She had to return home now, and have a quick luncheon and change her gown before meeting David at the museum....
David! At the thought of him, her hands shook all over again. Meeting him by the Elgin Marbles would be at least as frightening as coming to this shop this morning. Probably much more so. Somehow, every time she saw him, he grew more handsome, his dark eyes more enticing. They watched her as if they could see her soul, all her secrets. They beckoned to her to tell him everything.
But she could not do that. This was her burden, hers alone. David would surely hate her if he knew she had allowed her brother to sell the Star and then accepted gifts of the ill-gotten gains. Then the warmth of his gaze would turn to ice.
Emily could never bear that.
She stepped to the pavement to look for the hansom that was meant to be waiting for her—and froze. A dark blue carriage with a familiar crest painted on the door—the Darlinghurst crest—came around the comer and drove slowly past her.
David—here! How could that be? It was as if her thoughts of him summoned him in the flesh, right at the worst moment.
She shrank back into the shadows of the building, reaching up to snatch her veil down. But it was too late. From the half-open carriage window floated a sweet, childish voice.
“Papa! Isn’t that the yellow-haired lady we met at Gunter’s?”
David had thought this morning would be a good time to find gifts to send back to Calcutta for his grandmother and female cousins. Lengths of pale English muslins, with their light colors and dainty prints, would amuse them, and Lady Wilton had suggested this warehouse to him. She had given him the address in a whisper, as if it was a great secret. And, of course, Anjali had insisted on accompanying him.
As he settled her into the carriage, with the window half-open so she would not become ill from the lurching, swaying motion, he told her, “Now, we cannot be long at the shops. I have an appointment I must keep this afternoon.” A very important appointment indeed, with Emily at the British Museum. He could feel himself grinning like a fool just thinking about seeing her again.
Anjali leaned forward, and said, in her solemn voice, “Is it an appointment with that lady we met in Gunter’s? The one with the yellow curls?”
David stared at his daughter in surprise. He had thought she barely took notice of meeting Emily at Gunter’s, she had been so very quiet. Even when they returned home, she retreated into the silence of a book. He certainly had not told her of this planned meeting. Anjali watched him closely with her large green eyes, as he concealed his surprise behind a light smile. He reached out to tweak at her hair ribbon.
“Do you mean Lady Emily, shona-moni?” he said carelessly. “I may see her there.”
Anjali nodded slowly, her gaze never leaving his face. She looked so much like her great-grandmother when she was in such a mood, stern and all-seeing. At such times, he could hardly fathom that he had fathered such an otherworldly little creature. “Lady Emily is very pretty,” she said. “But she is not very much like Mama.”
That was certainly very true. Rupasri had been lovely, with her fall of black hair and smooth, honey-colored skin, but she had been quiet, submissive as she had been taught to be. She had no secrets behind her dark eyes, as Emily held in the sky color of hers. Rupasri did not seem to spring as she walked, the way Emily did. Emily seemed almost as if she would break into a dash every time she moved, as if she danced even while standing still. The power of the sun almost burst from her bright hair, from her very fingertips.
But how could he say such things to his daughter? How would she understand how Emily made him feel, when he did not even understand it himself? He only knew that when he saw Emily he felt alive.
“No,” he told Anjali. “She is not very much like your mama. But she is very pretty, and very nice, too.”
“Are you going to marry her, then, Papa?”
Anjali’s quiet question conjured a sudden image in his mind—himself and Emily emerging from a church door, wreathed in smiles and rose petals. Emily turned to glance up at him, a lace veil falling back from her face as her mouth lifted for his kiss . . .
And it struck him like a crash of monsoon lightning—that was exactly what he wanted. To have Emily in his life forever, to hold onto all that life and energy and laughter and mystery. It was what he wanted the instant he saw her in that ballroom, standing there in her white gown, his old friend all grown up and beautiful.
