Emily had observed the unusual scene with amusement. Failing to completely suppress a smile, she offered the Gazette to Lord Bradleigh.
He turned, and for the first time noticed Emily's presence. He hesitated a brief instant as his eyes caught hers, full of amusement but with a hint of caution. He turned to the dowager with a questioning look.
"I beg your pardon, my dear," she said. "This is my companion. Miss Emily Townsend. Emily, this is my impudent and surprisingly foolish grandson, Lord Bradleigh."
Lord Bradleigh turned to Emily and bowed. "Your servant, Miss Townsend."
Emily nodded and dipped a tiny curtsy. "Lord Bradleigh." She smiled as she held out the crumpled Gazette. He returned her smile with a look in his eye that caused her knees almost to buckle as he took the newspaper from her hand. So that's what it's like, she thought, to be stared at by a rake. It was a most unsettling experience.
Lord Bradleigh glanced down at the Gazette, and his eyes immediately caught the announcement of his betrothal. "Oh," he said blankly.
Clearly he hadn't yet seen the announcement, though he did not appear entirely surprised. A fleeting expression of irritation crossed his face. Emily guessed that his unexpected visit to Bath was to let his grandmother, the Cameron family matriarch, know of his plans, and he would not be pleased that his future in-laws did not have the courtesy to wait until the Cameron family had been informed before sending an announcement to the papers.
Or was she reading too much into a momentarily furrowed brow, and making hasty judgments based on the dowager's low opinion of the Windhurst family?
"Oh? Is that all you have to say, Robert? Oh?"
Emily tensed as the dowager bellowed. This was likely to be a very uncomfortable conversation.
"Please sit down, Grandmother, Miss Townsend." Lord Bradleigh led the dowager to a small settee by the window. Charlemagne scrambled up on her lap. The earl reached down and tickled him behind the ears. "Bonjour, mon petit carlin. Veilles-tu sur ma grand'mère?" he whispered to the pug.
Emily smiled at this gesture. Everyone who was acquainted with the dowager was quickly made to learn that the pug must be addressed in French, as the dowager was convinced he comprehended only his native tongue.
Despite her curiosity about Lord Bradleigh, she had no desire to be a part of what was sure to be an awkward meeting. This was a family matter and none of her concern. She excused herself to allow the dowager privacy with her grandson, saying that she must speak with Mrs. Dougherty, the housekeeper, about arranging rooms for the earl. She would also have fresh tea sent up.
* * *
After Emily departed, the dowager turned to her favorite grandson. "So. Are you ready to explain this proposed mésalliance?"
The earl grinned. "Now, dear love, do not be so quick to judge."
"You have not developed a grand passion for the chit, have you?"
"No, of course not."
"Then you lost another one of your silly wagers and were forced to make an offer?"
"No."
"Good God. You compromised her!"
"No!"
"Well, then, what?" the dowager asked, her hands flying up in exasperation. "You never even mentioned you had intentions of marrying, though God knows I have wished it for ages. After all, you have been on the town for years and years, with mamas throwing their daughters in your path since you inherited your title. What brought about this sudden capitulation, my boy?"
"Nothing very extraordinary, my dear," the earl replied. "But you are right. I have been on the town for too many Seasons. As you are well aware, it was my disgust—no, indeed my terror—of those mamas you mention that has caused me to avoid the parson's mousetrap at all costs."
He paused as Barnes brought in a fresh pot of tea along with slices of plum cake and tiny apricot tarts. The dowager poured a cup of tea and handed it to the earl. He took a restorative swallow.
"I recently celebrated my thirty-fifth birthday, as you know," he continued. "And I suddenly realized that I could now legitimately be considered middle-aged." His mouth twisted in distaste. "I concluded that it was time to finally take that dreaded and long- avoided plunge into matrimony in order to produce an heir."
"At last!"
"Just so. As you know, I have never experienced a serious emotional attachment to any woman, at least since the age of seventeen. Once I had determined to marry, I was therefore not very particular in my criteria for a bride. I required only that she be young enough to bear my children, have a respectable background, a spotless reputation, and at least passable looks."
