by Jo Beverley
Emily walked over to Verderan and raised her hands to his face, which was scarred with old horrors and new guilt. “She feels she abandoned you and you feel you abandoned her. I think you’ll find your tallies wipe each other out. Start afresh, Ver.”
His arms came around her. “With you?”
She rested against him. Angel wings. Michael, not Lucifer. “I still have to pluck up the courage to ride the hunt,” she teased. It suddenly seemed a matter of small significance.
“Would a kiss encourage you?” he asked.
“No,” she said and moved away, “It would seduce me, and well you know it. Wait until tomorrow.”
He grinned. “To seduce you? I haven’t got a Special License, you know.”
“How very unthoughtful of you. We probably could have been married on the field by one of the Blackcoats.”
“You are developing a taste for the unusual, aren’t you?”
Emily blushed. “I’m developing a taste for you.” She eyed a large walnut desk. “Is that . . . ?”
“Yes,” he said. Adding, “Not till tomorrow.”
“I think you should give me the letter as fair warning of what’s to come.”
“I’m not so foolish.”
Under this banter he was already looking better, more himself. Emily was aware of a temptation to stay and improve upon her work—
The clock struck midnight and Emily started. “I must go home.”
“Of course,” he said, and kissed her gently. “Thank you again.” As if impelled, he added, “You are going to come to the hunt tomorrow, aren’t you?”
The vulnerability of it brought tears to her heart. “Wild horses wouldn’t keep me away,” she said. “Even if it means I’m going to be, God help us, Lady Templemore.”
The words brought all that starkness back to his face. “Don’t make it an excuse to renege,” he warned. “If I can bear to be Lord Templemore, when the name makes me feel sick, you can damn well bear to be Lady Templemore.”
She soothed his face again with her hands. “We’ll make it a name to be proud of,” she promised. “It will mean love and happiness and charity. And lots of happy little Verderans to carry on the tradition.”
He hugged her tight. “I’ll hold you to that. If you don’t come to the hunt, I’m going to come and kidnap you.”
“Good, but it won’t be necessary.”
He drove her back to the Hall in the moonlight and talked a little of his mother as they went. It was mostly his faint memories of his younger life before the death of his father, when his mother would take over the kitchen to bake special treats, and let him help. And sit by his bed when he was sick. And sing duets with his father in the evening.
“She was made to be happy,” he said, “but not to fight. My father would have expected me to preserve her happiness.”
Emily didn’t point out that he had only been eight years old. From adult hindsight that perhaps did not matter.
She had him stop at the end of the drive so she could slip back into the house unobserved.
They shared one quick, searing kiss before parting.
“Till tomorrow,” were her parting words.
13
MRS. DOBSON imparted the terrible news to Junia Grantwich. Junia sat up in bed and stared at the woman. “You must be dreaming. Why would she do such a thing?” But these days Emily was capable of anything.
She immediately pulled on a wrap and led the way to Emily’s room, where Emily clearly was not. Even worse, there was no sign of her having gone to bed at all.
The two women searched the house—quietly for fear of waking Sir Henry—but eventually had to admit that Emily was nowhere within Grantwich Hall.
“The stables!” exclaimed Junia with relief. “Of course, with the hunt tomorrow, she’s probably gone to visit the stables.”
“At nearly midnight?” queried Mrs. Dobson in disbelief.
“These young people. I’ll just put on some clothes and fetch her.”
She pulled on the simplest garments—loose trousers, Cossack shirt, and boots—and hurried out of the back door.
The stables, however, were depressingly quiet. All the horses which should be present were there, including Beelzebub.
“Well,” said Junia, eying the handsome black thoughtfully. “If she and Verderan were eloping they wouldn’t leave you here.” She went slowly back to the house, considering the possibilities.
It was possible a lovesick Emily had taken a moonlit walk, though it was cold and breezy and not particularly pleasant. If so, she was nowhere in sight.
