by Liz Tyner
‘You and Nathaniel were at the birthday celebration yesterday.’ His father squinted at the page in front of him. Then he put the missive down and tapped his fingers against the wood. ‘You spoke briefly to many young ladies and only gave much attention to an Emilie Catesby.’
‘Yes.’ Marcus finished doing up his buttons and pulled the chair near the doorway closer to the centre of the room, turned it so that he was facing the back and sat astride. He crossed his arms across the back. The light from the window behind his father shone in and the window dressing was open wide so that the contrast of the brightness into the dark room made it hard to discern his father’s expression.
‘Am I to imagine you have listened to my counsel?’
‘Of course,’ Marcus answered. ‘I always listen to you.’
‘Because I give you no choice.’ His father lifted the lid on a carved box, checking what was inside. ‘Where are the cigars Robert always has hidden away?’
Marcus pointed to the book on the desk. His father tipped up the cover of the false book, finding the cigars. ‘Have you selected a bride to offer for?’ He put one in his pocket and picked up a letter from the table.
‘No.’ Marcus frowned. ‘Last night, I gave serious thought to what you said. I can’t make the wrong selection.’
His father read as he talked. ‘That I can imagine, as I have been stating the same thing for years now. And don’t worry about the permanence of the union, that’s not a finite promise. The children, you will keep them for ever. Choose a good mother for your heirs. They’ll thank you.’
Marcus considered the silver in the other man’s hair and the set of his jaw. He had been told that he stood exactly like his father. But he knew he didn’t have the same chip on his tooth that his father had—but then he had not been caught by a jealous husband. He’d never once kept company with a married woman.
‘While I do respect your view,’ Marcus continued, arms still resting on the chair back, ‘I must reflect on my own and will choose someone not distasteful.’
‘You have selected many mares for our stables,’ his father insisted. ‘This is no different. Pick some well-bred stock, acquire it and nature will take care of the rest.’ He threw down the letter after glancing at the script.
‘I do not like the implication that I am only needed to sire a grandson for you.’ Marcus bit the words out. Nor did he like his father reading his correspondence.
‘Then we will let your brother do so,’ his father stated. ‘I am getting tired of waiting.’
‘Father, my son would surpass his in inheritance anyway. Do not rush him.’ He certainly didn’t want his brother pushed towards Emilie. ‘I realised the value of your words recently. Give me some leeway to view the options before you start grumbling anew.’
The older man selected another missive, then let the paper flutter to the table. ‘You say you take into account my words, yet you didn’t parade about with more than a few women when your mother’s likeness was unveiled. I keep listening for tales of you with one of the peer’s daughters, yet I hear nothing. It’s as if you are putting on a charade to make your mother and me keep silent.’
‘I’m not.’ Marcus kept his words calm. Blast, his father had been asking questions of someone about his son because he hadn’t been at the unveiling. ‘But I remained near the fence and tried to discern bloodlines.’
‘Pick good breed stock,’ his father repeated, rising and glaring at him, ‘although the lineage is important, it’s still no guarantee of siring the most agreeable offspring. Your mother and I both are from well-bred families.’
‘Thank you, Father. While I deeply love Mother, I am so pleased to have inherited your traits.’
‘You are welcome, my son.’ He moved closer, planting a soft kick at the leg of Marcus’s chair. ‘I am pleased to hear that you are considering my words. I don’t want to grow old without the comfort of a grandson.’ At the door, he said, ‘And I especially don’t want you to grow old without the discomfort of a son.’
‘Thank you, again, Father.’
‘And those whiskers.’ His father appraised Marcus. He raised his voice so that it might carry outside the room. ‘Robert needs to get a better shaving kit for you. And the hair. Sad no one ever taught him to trim it properly.’
As his father departed, Marcus touched his chin and swore softly.
Then Robert entered. ‘I do thank you for leaving the door open, sir. I would have hated to miss your father’s encouragement.’
‘I feel it is easier for you that way.’ Marcus gripped the top of the chair, before he relaxed his elbows.
‘You are like my own...nephew,’ Robert admitted. ‘Not that it is anything to be proud of.’
‘Not that I am proud of it.’ Marcus crossed his arms on the back of the chair, rested his chin on them, while his thumb was pressed against his cheek. ‘But if a man were to have an uncle underfoot, one like you would do.’
Robert hastened to the desk and studied the top.
‘And he rifled your papers, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘He should respect your privacy.’
‘As you do?’
‘Of course.’
‘And?’
Robert picked up one of the papers and also stretched his arms out, squinting.
Marcus reached out and ripped the paper from the valet’s hands before tossing it on to the table. ‘I should have a wife. And if she could annoy Father, it might reduce some of the pain of marriage.’
Robert clasped both hands over his ears. ‘I cannot trust what I’m hearing.’ Robert coughed, gulping. ‘I must have a lie down to absorb this tragedy.’ He pulled the door shut with a soft click.
He realised Robert had not mentioned bringing breakfast to him. The man could be counted on for many things. Finding the best brandy. The best cigars. But his skills as a valet were lacking and he surmised that was a fact Robert prided himself on.
