by Pendle, Eve
Reaching into his pocket, Mr. Jenkins drew out a handkerchief.
Markshall took it, wiped his hands and gave it back.
“Will that be all, m’lord?” The man’s inflection was utterly neutral, as though he were a moderately disciplined servant, not the editor of a newspaper.
Emily had expected a refractory man who would argue with them, maybe even deny that he’d done anything wrong. She’d thought she would have to intervene with gentle feminine charm to avoid Markshall hitting the man. It wasn’t clear who she’d misjudged most – Markshall or Mr. Jenkins.
“If you can assure me this will be the end of the matter.” Markshall raised his eyebrows and pinned the man with a sharp look.
Mr. Jenkins glanced down at his handkerchief, then met Markshall’s gaze with a bland smile and an almost respectful nod. “Yes, I believe that should be all.”
Emily obediently put her hand on Markshall’s sleeve when he offered, and they walked sedately from the printers. Her head was fuzzy. After her anticipation, this was almost a disappointment. Markshall handed her up into the phaeton and she settled into the seat, arranging her skirts as though that would arrange her thoughts.
“Well, that was easy.” Markshall smiled smugly as he picked up the reins and nodded to his tiger.
“Was it?” Apparently, it wasn’t just society women who could convey a thousand words in a tacit message.
“Mmm. And not expensive. Would you like to drive?” Markshall offered the reins.
She shook her head.
“Walk on.” The horses followed his direction. Markshall glanced over at her. “I doubt he’d ever seen a five-pound note before.”
“You bribed him then.” Emily couldn’t keep the censure from her tone. It wasn’t honorable, but then, Markshall wasn’t. She didn’t know why she continued to have the illusion that he was.
“What did you think I was going to do?” Markshall sounded amused. “Challenge him to a game of poker where if he lost he had to stop printing nonsense? Maybe I could have used you as my stake?”
“No. Don’t be silly.”
“I’m a man who regularly wears a red gown with a white ermine fur. I’ve got silly covered.” He shrugged. “Bets smack of desperation. And blackmail always backfires. Bribes get things done.”
Chapter Eleven
The next day found Emily immersed after breakfast in writing a letter to her friend Beatrix, who was already in London for the season. She’d just finished a letter to Mrs. Burnham, enquiring how the rest of the fern hunting trip in Devon was going, as she had received no word. Her mind was fully taken up with the implications of her engagement and its effect on the Lady Hunters, so it took Emily a moment to identify the voice coming from the hall.
Her father. A grin spread across her face. He and Connie must have caught the first train of the morning from Devon. Putting down her pen, she rose. It had only been a few days, but it would be nice to have the family back together again. She opened the door onto the marble hallway and took in her parents, their heads together as they conversed. Behind them, Connie was directing one of the footmen and a maid with her cases.
“It’s worse than the last article.” Her father’s voice carried even when he was sotto voce.
No. This couldn’t be happening to her. Markshall had sorted it.
“That is putting it mildly.” Connie raised her eyebrows and swung her reticule. “It says Father is tantamount to a bawdy house keeper and Emily is a fortune hunter.”
“What else does it say?” Every head swiveled to look at her.
“It says he better marry you quickly.” Connie unbuttoned the top of her pelisse. Her brows were dark and contrasted against an excess of white of her eyes.
Emily felt nauseous. She had made her reputation as clear and weightless as the spores that ferns used to reproduce. Success had been measured by approving nods by dowagers and a lack of her name mentioned in the gossip pages. She fought the urge to scuttle back to her ferns and hide among them like a little mouse.
“Why–” Emily’s throat closed up. She coughed. “Why do they say I’d better marry?”
Connie squared her shoulders, and sisterly malice glinted in her eye. “Because–”
“That’s enough.” Her father’s authoritative voice cut in.
“But it’s her fault.” Connie’s voice had a hint of a whine.
“Not now, Connie.” Her mother looked at Connie with excessive patience. “We can discuss this later. You must change for lunch.”
Connie huffed and started towards the stairs.
“Leave the newspaper.” Emily took the few steps to her sister and held out her hand.
“Not so perfect now, are you?” Connie hissed as she pushed the innocent looking paper onto her chest as she passed by, leaving Emily to grab it before it fell to the floor.
“If only she could be more like her elder sister,” her mother murmured and shook her head.
Connie’s neck straightened, and her pace increased on the stairs.
Emily took the paper into the drawing room. Easing herself into a chair in front of the cold fire, she turned through the pages, her heartbeat increasing. Then there was the section of the newspaper dedicated to gossip. Written by Lady X–.
This publication has already mentioned the danger of fern hunting for young ladies. But I think there will be many ladies for whom the danger of an engagement to an earl is not a very great peril. Some ladies, it is to be hoped, will value their virtue and reputation more highly than Lady E–. The parents of such ladies, who have allowed this flighty behavior, are in effect brothel madams, touting their daughters with little care for their virtue, credit, or their souls in the sight of God Himself.