"That's it?" the dowager squeaked. "Why, any number of women could have answered those requirements."
'True. The field was wide open, in fact, despite my ... er... reputation. But then I realized that I would prefer that she not be a giggler or a chatterbox. That eliminates half the Season's crop. And I cannot abide a watering pot. You see how the field narrows. And I would have no patience with a clinging vine. So now very few candidates remain. I would especially prefer that she be practical and businesslike in approaching marriage. I would be most uncomfortable with a female who fell head over heels in love with me when I know I could never reciprocate such depth of feeling. I wanted a woman who could accept me on those terms without reproach. And I believe I have found just such a one.
"For the first time in my adult life I decided to take a serious look at what the Season had to offer. You will be astonished to know that I even went so far as to grace Almack's with my noble presence. You know how I hate that place and its self-righteous patronesses. But it was actually at Almack's that I first met Miss Windhurst. Augusta."
He paused to take a sip of tea, then continued. "She is nineteen years old, and her background, on her father's side at least, is unexceptionable. She also happens to be very beautiful."
The dowager nodded. "I am not so removed from Society that I am unaware Miss Windhurst is this Season's Incomparable."
"Yes, she exceeds all my requirements in that respect. An added bonus, so to speak. She is also elegant, cool, and supremely aloof. I have no apprehension about her sensibilities. She does not giggle, chatter, whimper, swoon, or cling. She suits my requirements down to the last peg, so I lost no time in paying court to her. We have been much in each other's company during the last month. Two days ago I spoke with her father, who gave me permission to pay my addresses to her." He then reached over and took his grandmother's hand. "I am truly sorry, my dear, that you had to learn of my betrothal through the Gazette. I had every intention of breaking the news to you myself. Indeed, I have come to Bath for just that purpose. I assure you, I had no idea the announcement would be made public so soon."
"No doubt," Lady Bradleigh said with a sneer. "I suspect, however, that your future mother-in-law was anxious to make everyone in the ton aware of her great good luck in settling her daughter as a countess. What a triumph for her!"
Lord Bradleigh's face became grim, although his eyes twinkled with amusement. "Now, Grandmother. You must try to maintain a civil tongue when discussing my betrothed. Oh, I know what you think of Lady Windhurst, but, after all, she's not the one I'm going to marry. Augusta is cut from a different cloth altogether. She will make a fine countess." He squeezed her hand. "I had hoped for your blessing," he crooned in his most seductive tone.
The dowager jerked her hand from his clasp. "Do not go trying to turn me up sweet. You cannot wrap me around your finger like all your other women. You have my blessing. But I give it grudgingly and only because I do not see that I have a choice. I am not happy with this arrangement, Robert. In the first place, I still strongly object to having Lady Windhurst thrust into our family circle. The woman is not to be tolerated. Secondly, I take exception to this cold, calculating way in which you have apparently chosen your bride. I suspect that you will regret your heartless business arrangement in years to come. Have you no desire for an affectionate, loving relationship at the center of your life? Do you not think it is worth waiting
until you find a woman with whom you can share such a relationship?"
"You presume too much, Grandmother," the earl said, scowling. "I have been immune to Cupid's arrow for thirty-five years, and it is unlikely that I will succumb at this stage in my career. Besides, I do not have the time, or the inclination, to wait for such a miracle."
The dowager was halted in her reply as Emily reentered the morning room to say that the earl's bedchamber was ready. She absently indicated that Emily should be seated, and continued her conversation with the earl. "All right, Robert," she said. "I will not fight you. I wish you every happiness with your bride. In fact," she drawled, "I intend to return with you to London to meet this paragon. And I suppose the least I can do is to stage a grand engagement ball in your honor."
Lord Bradleigh rose, bowed to his grandmother, and took her hand to his lips. "My dear countess, you do us a great honor. You are most welcome at Bradleigh House."