It was possible she had slipped away for an assignation with her beloved, but such behavior seemed extremely unlikely from someone who was having the tremors over hunting, a less heinous crime.
If one was given to gothic flights of fancy it was possible to imagine Emily being lured away from the house by some other lustful male. But the only possibility was Hector Marshalswick, and even Junia’s imagination could not stretch that far.
By the time she reached the warmth of the kitchen again, Junia had persuaded herself that Emily was a grown woman and able to take care of herself. She set herself to convince Mrs. Dobson; an altogether harder task. They shared a cup of tea, and she gradually brought the woman around to the idea that Emily had voluntarily gone about her own business and would soon return home safely. She also persuaded her that alerting Sir Henry could do no good and would only agitate him.
Just as they were draining the pot, there was a loud rap on the front door-knocker.
“Lord save us!” exclaimed Mrs. Dobson, clearly fearing the worst.
“I’ll go,” said Junia, “since I’m decent.” She had to admit to a tremor of alarm herself. Who could be calling at such an hour except someone with bad news? She lit a candle from the one on the table and left the kitchen. There was another sharp rap. “Wait, wait,” she muttered as she hurried across the hall, shielding the flame from the draft of her own movement. “You’ll wake the whole house.”
A shouted query from Sir Henry’s room showed the damage was already done. She popped her head in to tell him she was attending to the matter and put her candle on the hall table. Then she swung open the door, fear in her heart, a tart comment on her lips.
Both died.
“Marcus!” she cried, swamped instantly with delight. “Praise the Lord, my dear boy! Where have you come from?”
She grasped the tall young man by the sleeves of his greatcoat and dragged him into the house. Then she realized the vicar and his sister were behind him. “Come in! Come in!” She took in her nephew, safe and glowing with health, with all his wits and limbs. It was more than she’d ever dared to hope. At another frustrated bellow from the library, she pushed him that way.
“You must go to your father. Have you heard . . . ? Yes, of course, Margaret would have told you.” She pushed him into the room and then turned to the other two. She hugged Margaret. “I’m so happy, I’m likely to cry. You tell me, where has he come from?”
Margaret returned the hug ecstatically. She was glowing, and not a little teary herself. “He’s not very clear in his accounts. I think it’s secret. But I don’t care a scrap. He’s home. He’s home for good!”
Junia hugged her again. Then, for good measure, she hugged Hector, who suffered it.
Mrs. Dobson appeared shyly, her nightgown covered by a shawl, bearing a candle. As soon as she heard the news she started to cry. Then she staggered off to make more tea.
“What of Emily?” Hector asked. “She will want to be woken, I’m sure. Marcus could not help stopping by the vicarage to see Margaret, and we came up to share your joy.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Margaret. “It is the middle of the night, but such a night can only happen once in a lifetime. I’ll go up and wake her.”
Junia looked around frantically. “Er . . . I don’t think she’s there.”
“Oh?” said Margaret. “Where is she?”
“Staying with friends in town,�
�� Junia said, then knew it was foolish. She saw Hector give her one of his narrow-eyed looks.
Marcus came out of Sir Henry’s room, looking a little sobered by the state in which he found his father. “Come along in,” he said. “Did I hear Mrs. Dobson mentioning tea? We will all have some in here, but Father wants to toast my return with champagne. I’ll just go fetch some. Did you say Emily is in town?”
“What’s that?” shouted Sir Henry. “Come in here, the lot of you!”
They crowded into the room and Sir Henry looked them over, already seeming more alert, more like his old self. “What’s this about Emily?”
Junia couldn’t think of a sensible thing to say.
Hector said skeptically, “She is apparently visiting friends in town, sir.”
“Since when? She played Piquet with me after dinner.” He glared at Junia. “Where the devil is she?”
“Gone for a walk, I think,” Junia said.
“At midnight? And why did you say she was in town?”
Junia sighed. “I haven’t the slightest notion where she is. There.”
Marcus frowned. “It’s not like Emily to do anything so strange. Is she ill?”
