by Jo Goodman
It was the kiss again that had addled her mind. The guilty pleasure of it made her want to confess all to someone. It was perhaps fortunate that she had no one immediately to turn to. Marisol was unsuited to the role of confessor, and Emma knew her uncle would not want to thank her for unburdening herself. She could hardly say anything to Neven Charters. It struck her that she led an insular life well before her abduction, and it was not a happy epiphany.
Emma closed her fan and skirted a large potted palm so she could slip along the perimeter of the salon without attracting attention. It helped that Wynetta Wellsley was encouraged by her friends to play the pianoforte. While strains of Haydn’s La Roxelane were coaxed from the instrument, Emma eyed her destination. The entrance to the card room seemed as great a distance away as Walthamstow. There were moments when she did not think she could go so far, and it was frustrating in the extreme. What she told herself rationally had no impact on her fear. She arrived at the card room by sheer force of will and was nearly sick with the effort.
Standing just inside the doorway, Emma was forced to raise her fan to hide the fact that she was winded. She sipped air until her breathing calmed, then she wandered as casually as she could toward her uncle’s table. Her purpose in coming to the room was quite different than she imagined Sir Geoffrey supposed. She did not truly believe her uncle required protection as much as he required encouragement. Still, Emma could not entirely abandon him. She decided that if Sir Arthur was being fitted for leg shackles, the very least she could do was make certain the marriage irons didn’t chafe.
“I am no longer inclined to favor the name Arthur,” Lady Rivendale was saying as Emma approached. “I had a dear friend by the same name, and as I am out of sorts with him, you will understand why the name gives me pause.”
Fascinated by this rather novel conversational tack, Emma veered away from the table and chose a seat near the open French doors. The evening was warm but not uncomfortably so, and the light breeze carried the fragrance of Lady Rivendale’s spacious garden into the room. Emma pretended interest in the fountain that she could glimpse just beyond the portico. Tilting her head to one side, she listened to the exchange between Lady Rivendale and her uncle.
It was incidental that two other players shared the table with them. Except for occasionally gathering a trick or making a bid, the pair had nothing to contribute. Emma suspected they had already learned that their silence was much appreciated.
“My given name is Arturo,” Sir Arthur said.
“Arturo.” She tested it on her tongue. Lady Rivendale was still a handsome woman in her fifty-seventh year. A complete beauty in her youth, she had lines about her eyes and mouth that she liked to think reflected a life being lived to the fullest. She had known heartache but also great joy. She expected good fortune but was prepared on those occasions when it proved elusive. “Is it Italian?” she asked. “I have always liked the Italians.”
“Spanish,” he said. “You have kind regards for Spaniards, I hope, even those of us who trace our origins on these shores to the Armada.”
“We were all from somewhere else first,” she said. “The Gardners are of Viking descent. I, myself, am Norman. Barbarians and invaders, the lot of us, though I find it oddly comforting to know we are come from such fierce stock.” She snapped trump on the trick on the table and drew it to her side. “Do you often have opportunity for cards?” she asked as she made her next play.
“Occasionally at the club.”
“You are a credible partner.”
He smiled. “You are carrying me with your exceptional play. I know I have made errors.”
Emma quickly raised her fan to hide her own smile. She had been mistaken to suppose her uncle would require encouragement. While he always conversed easily with others, she had not known him to engage so comfortably in conversations of no particular importance. Except with Marisol, she amended, coming to her feet. Marisol could draw her father into a lengthy discussion about hair ribbons, he was that indulgent. On the heels of that thought, Emma was reminded that Marisol was reputed to be very much like her mother in that regard, and she could not help but think her uncle’s light flirtation with Lady Rivendale boded well for the future.
Emma went to stand in the open doorway leading to the garden. With her back to the card room she could no longer catch snippets of conversation, but she was pleased to hear Lady Rivendale’s robust laughter rise above all other voices in response to something Sir Arthur said.