"Well, that is settled, then. Emily and I will begin preparations at once," the dowager said. She settled back, smiling mischievously. "I believe I will make a long stay in London. Perhaps ride out the Season there. I haven't been to Town in an age. It's such an ordeal, you know. But this is a special occasion. I expect it will take us several weeks to prepare. You will stay here with us, of course, Robert, and then escort us to London. And now, you must be tired from your journey, and you are certainly dirty. Emily, ring for a footman to show Robert to his rooms. We dine at seven, my boy."
Chapter 2
After the earl departed, the dowager suddenly looked up at Emily in alarm. "Dinner!" she cried. Emily gave her a puzzled look. "Anatole!" the dowager groaned.
Emily laughed. "I will take care of it," she said as she left the morning room and headed downstairs to the kitchen. Anatole, the dowager's French chef, would have to be told of the addition of the earl to their dinner table. Emily was one of the few who was able to approach the volatile Frenchman with last-minute changes without him flying up into the boughs and threatening resignation. This evening's meal had been planned for only six. The addition of a seventh would likely represent little difficulty for Anatole. Nevertheless, Emily steeled herself for the inevitable outburst.
She made her way down to the basement and entered the large, busy kitchen. One long wall displayed an impressive batterie de cuisine, including racks of copper pots of all sizes, iron kettles, pewter trays and jugs, and an enormous collection of fancifully shaped jelly molds. An adjacent wall housed a row of several open-fire ranges, a separately fired oven, and a large hot plate decorated with classical medallions on the front. Though the high windows on the outside wall were propped open, the air was close and warm. The somber blue walls added to the oppressive atmosphere. Several kitchen maids scurried about, and Lucien, Anatole's young assistant, was busily rolling out a pastry on one of the large trestle tables in the center of the room.
Emily found Anatole at one of his many stockpots, testing a fish broth. He was a large, almost burly man with thinning dark hair and piercing black eyes. He had a fiery Gallic temper that often had kitchen maids cowering in corners, but his manner always softened in the presence of pretty young women or in the face of true appreciation of his art. As Emily provided both, he was generally solicitous toward her. Emily waited quietly until he was apparently satisfied with the flavor of the fish broth, and was about to approach a large pot of beef stock being slowly reduced to a glace de viande.
"Pardon me, Monsieur Anatole," she said softly, "but may I have a word with you?"
"Ah, Mademoiselle Townsend," Anatole said. He delicately wiped his fingers with a damp towel, which he then held out to be taken by an attendant kitchen maid. "What may I do for you? A preview of tonight's masterpiece, perhaps?" he asked as he cocked his head toward the row of stock pots.
"You spoil me, monsieur," Emily replied, smiling. "The aromas alone are enough to send me into raptures. I will wait and sample your art in the dining room along with our guests. And by the way, I am afraid we will have an additional guest this evening."
"What?" roared Anatole. "C'est impossible! It is too late to change our menu. We cannot do it!" He muttered a string of French invectives, most of which Emily was fortunately unable to translate. He pounded a nearby butcher block with his fists and kicked over a straw basket of coal. His face turned red with fury, and his black eyes seemed almost to pop out of his head. When he appeared ready literally to explode, Emily quietly interrupted.
"Please, monsieur, you must calm down. Have a care for your health. It would be a tragedy if the great Anatole succumbed to apoplexy in his own kitchen. Lady Bradleigh would be desolate without you. Here, sit down for a moment," she said as she led him to a bench along a short corridor leading to the adjacent scullery. He stopped shouting but narrowed his black eyes and glowered menacingly at her.
"Our additional guest this evening is her ladyship's grandson, Lord Bradleigh," Emily said in the same tone she had once used in the schoolroom to placate her young charges. "He has arrived unexpectedly and will be staying here in Bath a short while. He is a great admirer of your arts, monsieur," she said, hoping it was true. "I know he expects greatness from her ladyship's kitchen and awaits tonight's dinner with keen anticipation. I have promised her ladyship that you will not fail, and I know that you will not. After all, monsieur, when have you ever failed to overwhelm us all with your extraordinary talents? Who can remain unmoved by your poulardes à la Perigueux? Or your cotellettes d'agneau à la Toulouse? Or"—she sighed and closed her eyes—"your escalopes de volatile aux truffes?"
