He was sad to see it go, but he did not need the words to be written down to recall the sentiment. He just hoped Emmy would be pleased by the response he had written.
Eager to catch sight of her, Mr Smith left the quietude of his hermitage and headed through the woods, feeling the warmth of the sunlight on his face. It glanced in through the canopy, dappling his skin, lifting his already joyous mood.
Reaching the edge of the trees, he paused, his eyes gazing up toward the house. Instantly, his heart sank.
Standing at the bottom of the rose gardens was Emmy, speaking with the tall, red-headed gentleman he had seen before, who was finely dressed in a smart tailcoat and top hat.
Something he said made Emmy laugh, and the sight was an unpleasant one. He did not like to think of another man entertaining her affections, not with him so inferior in position.
Under the rule of Lady Nightingale, there was no way he could compete.
Nora was standing near the couple, her cheeks flushed, her eyes scanning the distant horizon where Mr Smith stood.
Feeling embarrassed, he ducked behind the cover of a tree trunk, though he kept his gaze upon the lovely form of Emmy, allowing himself a moment to remember the way she had felt in his arms and the smile she had given him when he had carried her to safety.
He longed for that sensation again, and though her letters gave him hope, the sight of her with another man did not.
It was rare that a woman got to follow her heart, especially with a mother as insistent as Lady Nightingale, and he just hoped he was not at risk of losing the tenuous hold he had on Emmy’s affections. He was not even sure he had any hold at all. She was young, after all, in a stage of her life where feelings and regards shifted as freely as the wind.
Staring at the red-headed man, Mr Smith wondered if his presence might hinder the exchange of letters between himself and Emmy.
If there was a visitor at Davenham Park, it would certainly be more difficult for Nora to get to him undetected.
“Lord Fitzroy, how long do you plan to stay here at the house? I understand my brothers have promised to take you shooting?” he heard Emmy say, her hands clasped coyly behind her back.
Even from this distance, he could see there was a flush in her cheeks too, but whether it was a result of his letter or the presence of the viscount, he could not be sure.
James nodded. “Miss Nightingale, your father and your brothers have been kind enough to recommend some excellent spots to improve my natural skill in the sport,” he replied, setting Mr Smith’s hackles on edge. He did not like to hear her name uttered from his superior mouth.
“That is wonderful, Lord Fitzroy. Will you stay long?” she pressed, making Mr Smith curious. He didn’t know if it came from a place of genuine interest, or if she was keen to see him leave. He forced himself to be hopeful for the latter.
“I am undecided as yet, Miss Nightingale. Your mother, Lady Nightingale, has offered me an invitation to stay a fortnight,” James remarked, his eyes ever resting upon Emmy’s face.
To Mr Smith’s mind, he looked like a predator circling its prey, hungry eyes judging the moment to land the killing blow.
Emmy smiled sweetly. “The weather is excellent, is it not, Lord Fitzroy?” she said, a perplexed expression on her face as she turned slightly away from the viscount.
It gave Mr Smith immeasurable hope to see her so perturbed at the idea of the viscount taking up her mother’s overly generous offer.
“Indeed, Miss Nightingale, and long may it continue,” he answered, his voice silky and strangely grating to Mr Smith’s ears. He could only hear them faintly from his vantage point, but he did not like the sounds that were coming to him on the breeze.
“I think there is nothing so fine as visiting with new people in the summer months, where everything seems possible and there is a joyous quality to the air,” James murmured thoughtfully before offering his hand for Emmy to take.
Mr Smith watched, unable to breathe, as she did just that.
It would have been impolite for her to refuse, but he could not help feeling a twinge of resentment toward the red-headed man who had come in so suddenly to make advances upon the youngest Nightingale daughter.
Just then, he noticed that Nora was looking directly at him, a warning in her eyes. With a discreet flick of her wrist, she made a gesture that he understood entirely.
In that moment, he was not welcome.
Giving a small nod, he disappeared back into the shade of the woods, though his mind remained upon the vision of Emmy as he made the slow, dejected walk back to the hermitage, where only solitude and loneliness awaited him.
“Do not marry him, Miss Emmeline,” he said quietly to himself as he entered the small, stone building that served as his home and his prison.
Somehow, he prayed she could hear him.
Despite everything, despite all of the promises he had made to himself to focus solely on his search for penance, he had opened up his heart to the possibility of Emmy, and if that were to be cruelly stolen away, he did not think he could recover.
His heart and soul had already taken more weight than they could hold.
One more ounce of struggle and he knew he would break beneath the pressure.
Chapter Eighteen
The interception
Chapter 18
With James staying at the house, it soon became clear that seeing Mr Smith was no longer an option for Emmy.
In the days that passed there was never a moment to herself where she could slip out to visit with him at the hermitage, nor could they risk him coming closer to the house.