She looked longingly at the garden. Although the hour was late, it was not yet dark. Summer’s long days were upon them, and the torches that marked the perimeter of the portico would not be lighted until dinner had been served. As hungry as Emma was, she still dreaded the meal. She had it from Marisol that she was seated at the table between Sir Geoffrey and Porter Wellsley, a placement that would not have caused distress if it were not for the fact that Lady Gardner would be across the table from her. She would be saved from conversing directly with her ladyship, but she fully anticipated that she would be observed. It was in Lady Gardner’s nature to take account of everything…and everyone.
Emma raised her cashmere shawl so that it covered her bare shoulders. The bodice of her pale yellow bombazine gown was rather more low cut than was her usual fashion, but Marisol insisted that it should not be worn with a betsy. Deferring to her cousin in matters of style was something Emma did as a matter of course. Upon arriving at Lady Rivendale’s and observing the manner in which other young women were dressed, Emma was grateful for Marisol’s unsolicited advice. She would have appeared more matronly than the matrons if she had slipped a modest betsy under the mint green rosettes that trimmed her bodice.
“You look as if you cannot decide whether to stay or go.”
Emma lost her grip on the tails of her shawl as her suddenly nerveless fingers tangled. She had not seen or heard Neven Charters’s approach. “I did not realize you left the music room,” she said. “Have you made your final judgment on the Eden painting, then?”
“I have.” His eyes shifted momentarily to Lady Rivendale’s table. “Why don’t we step outside? You seemed to have been contemplating doing just that when I came upon you.”
Emma tilted her head so that she could look past his shoulder. “Where is Marisol?”
“I couldn’t say. She found my conversation tiresome, I expect, and went in search of some pleasant gossip.” He cupped Emma’s elbow and gently urged her to turn in the direction of the garden. “Shall we?”
Short of making a scene, Emma did not think she could easily remove herself from Neven’s side. Accepting his escort would have been uncomfortable in any circumstance, but Restell’s comments gave her another reason to pause. Still, she had been wondering how she might step outside and enjoy the garden, so perhaps the more considered approach was to take advantage of his escort. Surely she could do that without encouraging him.
“I should like that,” she said. “It is a pleasant evening.” Emma was aware of her faltering first steps, but if Neven felt them he was too polite to comment. “Have you had opportunity to view Lady Rivendale’s collection?”
“She invited me to go where I desired. The Eden painting aside, many of the best works are in the music room.”
“I promised myself I would form my own opinion about the Eden work before I heard you pronounce judgment, but you have intrigued me. What did you find objectionable about the painting?”
Neven Charters came to a halt as they reached the marble balustrade. “You will understand why I thought it best to remove ourselves from the card room when I tell you that the Eden is a most excellent fake.”
Emma’s features betrayed her disbelief. “You are quite certain?”
“I have not gone so far as to remove it from the wall, you understand.”
“Oh, no. Of course not. It’s just that—”
“I am teasing,” he said gently. “I am certain because I purchased the original from the Battenburn estate. I suppose yo
u did not see it in my gallery as your attention was caught by the ceiling. Set yourself at ease, Miss Hathaway, I am of no mind to apprise Lady Rivendale of the truth. She did not ask for an appraisal so I am not honor bound to give her one. You convinced me with your impassioned speech that it is not the authenticity of a painting that gives the masses pleasure. Collectors care, naturally, but we are not great in our numbers.”
“Only in their influence,” Emma said with a certain wryness in her tone.
“I did not mean to suggest—” He stopped. “Ah, you are teasing me, I think.”
“I am.”
“Shall we walk to the fountain? It is just the sort of garish garden monument that I find so fascinating. Cherubim should not be made to spout water from their mouths. That is best left to fish.”
“Mermaids?” she asked, allowing herself to be led down the steps.
“Well, there you have me.”
