Rogue Grooms

by Amanda McCabe

  Damien gave a rough laugh. “Not at all. Lady Fortune has not smiled on me in months.”

  “Then where did this come from?”

  “Does it matter, Emily? Use it to buy yourself some new gowns. God knows you need them.”

  Her patience, never great when it came to Damien, snapped. “Tell me where you got it!” she shouted.

  He fell back on the settee, closing his eyes with a groan. “I did not steal it, if that is what you’re implying, sister dearest. And pray do not shout so—my head is splitting. I made it from the sale of that stone you were so damnably fond of.”

  “The Star?” Emily gasped, appalled. She tossed the coins back on top of him, as if they burned her skin. She did not even question how he had held onto the money for nearly a year since he took the Star away. “I won’t take your ill-gotten gains. These are stolen.”

  “Oh, don’t be so self-righteous! You’re as bad as Mother. Besides, it is not as you think.”

  “No?”

  “No.” He opened his eyes, and gave her a sly, bleary grin. “The stone I sold to that vulgar Cit, Innis, was not the real thing. I sold him a paste copy, and gave someone else the real thing. Clever of your old brother, wasn’t it? And here you’ve been looking down your nose at me for years, like you are so much better than me, so much finer. Yet you could. never have come up with such a scheme, you prim little hypocrite.”

  “Indeed I could not,” was all Emily could say. Then she ran from the library to be sick, appalled that he could do such a horrible thing. He had stolen the Star not once, but twice. Or was it three times? She could not even count.

  He left Fair Oak the next day, and Emily never saw him again. A few days later, a new Bath chair arrived for their mother, along with a length of spangled muslin and new cashmere shawls, no doubt paid for with the money she’d thrown back in Damien’s face. To her everlasting shame, she kept them. Her mother needed that chair. Emily also never told anyone the truth about the Star. Such a thing would tarnish their honorable name forever, a name Emily had spent her life protecting.

  She remembered the newspaper article, which had said that experts were coming to examine the Star before it went to the museum.

  There had to be something she could do now! Something that would not upset Alex and Georgina, or disrupt their new, wonderful life. Emily had spent years taking care of her family alone. She could do so now. She owed it to them, for all they had done for her.

  She could write to Sir Charles Innis and offer to buy the jewel, of course. And she would. Yet she did not have very much hard currency of her own, and Sir Charles was rich as Croesus. He had no need to sell, and indeed had resisted all offers from many people—even, reportedly, the prince regent—for many years. She needed a different plan.

  Emily rose from the chaise, and made her way quietly out of her chamber and up the stairs to the very top of the house. There were attics there, behind the servants’ quarters and above the nursery. Fortunately, it was silent up there at that time of day; there were no servants about to wonder why Lady Emily had gone to the attics.

  She knew that some of Damien’s papers and possessions had been packed into trunks and stored there after his death, with no one sorting through them beforehand. With some luck, she could find something there to tell her where the Star—the real Star—had gone.

  Chapter Three

  “Emily, dear, why did you not wear your birthday necklace? It would look perfect with that gown.”

  Emily heard Georgina’s voice, but it seemed to come from a very long distance away, not just from across the carriage. She dragged her distracted attention from the night-dark streets outside the window and blinked at her sister-in-law. “I beg your pardon, Georgie?”

  Emily was not so distracted that she did not see the worried, speaking glance Georgina shot at Alex. So, they were concerned about her, were they? Was it just that old worry of her lack of a betrothal—or something more? She should watch herself, carefully maintain her façade of cheerfulness. She did not want them to know the truth—not when it was her own problem, her own responsibility.

  “I asked why you did not wear the necklace Alex and I gave you for your birthday,” Georgina repeated. “It would look lovely with your gown.”

  Emily pulled her cloak closer about her throat, as if to belatedly conceal the fact that she wore her garnet cross rather than the elaborate web of pearls and diamonds they had given her. It was an exquisite piece, and would indeed have been lovely with her white and silver satin gown. But it , along with the matching pair of earrings, resided now with a jeweler in Gracechurch Street, given in exchange for a genuine sapphire copy of the Star of India.