Lady Nightingale was determined that there should be a match between Emmy and James, forcing the pair of them to spend as many waking hours together as possible, whether they wished to or not.
On occasion, Francis and Jasper would take him out to the grounds, where he could indulge in a spot of shooting, or they would take him down to the river so he might try some of the excellent fishing they had at Davenham Park, but even then Lady Nightingale was lurking.
Even in those moments, Lady Nightingale would corner Emmy to ask what she thought of James or how the pair of them were getting on. Even when she wasn’t asking such questions, she would demand that Emmy stayed by her side, no doubt so she could keep an eye on her and prevent her from running as far from the house as possible.
Truthfully, Emmy had taken an instant dislike to James, who seemed only to want to talk about himself. No matter what the subject, James could bring the focus back to his own experiences, to the point where Emmy no longer saw the use in trying to implement interesting conversation.
He was rude and curt, with little regard for her, as far as she could see. He showed no interest in what she had to say about anything and tended to lean toward condescension whenever he appeared to feel she had grown too comfortable in discussing a particular topic. He thought her novels stupid and her love of music a childish phase that would ebb with maturity.
It became clear, very swiftly, that they had nothing in common. Indeed, Emmy could not think of a worse match, though it did not seem to deter Lady Nightingale, who did not seem to believe that common ground was a necessary attribute to marriage, despite having a loving marriage of her own.
All throughout Emmy’s childhood, she had seen a strong affection between her mama and papa, with Lord Nightingale often placing a tender kiss on the forehead of his wife and having a kind word for her. Lady Nightingale, too, always looked for her husband in a crowded room, a smile lighting up her face when she finally laid eyes upon him.
And so, Emmy had presumed it was like that for everyone, only to have the austere truth of arranged marriages forced into her sphere of existence.
First, with Nora.
Now, with herself.
She found herself positively giddy when Nora returned from the woods each day clutching a letter or a word for her to cling onto. It was her favourite moment of the day, though she could tell Nora still did
not approve. She was doing it out of love for Emmy and nothing more, but for that Emmy was eternally grateful.
Through Nora, she was permitted a sliver of fantasy, which could soften any blow that might fall upon her head should her mother decide to arrange a betrothal without her consent. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Nora had also made it clear she did not like James one bit, which Emmy presumed was a factor in her continued efforts as a messenger.
Becoming Viscountess Emmeline Fitzroy was not what Nora wanted for her little sister, that much was clear.
Emmy could see it in the suspicious way that Nora glanced at the viscount, judging him with her dark eyes when he wasn’t looking. She had also said as much in their stolen, secret conversations, tucked away in the safety of Emmy’s chambers, where nobody could eavesdrop upon them.
It did not mean she approved of Mr Smith, but Emmy knew she certainly preferred him to the viscount.
Emmy was walking through the gallery on the evening of the viscount’s sixth day at the house, having come from an afternoon spent in the stuffy heat of the library, with her mother’s ever-watchful eyes fixed upon her, when a sound made her stop dead in her tracks.
A scream—a very definite scream—pierced the air.
Pausing, trying to figure out where it was coming from, Emmy waited to hear it again, in case it was just some unruly hijinks from the serving staff.
She was already on-edge after spending six days in the company of her mother and the viscount without so much as a glimpse of Mr Smith.
She wondered if she might have made the sound up, due to being driven by the agitated paranoia of being away from Mr Smith’s company. His letters satisfied her to an extent, but they could only do so much.
A second scream shivered through the windows of the gallery. No, she definitely had not imagined it in the feverish depths of her mind.
Someone was in trouble.
Realising that the sound was coming from outside, Emmy raced through the gallery and out into the main hallway, heading for the door. Nobody hindered her as she ran, bolting out into the warm evening air, though it did not seem as though anyone else had heard the noise either.
The sun had yet to set, but it was not far from turning the sky to an inky twilight.
She ran toward the sound of a third scream, rounding the corner of the walled garden to find James pinning Nora to the wooden back of one of the garden benches, one hand around her throat as his other hand tried to wrestle something free of her grip. She clutched it tightly, hiding it from the viscount’s view, though Emmy immediately knew what it was.
Nora was holding a letter from Mr Smith.
“Lord Fitzroy, unhand my sister this instant!” Emmy cried, rushing at the tall figure of the viscount.
With desperate hands, she fought to get Nora free of the viscount’s grip, but he held her fast.
Strengthening her resolve, she clawed at his fingers, wishing to prise them free of her sister.
With a firm hand, he took her by the shoulder and threw Emmy to the ground, sending her sprawling backwards. Even so, it gave Nora a moment’s reprieve, the gasp of her breath echoing through the walled garden.
Scrambling to her feet to fly back in the direction of James, Emmy was surprised to see a shadow slip past her towards the red-headed man, taking him squarely by the arm and hauling him away from the terrified figure of Nora.
