanted to say, but it would all refer to their private correspondence. So he merely grasped her gloved hand and bowed over it.
“I’m glad you had a safe journey,” Miss Foster said. “I assume it was uneventful.”
Edward let his own smile escape and was rewarded by one of Miss Foster’s in return. “Yes, quite uneventful.”
“Adele and I have been looking forward to your arrival.”
Edward glanced over to where Adele was speaking to another young woman, whose back was to him. But then the other woman turned. It was Marybeth Sorenson. The blood left his face as Miss Gerrard and Miss Sorenson walked over to where he stood with Miss Foster. He wished he could draw his mother into a separate room and give her a stern talking to, but instead he stood there, keeping a pleasant look on his face while he greeted both women.
Marybeth Sorenson was much as he remembered, a petite blonde woman who didn’t have any trouble keeping up her end of the conversation, similar to Miss Gerrard. The two seemed fast friends, and Edward wondered how well they all knew each other. Edward supposed that Miss Sorenson was a pretty woman, and the fact that they both had Peter’s loss in common was endearing, but he was also bothered by his mother’s obvious scheming. He cast his mother a glance, and she was positively beaming.
This trip to London was certainly favorable to her.
Edward tried not to scowl, because he was then introduced to a Mr. Todd, a second cousin of Lady Gerrard’s who looked to be in his fifties, and his two sons, both young men under twenty. It appeared that Lady Gerrard had managed to assure even numbers at the dinner. When dinner was announced, Edward led Lady Gerrard into the dining room, and then was required to sit next to her. On his other side, he was surprised to have Miss Foster seated next to him. Perhaps they’d have time for conversation after all. As the soup course was brought in, Lady Gerrard dominated the table conversation with accounts of the social events they’d attended.
“Which gentleman am I to discuss this evening?” Edward said in near whisper to Miss Foster.
She took another bite of her soup before replying. “Mr. Bartholomew Jensen,” she whispered back, and then turned to look at her mother with a smile as she commented on something.
A moment later, Edward asked, “What is his grievance?”
“My abigail has discovered that his father has an affinity for gambling and is in great debt.”
Edward gave a brief nod. It was enough. Many gentlemen gambled quite harmlessly, but there were those who became entrenched in the underground world and lost fortunes upon the gaming tables.
Several more moments passed, and when Lady Gerrard brought up a recent musicale event they’d attended, Edward saw his opportunity.
“How is Bartholomew Jensen doing?” he asked. “I haven’t seen the fellow in ages and hoped to look him up on this trip.”
“Oh, you know him?” Lady Gerrard asked, her hand fluttering to her chest. “How wonderful. He’s paid particular attention to Adele. In fact,” she said, leaning closer as if she didn’t want any of the others to hear, although she made no effort to lower her voice, “I’m expecting an official visit from him soon.”
“Well,” Edward began, “That sounds quite serious indeed. I’m assuming if he’s in a position to court a young lady that his financial woes have reversed.”
Lady Gerrard straightened. “Financial woes?”
“Surely you’ve heard?” he said, glancing about the table, making sure he had everyone’s attention. “His father is quite the gambler. A couple of years ago, he brought his family to the brink of ruin. But if Bartholomew is back in the social circles, apparently they’ve made a miraculous recovery.”
Every person at the table was silent. Edward could only pray that his ruse would be accepted. If the elder Mr. Jensen was a gambler, then the details wouldn’t matter. Edward just needed to get across the fact that Bartholomew might be a fortune hunter.
“Hmm.” Lady Gerrard pursed her lips and picked up her wine glass, then set it back down without taking a sip. She cast a glance over at her daughter, who was staring at Edward with wide eyes, and possibly a grateful expression.
Edward could practically feel Miss Foster smiling, although her face was expressionless.
“Who performed at this musicale?” Edward asked. “Was it someone famous?”
Lady Gerrard picked up her wine glass and this time she took a long swallow, then she turned her eyes upon Edward. “No one too famous, although she was a talented singer.”
Edward continued to listen politely as his hostess spoke of the singer’s talents and which songs she sang. The main course of roasted chicken and steamed and buttered vegetables was brought in.
When the topic turned from the Jensen’s musicale to an upcoming ball at the Garrett family’s newly refurbished house, Edward cast a glance at Miss Foster.
“Do you think that will make a difference?” he whispered.
“Thank you,” she said in a breathless voice. “You don’t know what this means to me, and to my cousin.” She moved the hand in her lap and patted his forearm, all concealed from the others by the table in front of them. She quickly placed her hand back in her lap as if she hadn’t moved at all.
Edward was momentarily speechless. “My pleasure,” he said at last.