Emma’s soft chuckle was lost in the crunch of gravel underfoot. She was glad for their companionable silence as they walked to the fountain. Neither of them exchanged a word as they circled it slowly. The chubby marble cherubs were a heavenly symphony of sorts, each one of them playing an instrument. There were two with flutes, a trio of violinists, one with a drum, and another pair with cymbals in their hands.
When they’d made a second complete turn, Neven asked in mildly appalled accents, “What do you suppose they’re playing?”
“Handel’s Water Music, I should think.”
Neven’s laughter was cut off so abruptly that Emma turned her head to look at him. She felt him sag against her before she had any sense of what was happening. The dead weight of his body shoved her hard against the fountain. Stumbling, she threw out a hand to keep from tipping over and opened her mouth to call for help. Her effort came to nothing. Her fingers could not find purchase against the wet marble, and her cry could not be heard as her head was pushed under the water in the fountain’s basin. Neven’s body lay heavily on top of her, pinning her in place. She got her hands under her and pushed hard against the basin, trying to raise her face and shoulders above the waterline and dislodge Neven. She came up only a few inches before the effort failed and her arms collapsed. Lungs burning, she tried again. The desire to draw a breath made her light-headed, and darkness clouded her vision. She wanted air, demanded it, and when she finally surrendered to that most basic need, her nose and mouth filled with water.
Her last thought was not of her life as it had been thus far, or even of loved ones. As consciousness faded, her last thought was both prosaic and absurd. Emmalyn Hathaway realized that she was going to die in a most ignominious fashion: face down and bottom up in a marble fountain with her cousin’s fiancé lying sprawled on top of her while fat cherubs played their instruments and spouted nonsense.
“I grabbed Charters by the scruff of the neck,” Sergeant Hobbes said, making a fist of his hand to demonstrate the action, “and yanked him out like a sack of sand. He was about as heavy as one, too. Collapsed on the ground, he did, though I paid him no mind as all my attention was for Miss Hathaway. I was more gentle with the lady, you understand. I pulled her from the fountain more like she was a half-drowned kitten—which she was. Someone from the dinner party saw us and gave a cry, so there was no hope for it but that we should attract attention.”
Restell still had mud on his boots, dust on his riding breeches, and a riding crop in his hand. He sat mostly sprawled in a wing chair in his bedchamber while his bath was being drawn. Servants marched in and out of the dressing room pretending not to listen to Hobbes’s account of the Rivendale party but hanging on every word all the same.
For Restell’s part he could not have suffered the tale if he had not already learned the ending. Hobbes wisely began his report by announcing that no one was dead. It begged for any number of questions, but Restell allowed Hobbes to tell the story in his own fashion. The questions could wait until the end.
“Go on, man,” Restell said. He tapped the quirt against the toe of his boot as Hobbes turned to set out towels. “Cease with your fussing.”
Hobbes paid no attention to the characterization that he was fussing and placed the towels neatly on a warming pan. “Well, I wasn’t certain what to do with Miss Hathaway once I had her. Her head hung backward over my arm, and I couldn’t tell if she was breathing. That’s when I remembered Mary Stubbs.”
“Gin-soaked Mary Stubbs,” Restell said. “It’s good you have the experience of regularly saving that woman’s life, Hobbes, else you would have little to recommend you as a gentleman of great sensitivity.”
“It breaks my heart to know you’re right, sir.” The valet shooed the last of the malingering housemaids out of the room and closed the door. “There was nothing for it but that I place Miss Hathaway on the ground and turn her on her side. I delivered half a dozen brisk slaps between her shoulder blades.”
“What made you think to do that?” asked Restell.
“Burping babies, I expect.” In response to Restell’s raised eyebrows, he explained, “I did a little of that moving among the camp followers. There were always babies about, and it was a pleasure to hold them. That doesn’t reflect favorably on my sensitivity because mostly I held them after I had carnal knowledge of their mothers or killed some Frenchies.”