She peeked through her lashes to find Anatole gazing abstractedly into space, smiling no doubt in contemplation of that particular triumph. She gave an ecstatic shiver, then slowly opened her eyes.
It occurred to her that if she ever lost her position, she could surely find a career on the stage.
"Ah, monsieur," she continued breathlessly, "you are a genius. I know you will be able to think of some way to accommodate Lord Bradleigh. True, we will have an uneven number at the table, but that should pose a greater problem to Barnes and his staff than to you, monsieur, n'est-ce pas?" She grinned at him, knowing that her arrow had struck home. Anatole and Barnes maintained a polite truce at the best of times. Barnes and his footmen had never quite gotten used to the dowager's introduction of a large round table in the smaller dining room, which she preferred to use for more intimate dinners in the French style. The round table wreaked havoc with Barnes' notion of corner dishes, and he frequently fussed over where to position which dishes. The resolution was a greater number of removes, which allowed Anatole to better extend his talents.
Anatole grinned back at Emily. "Soit!" he said, waving an imperious hand. "We shall not fail, mademoiselle. We welcome Lord Bradleigh. He is a true connoisseur, and we shall not disappoint him."
Emily thanked Anatole and assured him of her confidence in his abilities, then made her way back upstairs.
* * *
Anatole smiled as he watched her leave, amused at the persuasive tactics she always used with him. He would never let her know that he would happily do anything she asked, as he was very fond of her. But he was even more fond of their little game of tyrant and diplomat, which she played so well. He sighed as he rose and sought out Lucien to have him round up another pair of ortolans.
* * *
Emily retired to her bedroom and began to study her wardrobe for a suitable dress for the evening. There was not much of a selection. She had few dresses, and only two or possibly three appropriate for evening wear. Each was simply cut, absent of elaborate adornment, and generally in dark blues or grays. Emily had always felt perfectly comfortable in her plain gowns and had dined with tonight's guests enough times so that there was no need to impress. But she suddenly felt decidedly dowdy when she thought of dining with Lord Bradleigh. He was certainly one of the most attractive men she had ever met, and she had not failed to appreciate his boyish charm in handling his grandmother. She was quite surprised at his
friendly, endearing manner. He was a notorious rake with a somewhat dark reputation. She had expected a more brooding, menacing demeanor. Instead, she had found his open, amiable manner quite appealing. But then she also recalled that he was known to be a gamester. This thought put an end to any generous feelings she might have had for her employer's grandson. She blamed her own current penniless state on her father's penchant for gambling and therefore had no tolerance for men who won and lost fortunes at the turn of a card.
Emily sighed and pulled out a gray silk gown from her small wardrobe. She would not forget her place. She would not worry about looking dowdy in front of a renowned rogue and gambler, no matter how attractive he was.
She rang for a maid, and soon Lottie, one of the under housemaids, was at her door bringing a pitcher of hot water. Lottie was an incurable chatterbox but had a sweet and generous nature, and Emily was fond of her. She smiled as Lottie sailed into the room.
"Oh, miss," Lottie said breathlessly, "ain't it wonderful havin' such a one as his lordship in the house? Have you seen him yet? I hear he's devilish handsome. But then he would have to be, wouldn't he, for all those women to fall at his feet. Such stories I've heard!"
"Lottie!" Emily scolded. "Surely you are not already gossiping belowstairs about our guest? He's only just arrived."
"Oh, no, miss, I'm not spreadin' any new tales, to be sure. We hear stories about His Lordship all the time."
Emily bit back a smile as she contemplated the distinction between old gossip and new gossip.
"It fair makes your hair stand on end, it does," Lottie said. "I tell you, us housemaids is all in a quake havin' him here. A girl's not safe with him around. You'd better be on your guard, too, miss. He's a regular rogue, he is. Why, only last month we heard he ... well, he ..." She lowered her voice. "He had his way with a grand duchess in a chapel in Westminster Abbey. Right in the church!" Lottie's eyes had grown as big as saucers as she spoke.
Candice Hern Page 2