Let it not be said, though, that this publication only considers the perspective of young ladies. Young men should also be aware of the conniving machinations of ladies saying that they are interested in ferns, or other purportedly academic and outdoor pursuits. They are interested in nothing higher than their own matrimonial ambitions.
Having been snared, I note that no date for the wedding has yet been announced. Lord M– is playing a dangerous game. He ought to be aware that long engagements to Lady E– are dangerous for the health and make a gentleman liable to unfortunate accidents.
Emily wasn’t the sort of lady to faint, but if she had been, she would have now. How could this Lady X– have done this to her? And why? The bribe had failed spectacularly. What would Markshall say?
Her heart was pounding like she was running. Perhaps running away from this newspaper, or who she was and what she’d done. Emily picked up the paper to re-read it for a spore of hope. Her stomach roiled. She couldn’t read it again, even to understand better. With a flick of her wrist, she threw the paper into the fireplace.
The fire was out, so it flopped open in flight and lay on the grate like a dead bird. All that work she had done had been for nothing. She was a failure.
She heard the door click but didn’t look up.
Her father sat down next to her on the sofa. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” She shrugged. She never shrugged. It was bad manners. “Something like this was bound to happen eventually. It’s just appalling timing, what with Connie’s debut.”
Her father made a noise of sympathetic agreement. “Connie is upset. It will pass. We have to be understanding with her; she doesn’t have your patience.”
“Naturally she’s angry.” Emily rubbed her forehead wearily. “I lecture her forever about the importance of good conduct, then I am embroiled in a scandal that humiliates the whole family just before her debut. The most important event of her young life. I don’t blame her.”
“The question is, who is doing this, and why?” Her father looked at the ceiling as if expecting celestial help.
“Whoever wrote this isn’t going to back down. That’s three articles within a week. One is understandable, just gossip. Two is unfortunate. But this...” Emily shook her head
. “This is intentional.” She thought, too, that she knew who might be responsible. If her hunch was correct, there would be no talking her around. She’d said as much when she’d visited just yesterday.
“I don’t have sage advice for you.” Her father smiled wryly. “But probably you ought not to take my advice anyway, as our esteemed gossip columnist seems to think I am damning you to hell by allowing you to gather ferns.”
He was so understanding, and she didn’t merit it. “I’m ruining Connie’s debut. People will be talking about this for weeks.”
“Nonsense.” His attempt to breezily dismiss her assertion was a weak effort. “It won’t be weeks.”
“You’re right. It will be months. Two articles in the London papers; there will be more. Gossip breeds gossip.” This was why she’d been so careful. “I have to do something to stop it, for Connie’s sake.” And for her own. She couldn’t cope like this. Eventually, more specific accusations might be made. “I’ll go away. I’ll retire back home for the season and it will all be forgotten.”
Her father nodded slowly. “You could do that,” he said, in that way he did when he completely disagreed.
“What?” She searched his face for indications of what he meant.
“I wonder if that is the best idea,” he said carefully.
“But what other option is there?” The situation was desperate. She was tarnished goods, and Connie needed to be impeccable to catch a good husband and be happy.
Her father was silent for a while. “Lady X– only says that long engagements are bad.” Which left short engagements, he didn’t need to say.
“I don’t think I can... Lord Markshall...” How could she tell her father about Lord Markshall’s confession? Her father wouldn’t make her marry him then. But she wasn’t sure why she felt like it would be a betrayal of trust to reveal Markshall’s error of judgment.
No. That was letting Markshall off lightly. His sin.
“I understand you’re not in love with him.” Her father nodded again, as if agreeing with himself. “And I’d like it better if he were a Whig rather than a Tory. But you need to consider it as an option.”
Markshall had ruined a lady. He was the most notorious rake in the country. But Markshall had never hurt her or even made her feel more than just an exciting frisson. She was the one who’d kissed him. Not just once but twice, drawn by some irresistible urge she couldn’t… The urge was lust, honesty compelled her to admit in the privacy of her own thoughts. That wasn’t a good foundation for a marriage. When they were trapped, Markshall had said he’d been enraptured by her. And instead of compromising her, he had told her the worst of him. Why had he done that?
She could break off the engagement, but that would cause even more of a scandal so soon after its commencement. Maybe her original plan of a quiet engagement was better. Except Connie and the gossip made her plan suddenly untenable and thus she came full circle. Connie being the little sister of a married lady would be much less to talk about.
Not only that, but these articles in the newspaper risked besmirching the reputation of pteridology, and the Lady Hunters in particular. Women relied on the Lady Hunters. And they might not realize it, but people needed the pamphlets they distributed. If there was much more gossip, it could make cautious parents ban their daughters from not just the Lady Hunters, but pteridology groups everywhere. Marriage would require an adjustment, but it might not destroy the group as scandal would.
“You think I should marry Lord Markshall?”
“Em.” Her father sighed. He took her hand in his and she noticed for the first time that his skin was becoming papery, rather than firm and strong. “I want to see you settled and happy. I know you love your ferns. Your Wardian cases are following in the second carriage from the station, by the way. But I want you to have the children and husband to love, as well as small green plants.”