The strength of the stranger was immense, James unable to find purchase on the slippery flagstones of the garden paving. A pale shaft of light glanced down, catching the side of the shadow’s face.
It was Mr Smith, tackling the viscount to the ground.
James tried to fight back, his fists punching aimlessly at the air, but Mr Smith was too quick. Ducking and feinting around the viscount’s blows, Mr Smith seemed untouchable.
With one eye on their tussle, Emmy hurried toward the slumped form of Nora, who had fainted from shock upon the wooden bench.
“Nora,” Emmy whispered encouragingly, taking her sister’s face in her hands. “Nora, you must wake up. We must get you inside,” she implored, wishing her sister’s eyes to open. Behind her, she could hear the sound of the two men scuffling, the occasional wince and groan letting her know that a punch had landed.
Slowly, Nora blinked awake, her eyes staring round in confusion. “Make him stop, Emmy,” she whimpered, her hands moving up toward her neck to check for any injury. It pained Emmy to see the wounded familiarity on Nora’s face, as though it was a motion she had done a thousand times before.
“He has, sister,” Emmy murmured, tears springing to her eyes.
Never had she been more grateful for Mr Smith’s intercession, though she could not imagine the repercussions that would follow.
Hurriedly, she looped her sister’s arm around her neck, helping her up off the bench.
Before they could reach the safety of the walled garden’s exit, however, Emmy felt the pressure of a firm hand on her shoulder, pulling her back. She turned to see James staring down at her with his steely gaze, his nose trickling blood, the first blooms of a bruise appearing around his right eye. Mr Smith was not far behind, lunging for the viscount.
“Take your vile hands off me, you wretch!” James howled at Mr Smith, who forcibly ripped the taller man’s fingers away from Emmy’s shoulder.
Backing away, wounded and defeated, James let his eyes drift across the trio who remained. Mr Smith did not appear to be injured at all, though there was a slight slope to the arm where his previous injury had been, the wound no doubt exacerbated by his fight with James.
Emmy watched Mr Smith as he stood between the two sisters and their attacker.
Immediately, seeing that the battle had been lost, a transformation appeared upon the viscount’s face. It happened in the blink of an eye, confusing Emmy somewhat.
Where before he had been twisted and angry, like a demon had possessed his soul, now his features relaxed back into their usual position of polite gentleman. Casually, he brushed a hand through his hair and straightened the clothes that had been yanked and torn in the tussle.
“I am sorry, Miss Nightingale. I do not quite know what came over me,” he said, his voice honey-sweet and silky. “I believe it is this heat sending me quite mad,” James insisted, though there was a darkness in his pale eyes that she did not like and certainly did not trust.
“It is quite clear to me, Lord Fitzroy, that your sudden bout of madness had little to do with the heat, as you very well know,” Emmy remarked, feeling emboldened by the presence of Mr Smith in front of her.
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean, Miss Nightingale,” James countered. “Please, Lady Hodge, also accept my sincerest apologies for my outlandish behaviour. It is entirely unlike me, and I feel there is something in the oppressive nature of this weather that brought out such an unexpected transformation in myself. I must have scared you terrible, Lady Hodge. Please do forgive me.” He paused, as if thinking for a moment.
“I thought you were an intruder of some sort, venturing up to the house to steal from the inhabitants, or worse. How I could have thought such a thing, I know not, but it was dark, and you took me quite by surprise, hurrying up to the house the way you were doing. There was something secretive in your actions, and I thought you a vagrant of some kind,” he explained, giving a tight chuckle.
Now Emmy understood his thoughtful pause.
This man was an exceptional liar, she had to give him that, but she was not convinced, not one bit.
“I suppose I could understand the confusion, Lord Fitzroy,” Nora began quietly, her voice raspy, but Emmy would not permit her sister to accept the apology of such a man.
It was clear to her now that James was a very accomplished performer. He’d had much of the Davenham Park household fooled into thinking that he was a pleasant gentleman, with no ulterior motive but to get to know the family better so that he might entertain a proposal to the youngest daughter of the house.
“Lord Fitzroy, you shall not fool me a moment longer,” Emmy retorted. “You did not think my sister to be a vagrant of any kind, and I think you are well aware of that fact. There was something you wanted from her which she would not give, and you sought to take it anyway. Indeed, I believe you to be something of a monster, Lord Fitzroy. For who but a monster would seek to put his hands around the throat of any woman, let alone one as kind and delicate as my sister?” Her eyes narrowed defiantly.
Instantly, the expression on James’ face shifted again. His lips curled upward in a snarl, his eyes hardening, every feature twisting and contorting in rage and distaste. Emmy didn’t care that she had sparked the fires of his wrath.
With Mr Smith there, she felt safe enough to take on anyone and anything.
Lady of a Recluse Earl Page 15