“It is good you clarified it. I was prepared to revise my opinion.”
Hobbes nodded. “It looked as if you were.” He picked up Restell’s mud-flecked Carrick coat and began brushing the capes. “Miss Hathaway coughed up water, choked and gagged a bit, though I recall thinking she did it altogether like a lady.”
“She will be glad to hear it,” Restell said wryly. “Proceed.”
“After she drew a full breath I helped her sit up. Guests were crowding around by then and a few of them were assisting Mr. Charters. I heard someone remark he had a lump at the back of his head the size of a hen’s egg. Seems there was a bit of blood also.”
“He was attacked?” Restell sat up, alarmed. “I thought you said he merely collapsed.”
“I said that’s what I supposed happened. I’m far and away into explaining that I was wrong to assume it. Charters and Miss Hathaway were on the far side of the fountain from where I was standing. I didn’t see anyone approach them, but I don’t think I could have, not from my vantage point. It seemed little longer than a blink of an eye that I had no view of them. They’d made two tours of the fountain, and I thought they meant to make another. When they didn’t appear immediately I imagined they stopped to inspect it more closely. It’s the kind of piece that lends itself to study. Fat, naked babies with drums and fiddles. I’ve never seen the—”
Restell slapped his quirt with considerable force against the side of his boot. It had the desired effect: Hobbes picked up the important thread of his story.
“It was the disruption of the water flow that caught my ear. The pitch of all those spitting cherubs changed. I hobbled closer and saw splashing. By the time I rounded the fountain the villain was gone, not that I could have given chase, not with Miss Hathaway drowning under Mr. Charters’s weight.”
“What evening did you say this occurred?” Restell pushed himself to the edge of his chair and made to rise. “And where is Miss Hathaway now?”
Hobbes positioned himself squarely in front of Restell to prevent a precipitous exit. “Three nights ago,” he said. “Thursday evening. Lady Rivendale is a managing woman—if I may be so bold to offer that observation—and she took charge in the aftermath. There was nothing I could do to prevent it. It is perhaps fortunate that liveried servants look so much alike to their masters and mistresses because your parents took no notice of me, and they were early to the scene.”
Restell closed his eyes and rubbed them with his thumb and forefinger. “Bloody hell, Hobbes, but this is a mess.”
“I know, sir, and I’m sorry for it. I’m prepared to take my leave at once if you like. I don’t expect a character.”
“Take your leave? Don’t spe
ak nonsense. I haven’t the patience for it. Again, where is Miss Hathaway?”
“Didn’t I say? No, I suppose I didn’t. She’s still at her ladyship’s.”
“My mother’s?”
“No. Lady Rivendale’s.”
Restell realized he was more weary than he had been wont to admit. He could barely follow where Hobbes led him. “I imagine the countess felt some obligation as the attack happened in her home.” He frowned, struck by an unhappy thought. “Charters? Did she allow him to stay there as well?”
“No. I understand that she offered, but he insisted on seeking the treatment of his own physician and would not hear of troubling hers. As he had but the lump on his head and Miss Hathaway was the one in acute need of the physician’s care, he had his way. Miss Vega accompanied him home and Sir Arthur stayed with Miss Hathaway.” Hobbes motioned to Restell to lift his left foot and bent to remove the boot. “These details such as I am able to report came to me by others. I was not privy to the conversations, but Lady Rivendale’s personal maid was forthcoming.”
Restell leaned back in his chair as Hobbes attended him. He closed his eyes and almost groaned with relief as the left boot was removed. “I hope you are not so forthcoming when I am the subject of inquiry.”
“I expect I shall be perfectly mute, but as no one has ever put an inquiry to me, it is all supposition.”
“Just as well,” Restell said. “How does Miss Hathaway fare?”
“Very well, I believe. Jamie McCleod watches the house during the day and nothing untoward has occurred. Lewis and Shaw continue to observe the activities of Miss Vega and her father.”