And then he realized with horror that his mother was inviting the women over to their townhouse the next afternoon for tea. Edward had hoped to take Miss Foster out riding so that they might have some privacy at last.
It seemed that would have to wait.
Chapter Ten
Adele came to Emily’s room long after she’d thought everyone had retired for the night. She almost didn’t hear the soft knock at the door since her subconscious was hovering on the edge of dreaming.
E
mily rose from her bed, pulled on her robe and opened her door a crack. When she saw Adele’s tearful face illuminated by the oil lamp she carried, Emily pulled her into her bedroom.
“Come in,” she said. “Whatever is the matter?”
Adele set the oil lamp on a side table, then wiped the tears from her cheeks.
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Adele said, moving to stand near the fireplace that only contained glowing embers now.
Emily set a small log on top of the embers and stoked the fire to life.
“I mean,” Adele started again in a trembling voice. “What Edward Blackwood did tonight was marvelous. I still cannot quite comprehend it.”
Emily couldn’t agree more. Not only had Mr. Blackwood cast doubt into Lady Gerrard’s mind about the eligibility and intentions of Mr. Jensen, but he’d also regaled Mr. Jonathan Downs at a later time in the evening. Mr. Blackwood had asked in a discreet voice if anyone had caught sighting of his friend and good man Mr. Downs.
“Everyone in the county is looking forward to his ascension to the ministry,” Mr. Blackwood had said. “He and whoever his future wife will be will be esteemed members of the community their whole lives. Doing the Lord’s work is the highest honor a man can aspire to in this earthly life.”
Emily had never heard Mr. Blackwood speak a thing about religion. By the absolute silence in the room, she had surmised it was the same with everyone else. But by some small miracle, his mother rallied first and said, “You are quite correct, Edward. Did I ever tell you your father was interested in the ministry as a lad?”
When Mr. Blackwood shook his head, Mrs. Blackwood continued, “If he hadn’t been the oldest son and set to inherit, I think he might have taken it on.” And then she said something that had nearly brought tears to Emily’s eyes. “Being a vicar’s wife would have been an honor had my life taken that direction.”
And now, Emily could understand Adele’s emotional state.Emily crossed to her cousin and grasped her hand. “It’s my sincere hope that your mother’s heart will be softened, and she’ll turn her mind toward Mr. Downs.”
Adele sniffled and nodded. “I have worn my carpet out with pacing tonight, and I knew I couldn’t sleep until I was able to talk this through with someone.”
“Come,” Emily told her, and drew her to the settee where they sat together.
“It’s my regret that I haven’t been a kinder cousin to you, dear Emily,” Adele began. “But sometimes my mother hasn’t been the best influence on me. What you have done for me, and what you have asked Mr. Blackwood to do, is something that has touched me deeply and profoundly.” Another tear leaked down her face.
“Oh, Adele,” Emily said. “You’ve been a wonderful cousin. You can’t help who your mother is.”
Adele giggled, and Emily laughed with her.
“Let us just hope that your mother won’t concoct any more plans, at least until after Edward has left,” Emily said. “Or else we’ll have to beg him to stay the entire Season.” The thought wasn’t hard to digest, although she knew it would be impossible. Edward had an estate to manage now.
“Marybeth asked me all sorts of questions about Mr. Blackwood,” Adele said. “If I didn’t know better, I would have thought she’s interested in getting to know him better.”
Emily felt her face heat up, making her grateful that the only light in the room was the firelight. “But she was betrothed to his brother.”
“Yes,” Adele said, leaning closer. “Isn’t that quite perfect, though? She lost her intended, and it was a great tragedy, but perhaps she could have a perfect ending after all. Her dreams of becoming the mistress of the Blackwood estate could still happen if she married the younger brother.”
Emily’s stomach twisted into a hard knot. “Dreams? Was she aspiring to be mistress, or was she in love with Mr. Peter Blackwood?”
“Both.” Adele settled back and gazed at the fire, a faraway look in her eyes. “She’s lost one of her desires, but by marrying Edward Blackwood, she’d have at least one thing. Besides, Marybeth could bring some life to the place. Mr. Blackwood is so serious and studious and only cares about his books, and Marybeth is cheerful and perhaps a bit frivolous like me.” She gave a faint laugh. “But that would be perfect for the Blackwoods—bring them out of their gloom.”
Emily opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again. The man who Adele had described was not exactly the man Emily had come to know. She knew about his worries over running the estate, his trepidation of taking over what was supposed to be his brother’s duties, his sorrow over his brother’s death, and his secret passion for fisticuffs. The letters exchanged with him had shown Emily that Mr. Edward Blackwood was anything but a gloomy man. He was highly intelligent, very caring, witty, and when he looked at her with those intense blue eyes, she quite lost her breath.