“She’s turned damn peculiar, if you want the truth,” said Sir Henry. “Got above herself once I had to let her help me with business, and then she took to chasing men.”
“Henry, really!” protested Junia.
“What men?” asked Marcus.
“Piers Verderan,” said Hector primly.
Marcus flashed a startled look around the room. “The Dark Angel? How . . . ?” It was clear the news that Boney was at the door would have been more believable.
“He’s Casper Sillitoe’s heir,” said Sir Henry. “Living at Hume House for the hunting, and he’s got Emily so she doesn’t know up from down.” He glared suddenly at Junia. “Is that where she is? Eh? Eh? My God, Marcus, get up there and save her!”
Marcus looked stunned. “Emily?” he queried blankly. “Surely, sir ...”
“I am afraid it is quite likely true,” said Hector. “I have seen her demonstrate a decided partiality for the fellow.”
Marcus shook his head but turned towards the door. “I will certainly go and look into things, though I can hardly believe ...” He walked into the hall. Junia followed to try to explain some of what had been going on. A movement on the stairs alerted them and they looked up to see a wide-eyed Emily.
She stared as if she was seeing a ghost. “Marcus?” Then her face lit up with joy. “Oh, Marcus! Thank God, thank God!” She ran down to fling herself into his arms.
But he held her off. “Where have you been?”
Emily was too shocked to speak. The surprise of her brother’s return, delightful though it was, after the intensity of the situation at Hume House, on top of days of anxiety . . . And now, instead of shared joy, her brother was looking at her with cold suspicion.
“At Hume House?” he asked harshly.
Dazedly, she nodded, and became aware of Junia, Margaret, and Hector staring at her from her father’s door. She saw what they all thought and was filled with fury.
“Bring her in here!” demanded Sir Henry.
Marcus did so with a hand on her arm, but Emily wrenched out of his grip and marched in under her own steam. Once there, she faced them all boldly.
“Have you no shame?” demanded her father.
“I have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“What? You admit to sneaking up to the Dark Angel’s house in the middle of the night and expect us to believe you were up to no harm?”
Emily looked him straight in the eye. “Yes.”
Mrs. Dobson came in with a loaded tray, took in the atmosphere, put down her offering, and left.
“Very well then,” said Hector, in the tone of a peace-maker but with unendurable smugness. “Why not tell your father why you went up to that place.”
Emily looked around them all. “Mr. Verderan’s mother arrived this evening. I went up to help.” Despite her firm tone it did sound remarkably feeble even to her own ears.
Junia asked, “Helen’s come over from Ireland?”
Hector asked, “After all his cruelty, she would come to him? I find that impossible to believe.”
Marcus asked, “Why the devil should you be helping? Can’t he afford maids?”
“Because I’m going to marry him,” Emily said, silencing the room.
Margaret’s eyes brimmed with delight, and Junia said, “Good.” But the men reflected horror.
“You are lost to all decency!” declared Hector.
“You can’t be serious,” said Marcus.
“She’s addled,” said Sir Henry. “She probably went up there, crawled into his bed, and as a result of what happened, thinks he’ll marry her. I warned you, my girl.”
Emily glared at her father red-faced. “You have a disgusting mind!”
“Emily, guard your tongue,” said Marcus sharply.
“If you are going to marry him,” asked Sir Henry unpleasantly, “why hasn’t he come talking to me about it?”
“He will,” said Emily, fighting tears and struggling to keep her dignity. “Thus far it has been between the two of us.”
“I’ll go odds it has,” growled her father. “Oh, damn it all, Emily, I warned you.”
“And I told you I could be trusted,” she cried. “Trust me. For once, Father, will you trust me to run my own life!”
“No,” he shouted back. “You’re a woman, and as foolish as the rest of the species! Thank God I’ve got Marcus back and can have done with this farce. Marcus, my boy, lock her in her room while we consider what is best to be done.” He cast a significant glance at Hector, who was looking rather smug.