  She touched the tip of her tongue to her dry lips. “I—it is being cleaned.”

  “Cleaned?” Alex exclaimed. “We just gave it to you last month.”

  Emily stared blankly at her brother. “One of the stones was loose. I took it to be repaired.”

  Alex frowned at her. “I thought you said it was being cleaned.

  “It will be repaired and then cleaned,” Emily said with a little laugh, trying to sound completely unconcerned. She was glad it was dark in the carriage, to cover the hot flush of her cheeks. Alex had always been her favorite brother, her friend and champion. She had never lied to him.

  It is for his own good, she reminded herself. His and Georgina’s, and their children’s.

  Georgina laid her hand gently on her husband’s arm. “It is of no matter, darling. Em has obviously taken care of it all, and there is nothing to worry about. The garnets also look very nice, quite dramatic. Oh, I do hope we shall arrive soon, and have no difficulty in getting inside the ballroom! Lady Wilton’s balls are always such dreadful crushes, I vow she deliberately invites too many to fit into her house. At least we can be assured of an excellent supper . . .”

  Georgina went on chatting about the ball to which they were en route, and Emily turned her attention, with great relief, back to the window. She was tired from the sleepless nights she had endured ever since hearing of the Star, and her head ached with a low, dull throbbing. She did not really look forward to this ball, to all the dancing and the chatter. She had even considered making her excuses and staying home with a book and a tisane, before thinking better of it. When she was alone in her chamber, her thoughts took over, swirling like mad until she wanted to scream with confusion.

  At a ball, she would never be alone. She would dance and make polite conversation, and not have to think at all.

  Their carriage drew up outside Lord and Lady Wilton’s grand London house, signaling the beginning of that mindless evening. There was indeed a great crowd waiting to enter the ballroom, but they moved along briskly, and in seemingly no time Emily found herself in the midst of a knot of revelers.

  The ballroom—a long, narrow expanse of red silk wallpaper and glistening gilt trim—was so overrun that the arrangements of hothouse roses and orchids and swaths of greenery could hardly be seen, but she could smell their sweet, cloying fragrance. It mixed with the perfumes of the guests, the warmth of thousands of candles.

  Emily felt a bit lightheaded, but she could not have swooned even if she wanted to, she was pressed so closely by her crowd of usual admirers.

  “Lady Emily!” Sir Arnold Ellis cried, bowing over her hand. He was one of the most handsome of Emily’s suitors, golden-haired with bright blue eyes. Unfortunately, his brains were not as well-developed as his grooming. “May I beg for the next quadrille?”

  Before Emily could answer, Lord Pickering slid in and took her hand away from Sir Arnold. Pickering considered himself quite the charmer, and always affected pink waistcoats and jeweled quizzing glasses, along with a multitude of watch fobs. He made Emily laugh, though perhaps not in the way that he hoped to. “I believe Lady Emily promised me the quadrille when we met last night at the Hardiman musicale.”

  Emily recalled no such thing, though Lady Hardiman’s daughter’s performance at the harp had been rather loud and
she hadn’t heard very much over its strains. But as she opened her mouth to say she did not remember, her hand was seized by Mr. Carrington. He kissed her gloved fingers with his usual puppyish enthusiasm. He was a very sweet gentleman, and not a bad dancer, though she sometimes tired of hearing all about the horses and hounds he kept in the country for his beloved hunting. After what had happened to her mother, Emily loathed hunting. “Lady Emily, you will never guess!” he said, in one of his usual non sequiturs.

  Emily smiled at him gently. “No, Mr. Carrington, I will not be able to, er, guess.”

  “There is a real nabob here. Fresh from India!”

  Pickering gave a disdainful sniff. “There are a dozen nabobs here, Carrington. Why, I see Lord Montmorent right over there, still sunburned from the Punjab.”

  Carrington shot Pickering a loathing glance, then turned back to Emily. Behind his back, Pickering and Sir Arnold snickered. “Not that sort of nabob. He is, oh, a what-you-may-call-it. A rajah.”

  “A native of some sort?” Sir Arnold asked, his tone disbelieving.