“I thought your mother had designs on him for yourself at one time,” Emily ventured, if only to see what her cousin’s reaction would be.
“Ah, yes,” Adele said. “That is my only worry about Mr. Blackwood being here and taking down the reputation of every man my mother wants to present me to. What if her ideals turn toward Mr. Blackwood himself?” She grasped Emily’s hand. “Which brings me to a new plan we must implement. We need to encourage Marybeth’s affections toward Mr. Blackwood. Once my mother sees that in action, she’ll not concern herself with matching me to him.”
Emily couldn’t speak for a moment. This was not what she intended when she’d questioned Adele about Mr. Blackwood. But now Adele was speaking faster than Emily could keep up with about how they’d direct Marybeth into Mr. Blackwood’s affections.
“I’m so blessed to have you for a friend and a cousin,” Adele gushed at the end of her diatribe. She leaned forward and embraced Emily, and it was all that Emily could do to usher her cousin out of the room before her own tears fell.
She shut the door behind Adele and leaned against it. Staring at the dimming fire, she replayed the conversation in her mind. It wasn’t hard to admit to herself that she felt possessive of Mr. Blackwood. She’d grown to know him as she had never thought possible, and if Marybeth had been marrying Peter Blackwood for his estate, then marrying his brother would only be another loveless marriage. And Emily wanted more for her friend. She wanted him to have a wife who would appreciate all of his qualities, a wife he could share his secrets with, a wife who would be grateful for the sacrifices he was making in the wake of his brother’s passing.
A woman like herself, Emily thought. But writing a few letters to Mr. Blackwood hardly presented herself as wife material. Besides, she was sorely needed at her own home in the coming years as her brother would take over the estate affairs and would need a lot of guidance. And even when he married and had a family of his own, her mother would need a companion. If only her father hadn’t died and left a too-young heir and a grieving widow, then Emily might have been able to consider her own future as a wife of so-and-so. But as it was, she wouldn’t allow her heart to take a risk such as pining for what she’d never have.
No, she was much too practical for that.
It was with these thoughts that Emily climbed into bed and finally drifted off.
When she awoke to the morning sun brightening her room, she was at first surprised that she’d slept so well and deeply. Then she remembered the conversation with Adele from the night before, and dread coursed through her, chilling her body so that she burrowed deeper into her covers.
This morning, they were to attend tea at the Blackwoods’ townhouse, and Marybeth had been included in the invitation. Mr. Blackwood would certainly greet them if not spend part of the tea social with the ladies. Emily finally rose from her bed and rang for Jenny. After she’d dressed, and Jenny had arranged her hair, Emily excused Jenny and pulled out her sketchbook.
She hadn’t been able to bring her paints to London, so the sketchbook had served as a place to express her overflowing thoughts. She flipped through her pages, stopping on more than one of Mr.
Blackwood. She’d sketched him walking through the ruins, mist clinging to his long coat. She’d sketched him in his library, reading a book. She’d sketched him standing by the fireplace in the drawing room, looking out one of the long windows.
And now, Emily picked up her sharpened pencil and started to draw. She drew Marybeth first, sitting prettily on a settee in the downstairs drawing room. Then she sketched Mr. Blackwood standing behind the settee, as if he were about to come around and sit next to Marybeth. But Emily’s pencil seemed to have direction of its own, and Mr. Blackwood’s head was turned toward the hearth, watching a different woman. And before Emily could put a definition to her logic, she’d drawn a woman in her own image sitting near the hearth, holding a book in her hand.
It was clear from the sketch that Mr. Blackwood was looking at her, but it was only her artist’s imagination that had put him in such a position. In real life, they were friends. And Emily valued that above all else.
A tap on her door brought Emily out of her thoughts. She hastily snapped the sketchbook closed, and said, “Come in.”
Jenny entered and crossed the room to hand over a sealed note. “This came in the morning’s post.”
“Thank you,” Emily said, taking the note.
Jenny curtsied, then moved out of the room.
Once Emily was alone, she cracked the seal. She already recognized Mr. Blackwood’s handwriting and couldn’t imagine why he was sending her a note this morning. When she read, the heat crept up in her neck.
Dear Miss Foster,
It was a pleasure to see you again last night. I only wish we could have been afforded more privacy than a large dinner group provided. Would you like to accompany me on a ride through Hyde Park tomorrow morning? We can continue in our plans.
Yours, E.F.
If Emily hadn’t known that Mr. Blackwood was merely fulfilling his agreement to help, and Marybeth was angling for Mr. Blackwood, Emily might have let her thoughts get carried away. But that wouldn’t do. Yet, her gaze went to the closing salutation: Yours. It was so simple, yet felt so intimate.
A Season in London (Timeless Regency Collection Book 6) Page 13