“Father,” warned Emily.
“No more of your nonsense.”
“Henry,” said Junia. “You are making an utter fool of yourself.”
“You should know,” he said nastily. “You’ve been making a fool of yourself all your life. Someone should have fixed you up with a man before you turned funny. Marcus.”
Thus prompted, Marcus came over to Emily. “Come along,” he said, not unkindly. “We’ll fix things, Emily.”
There was nothing to be gained by staying, so Emily allowed her brother to escort her up the stairs. “Marcus, I am willing to make allowances,” she said. “You’ve been away for a long time and you don’t know the half of the situation .. .”
“I bumped into Felix when I got off the coach in Melton,” he said bleakly. “He filled me in remarkably.”
“You’d believe Felix?”
“Not at the time. I obviously owe him an apology for knocking him down.” He sighed. “Emily, how could you let yourself be used like this by a man of Verderan’s stamp? Men like that don’t marry. I always thought you so sensible.”
At her door, Emily turned to him. “Did it ever occur to you, Marcus, that I might not want to be sensible?” She took the key from the inside of her lock and handed it to him. “Welcome home, brother.” Then she slammed the door.
Marcus Grantwich looked at the key and the solid door. He was very tempted not to lock it at all, but decided it was better to do so for now. He really couldn’t handle the rampant lunacy that seemed to have taken over here. He was tired from the rush of tying up his military work and racing home to face his family catastrophe. In fact he was exhausted.
But his work during the past year—behind the scenes, undercover, and mixing with people whose principles were quite different from his own, yet principles all the same—had taught him some things.
Was it just that which had made Emily look quite beautiful tonight—with her hair long and loose and that red cloak framing her face magnificently?
Or perhaps it was the way she held herself so she looked a good few inches taller, and the proud spirit that shone in her eyes, and the way her eyes had met those of her accusers . . .
As he walked slowly downstairs he recollected that it had never been wise to believe anything
Cousin Felix said. On the other hand, he’d heard about Piers Verderan and even met the man once or twice when he was still home to hunt.
Remarkably handsome, sharp as a blade, and as hard. Hard and cold, with fire underneath. The thought of such a man and Emily was ludicrous until he called to mind the new Emily. The one who had confronted their father so boldly.
Was this really a match or was she being duped? If it was a match, was it permissible? If it wasn’t, what was a poor tired brother to do about it?
And he’d thought he was coming home to peace and rest from strife.
He found Hector and Margaret sitting in Sir Henry’s room, but Junia was nowhere to be seen. Margaret looked up at him miserably and he went to her. “I’m sorry, love. This isn’t the joyous party you wanted, is it?”
She shook her head. “That doesn’t matter, Marcus. I have you home. But what about Emily?”
“We’ll work it out for the best. I think it would be better, though, if you went home now. I’m tired to death and not up to a great scene at the moment. We’ll sort things out tomorrow.”
The Marshalswicks rose and took their farewells. Hector said, “I will return first thing to discuss what is to be done.”
As he saw them off, Marcus discovered he did not like Hector very much. Emily was really none of his business, and he had never once, since Marcus had knocked at their door, left him and Margaret alone for a fond reunion. Over propriety or simple thoughtlessness?
He rubbed his forehead and went back to his father, who was looking weighed with care. “Don’t know where I went wrong,” he muttered. “She’s changed. She’s not my little Emily any more.”
Marcus collapsed wearily into a chair by his father’s bed. “She’s brave,” he said.
“Bold,” countered Sir Henry.
Marcus smiled. “A little, but more brave than bold. You frighten me, Father, so I’m sure you frighten Emily.”
“Fat lot of good it does, when I’m stuck here. All I can do is shout.”
“We’ll have to find some way of getting you about a bit,” Marcus said. “Perhaps consult some other doctors . . . But be kind to Emily, Father. If by any chance Piers Verderan does want to marry her, should we stand in their way?”