But what did she want? She seemed happy to see him again; she had even almost kissed him in the park, her lips trembling with a need that echoed his own. Yet there were those secrets she held in her eyes, there was something that was not letting her embrace him fully. He would give his fortune to know what it was. Another love—a secret one? A gambling addiction, the same as that which had landed her oldest brother in the soup so often? Was she a jewel thief, a duelist, a French spy? ...
The list could go on and on, growing ever more absurd. He could not think of it now. Anjali was still watching him, and he had to answer her.
He knew one thing for certain, though—whatever Emily was hiding, it could not be ugly or sinful. His friend had always shone with a pure honesty, and bright souls such as hers did not tarnish.
“Do you remember what I told you in Calcutta, Anjali?” he said. “About when I marry again?”
Anjali nodded. “That you would not marry a lady unless she would be a good mama.”
“Exactly. You know I would never bring someone into our home who would not care for both of us. Do you trust me when I say that?”
“Of course, Papa.”
“Then you have no need to worry.”
“So, you are going to marry her? The Lady Emily from Gunter’s?”
David laughed. Yes, Anjali was like her greatgrandmother—she would never let go of an idea when it was firmly in her head. “Shona-moni, Lady Emily and I are old friends who are becoming reacquainted. I do not know what may happen in the future, but I promise you all will be well. Yes?”
Anjali nodded, apparently satisfied—for now. She sat back against the tufted velvet cushions and watched the city scenery change outside the window. As they turned onto the street where the suggested warehouse resided, she suddenly sat straight up, pointing excitedly in direct opposition to all her etiquette lessons.
“Papa!” she cried. “Isn’t that the yellow-haired lady we met at Gunter’s? Lady Emily?”
“It cannot be,” David said, leaning forward to peer out the window himself. His heart gave a small leap of excitement to hear Emily’s name, but surely it was not her whom Anjali saw now. Whatever would she be doing in this part of Town? Anjali probably just imagined it, since they had been speaking of Emily only moments before.
Yet it was her, standing there on the pavement, staring at their carriage with wide, shocked eyes. She wore a plain, dark blue pelisse and a black bonnet with a veil pushed back, her hand reached up as if to draw it down. Not exactly à la mode, but it was undoubtedly her, with her golden curls blowing loose from under that bonnet, pulled by the breeze.
“By Jove, but you are quite right, Anjali,” he said. “It is indeed Lady Emily.”
“It is a sign,” Anjali murmured, clasping her small hands under her chin.
David heard her odd words, yet had no time to question her as he called out to the coachman to halt. He did not wait for the footman, but pushed open the door himself and jumped out.
“Lady Emily,” he called, raising his hat to her. “You are the last person I would have expected to see here this morning.”
Emily threw a quick glance back over her shoulder, as if seeking some escape. She found only a hansom, and a shop whose faded sign read L. JERVIS, JEWELER. Her gloved hands clutched at her reticule. For one instant, he feared she might dash away from him.
More secrets, then?
But she turned back to him, her shoulders straightening, and gave him a bright, polite smile. She stepped toward him, her hand held out.
“
I might say the same about you, Lord Darlinghurst,” she answered, as he bowed over her fingers. The tips of her dark gloves were dusty. “I was just here at the jeweler, running an errand for—for my sister-in-law. It is an unfashionable part of Town, I know, but Mr. Jervis has the finest jewels.”
“I shall have to remember that, then,” he answered, smiling at her as he slowly, very slowly, released her hand. She folded her fingers around the reticule again. “Lady Wilton recommended a warehouse here where I might find excellent gifts to send back to my relations in Calcutta.”
“Oh, yes! Of course,” Emily replied, still with that too-bright tone in her voice. “Well, you must be in a great hurry to get there. I will just leave you to it, and perhaps we will meet later, at the museum . . .”
David’s gaze slid past her to the hansom, where the driver sat watching them with bored disinterest. “Never say you came here in a hansom, Lady Emily!”
Emily glanced back, as if she had quite forgotten the vehicle was there. “Oh! Well—yes. I did not want to bother with calling for our carriage.”