  “Yes! But a rich one. A native and an earl. An English earl.” Carrington frowned, suddenly confused. “Is that possible? Can a man be a native and English? With a title?”

  Emily stared at him, suddenly frozen to her spot. Her stomach gave a little leap, and the ballroom around her seemed to slow to a blurred crawl.

  An English earl who was also Indian? Could it possibly be David? After all these years? Surely not. Yet how many other earls could there be like that? It had to be. Perhaps she could see him again—the friend who had lived in her thoughts for so long!

  But it had been so very long. Surely he would not remember her. And he would be so very changed she might not remember him.

  Her heart pounded inside her breast, and she pressed her gloved hand against it. There, beneath the satin of her gown, she felt the outline of her Navaratna ring. It was always there, hidden on its chain around her neck, reminding her of the protection of the universe around her.

  Carrington peered at her closely, his high brow wrinkling in concern. “I say, Lady Emily, are you quite well? You look very pale.”

  “Perhaps she needs some champagne,” interjected Sir Arnold. “I will fetch it for her.”

  “No! I will,” Pickering argued. The two of them dashed off in a ridiculous race for the refreshment table.

  It would have made Emily laugh, if she had paid them any mind at all. She stared at Carrington, and swallowed hard past the dry lump in her throat. “I—I am quite well, thank you, Mr. Carrington,” she managed to choke out. “Did you mention some sort of rajah? An English rajah?”

  Carrington’s frown cleared, his face brightening at this sign of her interest in his conversation. “Oh, yes, indeed. He is over there with our hostess. Would you care to take a look at him?”

  Of course she would! But, then again, if it was David, would she even know it? Part of her heart wanted to turn around and run out of the ballroom, keeping her precious memories exactly as they were. The other part wanted to dash through the crowd, shouting, “Is it you? Is it you?”

  She touched her ring once more, and nodded. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Carrington. I find myself—quite curious.”

  Mr. Carrington offered her his arm, practically leaping about in excitement at having gained her interest over Sir Arnold and Lord Pickering. “Of course, Lady Emily! It really is most extraordinary. I expected him to be wearing a turban and ropes of pearls.”

  Emily slid her fingers lightly over his sleeve and followed his escort through the crowd. She smiled and nodded at the greeting of friends and acquaintances, yet did not stop to chat. There was no time for that now!

  “And he was not attired thus?” she asked.

  “Oh, no, not at all.” Mr. Carrington seemed most disappointed. “He wore quite a nice blue coat and ivory waistcoat, surely from Weston. There was one small emerald stickpin in his cravat, but that was it. Oh, and a signet ring, but that’s not Indian, is it?”

  “I have no idea,” Emily murmured. She tried to crane her neck to see through the crowd, but it was futile. She was just too short. And too many ladies of the ton favored tall plumes in their headdresses this Season.

  “He was quite dark, though,” Mr. Carrington continued. “And tall.”

  Fortunate man, Emily thought, as Lady Birtwhistle, a particularly large matron in bright orange silk, lumbered into her path.

  Then, miraculously, the orange-clad lady moved aside, and there was a clear pathway between Emily and Lady Wilton and her group. Only a stretch of polished marble floor separated them.

  Lady Wilton wore one of those tall headdresses, this one fashioned of purple and gold silk, with purple plumes and satin roses. She held onto an arm clad in impeccable dark blue superfine. As she laughed up at the man, her plumes waved wildly. The other three people in the cluster, Miss Wilton and Lord and Lady Hapsby, stared in wide-eyed fascination, as if they were observers at a menagerie.

  As Emily took a step closer, Lady Wilton turned, and her conversation partner was revealed.

  Emily could not breathe. Her skin turned cold— freezing cold—then burned with a pink flush. Her fingers tightened convulsively on Mr. Carrington’s arm.

  David. It was David, here, not twenty paces away from her.

  He had changed from the boy she knew all those years ago. That boy had been tall and greyhound-lean, with overlong black hair and eyes too large for his oval face. Now he was even taller, but with broad shoulders and powerful arms pulling against the expensive fabric of his coat. There was obviously no padding there, as so many “fashionable” gentlemen affected. His hair, still a shining blue-black, was impeccably cut and brushed into place, and his skin was a clear, dark olive, not burned by the Calcutta sun.