He’d been Marcus’s second tutor, then he’d guided Marcus to Oxford and been the only person to write regularly. The only person to ever visit.
When he became of age to have a valet, Marcus had talked Robert into leaving his post, and changing his profession. Robert had driven a hard bargain.
He was certain that Robert would be happy to see him married to such a woman as Emilie, who would hardly care for anything else but the canvas in front of her. Their duties would not intersect so both could continue as they had before. Oh, Emilie might add a nursery, of course, but Robert would avoid that as if it were diseased.
He realised Lady Semple was right about Emilie. She had a passion for something. Just not him.
If Marcus married, Robert could continue on as always. Emilie would be lost in her own world and Marcus could uncover something that drew him to do more than merely exist.
Boredom had lingered inside him so long that it had taken up residence and had grown dusty.
He would have satisfied his duty to the peerage and would have a chance to learn if anything could cure the utter uselessness inside him.
Emilie.
He wanted to see her again. The woman who found purpose with the most simple task of swirling colours on canvas and had no need at all for the diversions of London.
She saw the hues he could not see.
* * *
Emilie pretended interest in the book she held and her mother stitched along beside Beatrice, who drew a picture of Emilie.
Emilie grasped why she preferred art over anything else. Her father had warned her that most men weren’t trustworthy. In fact, he had said all men were corrupt at heart, but her mother had disagreed, pointed to her father and begun a litany of his virtues.
Marriage would lead her to a union with someone who liked to talk as if they were important while they drank, smoked and played cards. They liked impure women for diversio
ns. They liked pleasant meals and quiet wives and quiet children.
She knew they could be easily led into temptation, but she was not too sure how to present temptation properly.
Mr Westbrook would be a perfect husband to leave her alone, but she doubted she could choose to marry him. With him, she would have to settle for being ruined.
His brother, however. Dancing with Marcus had felt like floating on a cloud. When he had whispered to her, she had noticed the faint smell of cigars on him. They had smelled better than turpentine and she had always hated cigar smoke. She must try not to notice so much, but she could not help herself.
Too bad that he was not as flighty as Westbrook. But even if he were it would not matter. Marcus was not to be easily snared into the parson’s trap. She was certain. He would never trust her as Westbrook would. He understood her better.
While he was at the soirée, he’d stayed near the men, watching, talking and giving the impression he was above all that nonsense. If he had an interest in marriage, he had only to speak to one of the green girls at the party and look deeply into her eyes. She might be dazed, the good kind, and would go along with him.
His face appeared in her mind.
Marcus even took his frivolities seriously, she guessed. She was sure if he were lost in the desert, he could find his way to a woman as fast as Westbrook could. But Marcus would not dash headfirst after her. He might review the situation and change his mind after he saw her.
He liked Lady Semple, and had spoken with the older woman at the dance as if they were friends. That woman was rumoured to have spent her youth on the edge of immorality. Without her wealth, doubtful her fancies would be ignored so easily.
Yet Lady Semple certainly knew a lot of things about seducing men, if half the stories were true about the widow.
She’d once heard Lady Semple had bought the house she lived in because the secluded area made it easy for a visitor to enter and leave her unnoticed by neighbours. From the gossips’ words, she had no question Lady Semple was suspected of having male visitors for inappropriate dalliances.
Emilie inhaled, letting the air linger in her lungs. Lady Semple had been married and, from what Emilie’s mother had said, the marriage had not improved her at all. Emilie nibbled the inside of her lip. A woman did not always need improvement. She needed an avocation. A husband would work for that.
Emilie intended to get the ring on her finger and make sure the band gave her more freedom instead of less.
True, a woman became a husband’s property upon marriage. But she knew ownership could be tenuous.
She’d even seen how a woman who wasn’t happy with being a possession could take matters into her own hands. Her mother’s cousin Tilly had never let marriage slow her down. Her husband lived two streets north of Tilly, but she let him visit on occasion. She simply made plans to be elsewhere during his return so she would not distress him and she never complained about him.
Even though she didn’t like Tilly, her cousin had a good notion of how a marriage should proceed.
Interrupting Emilie’s thoughts, her aunt and mother devised an outing to the shops and Emilie elected to stay behind.
At the desk, she touched the pen, lifted the paper and sat down to compose.
Her hand trembled over the note as she wrote.
She forced herself to make the large W of Mr Westbrook’s name. Surely he would know better than to let her meet him alone in his residence. At midnight.
She wished she’d written Lord Grayson on the page, but she couldn’t. Marcus would never fall for something so foolish. Even his brother should not be so daft.
She stared at the words, and lit the wax, then tilted the candle to let the wax pool on to the paper. Taking the seal her father had had made for her, she daubed it to wet it, then dipped the metal into the wax. She’d sealed her fate, either way.
She would be married or ruined, and she would capture the world on canvas.
She picked up another piece of paper dipped the quill into the ink and shook the nib above the bottle opening, releasing a drip.
A spouse of a peer might be permitted a certain type of freedom and particularly freedom in her pursuits.
She drew the pen closer. As a wife who dabbled in paints, the future would no longer be a problem. People wouldn’t fight her about her hobbies any more. She would be alone and allowed her freedom.