A duke’s sister did not want to call for her carriage? Curious. David watched Emily’s flushed face with a little frown. Something was quite amiss here, something Emily was trying her hardest to hide. But she was a terrible actress.
And David was good at discovering secrets. He had to be, with his wild-blooded family. Just give him time . . .
“Well, you simply cannot go home in a hansom,” he told her. “Please, allow us to take you in our carriage.”
“Oh, no, I could not . . .” she began in a rush—then paused, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. “Us, Lord Darlinghurst?”
“Anjali and myself, of course.” He smiled down at her. “You did not think I would ask you to come with me unchaperoned, do you?”
As he spoke, Anjali poked her head out the carriage window. Unlike the quiet, solemn girl she had been all morning, she was smiling widely, her green eyes sparkling like spring meadows. She waved merrily, and called out, “Lady Emily! How grand to see you again. We are going shopping for a gift for my great-grandmother. Won’t you join us?”
David stared at his daughter, dumbfounded. Was there something in the air in this part of Town that made females as changeable as clouds? This was a great change since only yesterday. What could have caused it?
Emily smiled at Anjali, her frown clearing entirely for the first time since their unexpected meeting. “Good day, Lady Anjali! It is good to see you again, too. I am not certain—”
“Please, do join us, Lady Emily,” David said. “Unless you have another appointment. I confess I am quite hopeless at choosing gifts, and I would very much appreciate your opinion.”
Emily looked again to the hansom, the jeweler’s window, and David’s carriage before saying slowly, “Very well, Lord Darlinghurst. I would be happy to join you and Lady Anjali.”
“Excellent, Lady Emily. Thank you,” David said, offering his arm to escort her to the carriage.
She securely tucked her reticule against her side before sliding her fingers over his sleeve. Yes, indeed, she was carrying a secret in her heart, if not in that blasted reticule itself.
And David intended to find out what it was.
Chapter Eight
Anjali peeked out from between two tall displays of bolts of fabric, trying to watch her father and Lady Emily without them seeing her. Not that they were paying a great deal of attention to anything around them—they stood on either side of a table spread with silks and muslins, leaning in to speak together in quiet voices. Lady Emily ran her gloved hand over a length of dark green velvet, a tiny half-smile playing about her lips.
Anjali gave a decisive nod. It was as she thought. Her papa liked the bright-haired Lady Emily, in the way that grown-up men sometimes liked grown-up ladies. Anjali might be only nine years old, but she knew these things. Whenever she visited her great-grandmother’s zenana, the ladies there would often forget Anjali was listening and would chatter on about romances and new marriages and babies. A girl could learn a lot that way—even a girl with no mother.
Her papa had never paid any attention to the dark-eyed ladies in Calcutta, or to the pale daughters of the English families who invited him to dine or play cards. So Anjali had never really paid heed to the gossip, mostly heard from her great-grandmother’s lips, that said he should marry again. Their lives were fine just as they were.
She paid no heed—until she saw that Lady Emily in Gunter’s, all white and gold like some ice princess in a storybook. Until she saw the way her father stared at Lady Emily, as if all else had vanished around him. He smiled when he took her hand in a way Anjali had never noticed before.
And she had felt sick to her stomach, as if she had eaten too many sweets. This lady, this—this English lady would ruin everything! All their cozy life of Papa taking her for drives, listening to her music lessons, taking breakfast with her—it would all end if he married Lady Emily. English children were banished to the nursery, so she had heard. Cut off from the grown-up life of the house. The thought of it made even the sweet ice taste like dust in her mouth.
It had not helped matters at all that she’d had to spend the afternoon listening to the babblings of that toddler Lady Elizabeth Anne Kenton, either!
So, that night, alone in her bed, Anjali had prayed. She considered these prayers very carefully. At first, she wanted simply to ask for Lady Emily to go away. But she knew that would not be right—God’s will had to be done, and not her own. That was what her nursemaid said. If Lady Emily was truly meant to be her new mama, if it was part of the grand design for all things, then so be it.