  But his eyes—his eyes told her that this was indeed David. They were as dark-bright as a starry sky. Her breath caught, and she could not move.

  She almost called his name aloud, but caught it the instant before it escaped. She whispered it in her mind instead. David. David, you’re back. A ridiculous smile caught at her lips, and that she could not suppress. Her head whirled in sudden, giddy excitement.

  “You see?” Mr. Carrington said cheerfully. “A real rajah, eh? Right here in London!”

  Emily had a difficult time looking away from David, as if he might disappear if she turned her eyes from him. But she managed to glance up at Mr. Carrington, and gave a little nod. When she looked back to Lady Wilton’s little group, her gaze collided with—David’s. His lips parted a bit in surprise, and his head tilted, a lock of that hair falling over his brow like a dark question mark.

  And then a smile broke across his countenance, one full of recognition and welcome. He knew her, too.

  So, you are home at last, Emily thought, and she tugged at Mr. Carrington’s arm to urge him forward. A crowded ballroom was not the most auspicious place for a reunion with her old friend, Emily knew that. But she did not care. She only cared that they were together again.

  His first London ball. How horrid.

  Before leaving England the first time, David had of course been too young for such affairs, and had rarely come to Town anyway, his father much preferring the solitude of the country. David saw now why that was so. A country assembly was much to be preferred over a grand London soiree.

  Even an achingly elaborate Calcutta durbar would be preferable!

  But David was an earl now. Lord Darlinghurst. He had chosen to come back to England, to take up the old duties, and this ball was the first of them. Lord and Lady Wilton had been friends of David’s father, and they were kind to issue the invitation, the first (and thus far only) engraved card to arrive at David’s townhouse. It was the least he could do to appear here and pay his respects to them.

  He couldn’t help but wish himself at home, though, where he could spend an hour with Anjali before her bedtime. They had gotten into the habit of sharing a hot pot of tea against the chill of the spring evening, while Anjali
showed him her day’s lessons or played him a newly learned tune at the pianoforte. She enjoyed hearing him read, too, from books of fairy tales, or poetry, or especially history. These evenings were cozy and enjoyable, quiet in the grand, if still rather dusty, drawing room.

  A more different scene from the one he faced now would be hard to imagine.

  David nodded at Lady Wilton’s words, and made appropriately polite replies, while surreptitiously studying the ballroom. It was a vast expanse, sparkling with gilt and mirrors, yet it felt small, it was so dense with people. The dance floor was filled with skipping, swirling dancers, while its outskirts thronged with observers who talked and laughed so loudly they almost drowned out the orchestra. Their silks and muslins, their fine jewels and plumes, sparkled in the light of thousands of candles.

  It put him in mind of a maharajah’s audience day, when petition-seekers gathered, clad in their best garments, their diamonds and sapphires. Those people, too, whispered and watched each other, gauging where they stood in relation to their peers, if their fortunes were waning or on the rise. Were their silks finer than those of that person over there? Were their jewels larger?

  David almost laughed aloud at the irony. He had journeyed halfway across the world to find that the old adage was true—the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. He had hoped that here Anjali would find a degree of freedom impossible in India, in his grandmother’s world. But London was just like Calcutta in so many ways.

  And he was not completely accepted in either.

  In Calcutta, his grandmother’s grand friends mistrusted him because of his white father, his strange Western habits. They associated him with the strange, pale sahibs. Here, they sought out his title, his English fortune, but they mistrusted his dark skin, his Indian mother. They had never met anyone like him—titled, but foreign—and did not know how to treat him.

  He saw this in the sidelong glances, the half-heard whispers dragging out the old scandal of his father’s marriage. People acknowledged Lady Wilton’s introduction of him; he was the Earl of Darlinghurst, after all. But their conversation was stilted, their gazes darted above his head and to his side. He hardly dared to ask any young lady to dance, for fear their mamas would spit in his face!