She wouldn’t embarrass him by openly pursuing her talents.
Signing a different name to her artwork might be for the best.
She could imagine the whispers. Eventually, most of society would be aware of her identity, but if they felt they were privy to the secret, it wouldn’t hurt anyone’s standing.
She had already sold two paintings that she’d signed—not Emilie, but Emile.
She scratched the pen across the paper, completing her message. And if she was ruined, well, no one would push her to a suitor.
Then she tapped her fingernails on to another blank page, staring at the white and imagining Marcus’s hands breaking the seal and holding the paper open. Dipping the pen again, she wrote a second note and addressed it. They both said the same thing. One addressed to Lord Grayson and one to Mr Westbrook. She didn’t know which to send.
She took the letter to Marcus and held it for a moment. Marcus. She really couldn’t comprehend what went on in his mind. She held the missive over the candle for the sealing wax, letting the paper flutter before she pushed it into the flame.
She dropped the last embers on to the wet cloth she’d used for preparing the seal.
Marcus had said his brother would ruin her. Not marry her.
Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps he was right.
She suspected Marcus knew his brother better than she did.
Her heart thudded in her stomach and she accepted the fatal flaw in her plan. Westbrook was a rake. He likely wouldn’t marry her.
No one of any regard would court her if her reputation was so damaged.
Her mother would be furious for a while, but would agree that Emilie was to remain a spinster. She might even send Emilie away. But once Emilie’s future was locked into place, her mother couldn’t use Emilie’s dream as a bargaining tool.
Emilie’s heart still beat and her problem was solved, but the weight of what she was about to do didn’t make her tread lighter when she reached for the pull to summon a servant.
Mr Westbrook. She would send the letter to Westbrook asking to meet him in the late hours at his address.
She would creep out into the night alone and find her way to marriage or to ruin.
Chapter Six
Marcus could hardly taste the food on his plate. He stabbed at it more than ate it. Something about that Catesby woman remained in his mind.
Robert waltzed into the room, humming and swirling the silver salver he held in his hands as if it were a dancing partner. ‘A messenger has brought a letter. Not for you.’
Robert examined the missive, flicking it open at the sides, studying it before dropping it. ‘Possibly it’s from a young lady, which is odd as your brother hardly visits with ladies who might take efforts with written correspondence.’
He stopped near Marcus and bowed, holding out the salver on his palm. ‘If it is held to the light, the surname appears to start with C.’
Marcus snapped back his comment telling Robert to leave. He saw the swirling W on the paper. He dropped his fork and snatched the paper from the tray.
Robert gasped. He held the tray at his side. ‘Is that your brother’s? Is he not with you? Sadly, I have erred again.’ His voice dripped chagrin. ‘I just remembered he is on his way to see a woman he is fond of—perhaps they are planning to discuss The Iliad. Or having a go at an Odyssey. Who knows?’ He infused innocence into his words. ‘My sincere error.’
Marcus broke the seal and turned so Robert
could not see the words. Marcus held the paper in his hand, the paper crumbling under his clench. ‘You are to be disciplined, Robert. An extra half-day off whenever is convenient as punishment for the error of your ways.’
Robert groaned. ‘I shall contemplate heartily my mistaken delivery. I have so disgraced myself that I may voluntarily increase the length of the punishment.’
Marcus clamped his jaw, read the missive to the end and his fingers tightened more with each word he saw. ‘Bring me a lit candle. Now.’
Robert did as directed.
Marcus held the candle over his plate and let the letter burn and fall into the dinnerware.
One speck of paper still glowed hot on his plate.
‘Get me some paper and ink. Nathaniel will accept her invitation.’
Robert rotated. ‘The note should have cleared your head of any serious notion about her.’
‘Wait,’ Marcus said, stopping the movement. ‘I need you by the rear door well before midnight. Show the guest into the main sitting room.’
Robert’s mouth opened so wide his teeth were hidden. ‘Sir, I do not aspire to see your life take a downward turn.’
Marcus answered, ‘Prepare for a woman to be sent on her way with a good talking to and an explanation of how foolish she is.’
‘You must consider your actions. Don’t expect to explain to a woman she is foolish and escape easily.’
‘You saved my life once, Robert. And I will never forget it. But it’s mine. I shall proceed.’
Slowly, Robert blinked twice.
‘You can have a room in my dwelling, with no work and the same pay.’ Marcus gripped the table. ‘It is what I promised you to get you here and the promise stands. But you will not direct my path.’
Robert held his chin high. ‘To me, you are the son I did not sire. If I determine fault with your actions, I have myself to blame.’ He dipped his head and his voice became husky. ‘I blame myself a lot.’
‘Whatever you have to do, whoever you have to send, make certain Nathaniel is not to return until well after one in the morning. Get in touch with his carriage driver and see that it happens, should Nate plan to reappear. The carriage should get lost, the horses should bolt into the countryside or the carriage men can use whatever methods to distract him that’s needed. See that it is done and done subtly.’ He frowned at Robert. ‘And he is not to be bruised or damaged in anyway.’