She asked then for a sign. A sign that all was proceeding as it should, that everything would be well even if Lady Emily came into their lives.
And, surely, finding Lady Emily here, as if waiting for them in this most unlikely spot, was a sign!
And the smile on her papa’s face was another. Anjali peeked over the fabrics to see him laugh at something Lady Emily said, his face brighter than the Calcutta sun. Anyone that could make her papa look like that, when he had been so serious and intent for so long, could not be all bad.
“A sign,” Anjali whispered. A sign that Lady Emily was meant to be her mama, no matter what. Her great-grandmother always said humans must take notice when the gods chose to reveal their courses.
“It was fortuitous to meet you like this, Lady Emily,” David said. “I thought fine English ladies did not deign to leave their houses until two o’clock at the earliest!”
Emily laughed. She couldn’t help it—despite her trepidation at being here with him, and her panic at being nearly caught at Mr. Jervis’s shop, she felt strangely light and giddy. As if she had been imbibing champagne! Even the weight of the stone in her reticule felt lighter.
“Usually I do not,” she answered. “It is hard to be an early riser when one has not even returned home until dawn.”
“What made today an exception?”
Emily glanced down at the figured muslin she was fingering. She found she just could not meet his open, honest gaze for a second longer. “I—had that errand to perform. I wanted to finish it before I went to the museum this afternoon. Should we find Lady Anjali? I have not seen her for several minutes.”
David gave a wry smile, a quirk of his lips that told her he was fully aware of her evasions. He always had been, even when they were children—she could never lie to him. Back then, she had thought it was due to some exotic Eastern mysticism, inborn in the blood of his mother. Later, she laughed at her childhood fancies.
Now she thought she had not been so very wrong in that supposition.
David could tell that she was hiding something. She saw it in the way he watched her.
Just tell him, a little voice in her mind whispered. He has a right to know.
No! she argued back. It has been so many years since we last met. How can I know if I can trust him?
David at last looked away from her, turning h
is attention to the bolt of muslin and releasing her from the unbearable tension. Only as her breath escaped in a great exhale did she realize she had been holding it.
“Anjali is fine,” he said. “I saw one of the shopgirls bringing her a cup of tea just a moment ago. She will have all the gifts chosen in a very short time, I’m sure. She was so excited about sending our relatives objects from England.”
Just a short time. A short time to be alone with David. Emily studied him closely: the strong line of his jaw, the smooth wave of his glossy dark hair over his brow, the elegant gloved hands that lay so near her own atop the fabric.
You can trust him, that insidious voice whispered. What choice do you have? You must trust someone.
That was assuredly true. She could not go on all alone with this secret—the weight of it was nigh to crushing her. And David had been her best friend, could still be, if she could just quell the urge to kiss him whenever he drew near!
“David,” she said quickly, before her courage could flee. “There is something I must tell you—”
“Papa! Look at what I have found. Would not Didu like it?” Anjali’s light, childish voice called, drowning out Emily’s whisper.
But, as quiet as she had been, David heard her. His hand covered hers briefly, warmly, beneath a fold of the cloth, and he murmured, “Tell me later. At the museum. There is something I must speak to you about, as well, Emily. To do with a certain trinket my father left with your family.”
A certain trinket. So, he did remember. Emily had begun to wonder. Hope? She nodded, and his hand drew away, leaving her skin strangely chilled. She took a deep, steadying breath, and pasted on a welcoming smile before turning to the child.
Much to her shock, David’s Arabian princess daughter walked right up to her and held out a length of silk for her inspection.
Emily could have vowed on their meeting at Gunter’s that Lady Anjali did not care for her. She had watched Emily with wide, wary green eyes, silent and observant, as judgmental as an Almack’s patroness. All of Emily’s attempts at conversation were met with a polite “Yes, Lady Emily,” or “No, Lady Emily.”
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