He didn’t realize there was stone where her heart ought to be. “That was before.” Before James.
“Yes, and people change.” He smiled sadly. “But have you really changed so much, little Em?”
She didn’t know.
“If you go continue with the false engagement, these are the consequences. Connie’s coming out ball will be compromised. Well, that isn’t the end of the world. She is seventeen; she will recover and have her debut next year. She won’t like it.
“You’ve two engagements and one and a half scandals behind you. This is your last chance of marriage. You need to think, carefully, about whether you want a family of your own. I can protect you, but I can’t guarantee that you will have funds to set up house on your own. The entail...” He slid his gaze towards the empty fireplace, avoiding her eyes.
Emily knew. However much her father had her best interests, and those of her sister, in mind, all the property was entailed with the title. It was a common arrangement, as it prevented the property being shared between sisters and therefore sold or split up. Her brother, Hugo, was kind, but did she want to be a dependent relative of her little brother? She hadn’t really thought about it. After James’ death, she’d busied herself with being the Perfect Lady, and her new fern hobby.
She hadn’t grieved. She hadn’t felt she’d had any right to do so.
“I understand.” This was a crossroads. She didn’t want to be here, but she’d ended up on a runaway horse with Lord Markshall. She had the reins, and she had to guide this crisis before her decision was made for her, and she was pitched into the ditch.
She gulped, uncomfortably aware that the moment she was under stress, she had yet again reverted to a metaphor of fox hunting. She didn’t do that anymore. She hunted nothing more than ferns, using nothing more hazardous as a trowel. But her past was a part of her, whether she liked it, renounced it, or embraced it.
The same was true for Lord Markshall. Where she had scrubbed her reputation white, he had blackened his, embracing his infamy. But present actions said more about a person than those they regretted in the past. She ought to know.
Her father was watching her, waiting for her to decide.
There was a ditch. She had to guide her horse over the jump or go around and risk the mire. Her heart banged on her corset. Jump. “I will marry Lord Markshall. If he will have me.”
“Are you sure?” He gave her a smile, even as his eyebrows clenched together.
The pounding on the inside of her corset, like her heart trying to get out, continued. “Yes.”
“Well, you had better tell your fiancé about this decision. If he has seen this rubbish.” He nodded at the newspaper, still in the fireplace, all awkward, broken angles. “I expect he will be amenable to the idea.”
Emily wasn’t so sure.
Chapter Twelve
“A special license?” Oscar echoed, staring at Emily. She couldn’t be serious. “I rushed across London in response to your note and you’re telling me to procure a special license.”
“I presumed you’d seen the newspaper.” She was implacable, a serene blue-green island in the red-papered drawing room.
“Yes, but…” He’d imagined another visit to Fleet Street in her company. All four of his tall and strong footmen and three burly coachmen had accompanied him to visit her in anticipation of their trip, where he would prove to her how strong he was. No more nice earl, he’d meant to show this publisher who was in control. It had never occurred to him that Emily would have this singularly female idea of how to solve the problem.
“A respectable married couple is dull. An unmarried couple is always going to be scandalous. This is the only way to prevent our incident from overshadowing my sister’s debut.” She was no more emotional about this than he’d expect if she were choosing a hat.
His head was spinning. No sooner had he become used to the idea of marrying her than she had changed her mind and wanted pretense. He’d relaxed into the façade and now she wanted to marry, immediately. A life of bachelorhood, a decade of being a rake, and half a decade of pretending, and it was end
ing with a casual demand for marriage by special license.
“You must have hit your head when we fell down that hole. I won’t do it.” He shook his head with as much nonchalance as he could rally.
She must know this was a bad idea. He just had to remind her who he was, and she would scuttle back to her spinster life and fern collection. He would be free to silently concentrate on worrying about Annie’s illness, as there had been precious little news about her condition since he’d first heard, and trying to tip the balance of opinion on the Contagious Diseases Act Repeal.
“You will do it.” She folded her hands together in her lap as she sat into an ornate chair with flowing wooden arms.
“Or what?” This time he didn’t have to muster a cynical lip curl. It came easily.
“Or there will be consequences.”
“Will your father try and shoot me? It seems to be a dangerous occupation, being your intended.”
Her eyes glittered, and he knew immediately he’d gone too far.
“I meant a breach of promise suit. You’d be so poor afterward, you’d wish you had married me.” Her voice was like rock. “And it was an accident. And it wasn’t my father.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” Perhaps it had been her young-love taking his own life. That was often couched as an ‘accident’, to avoid the shame and stigma of a suicide. “I take it back. But surely you see that I am a terrible bet as a husband.” He spread his hands in presentation of himself.
She looked him up and down, and he would have sworn he saw heat flare in her eyes. “You aren’t what I would have chosen,”
That hurt a lot more than it ought to have.
“When you followed me, you knew this was a possibility,” she continued. “We will live separate lives. You will give me children. I will give you an heir. We will manage.”
There was a long pause where she didn’t say what was surely going through her mind. That he wasn’t to force her. That she knew he could give her a child, as he already had one. That he would give her children and not dally with any other woman.
