First Season / Bride to Be (24 page)

* * *

Emily walked along the busy London street, conscious of her fashionable clothes, the smart maid who walked beside her, the tall footman who escorted them both. It was so very different from anything in her life before the last few weeks, and yet she was on her way to visit one of her father's disreputable old friends.

Her Aunt Julia had made inquiries about Gerrity, the dancing master, and had agreed that Emily could benefit from some expert instruction. The only thing was, there was no dancing class this afternoon. She was going to see Daniel Fitzgibbon—Gerrity, she reminded herself—for quite a different purpose.

Emily was received with careful ceremony. The servants were safely disposed belowstairs, and she was ushered up to the drawing room by a solemn butler. Only when the door was closed and latched did her host grin at her and say, “Mary's here too, y'see.”

Emily smiled at Mrs. Fitzgibbon, a small plump woman of unshakable placidity. She smiled and picked up a teapot. “Lemon or cream, dear?”

A tightness that she hadn't even recognized relaxed as Emily sat down opposite her and accepted a cup. She needn't worry about saying or doing the wrong thing here, or about letting slip some forbidden bit of information about her family.

“Your parents are well?” asked Fitzgibbon.

“Yes. I had a letter just yesterday. Papa has acquired a ferret.”

Mary Fitzgibbon laughed quietly. “For ratting?” inquired her husband.

Emily shook her head. “He thought it would pose for a painting he's working on. It stole one of the apples from the still life and ran up a curtain to eat it. He shouted at it until Mama came and suggested another subject.”

“What became of the poor animal?” wondered Mary.

“It's living on top of the hall clock, stealing food from the kitchen.”

The three of them shared a smiling moment, appreciating the Honorable Alasdair Crane's well-known eccentricities.

“How do you come to be in London?” asked Emily then.

“Mary wanted a more settled life. She was tired of traveling. And Sarah wanted to see the city.”

“She's here?” The Fitzgibbons' daughter, Sarah, was Emily's own age, and they had played together as children. She got only a nod in return. Sensing some awkwardness, she added, “It is so good to see old friends. My aunt's house is…very formal.”

“She's known as a high stickler,” said Daniel.

“But she is kind to you?” asked Mary.

“Oh, yes. Are there others from home in London?”

“Jack Townsend's here,” Daniel replied. “Fleecing young sprigs at the gaming hells.” He cocked his head. “Not that he cheats, mind. Well, he don't need to. He's deuced clever with the cards.”

Emily nodded, remembering this dapper adventurer from her parents' dinner table. “Gentleman Jack” had saved her father from being horsewhipped by an irate neighbor whose foxhounds had had an altercation with David and Jonathan.

“Flora got herself on stage in Covent Garden,” her host continued. “Seems to have hooked a great swell, too. He's set her up in style in…”

“Daniel,” admonished his wife.

“Eh? Oh.” He eyed Emily uneasily. “Mrs. Taylor has a boardinghouse in Kensington. Rooms for displaced gentlewomen.”

“And work for them?”

He shrugged.

Emily took it as agreement. Mrs. Taylor was an unusual breed of crusader. She deplored the way society treated certain classes of women, exploiting them as governesses, companions, or poor relations and then often abandoning them with a pittance when they were older. She gave them refuge and taught them a variety of dubious skills, from genteel thievery to confidence tricks.

“There's others about as well. Here and there.”

“It's odd to know they are nearby, and I probably shan't see them.”

“There's more than one London,” responded Daniel. “You could live all your life and never venture from one to the other.” He nodded sagely. “Hardly anyone does.”

“Do you think Papa's…friends would help me with something?” Emily asked.

“Of course they would, dear,” said Mary Fitzgibbon. When it appeared her husband would object, she gave him a look. “Her father has put himself out for most of them.”

“I know, but I can't speak for Jack, or Eddie. Besides, what could they do for her?” He turned to Emily. “Begging your pardon, but you're staying with a duchess and moving in circles quite above their touch.”

“I just want them to watch out for someone. An…acquaintance of mine. Papa knows him too.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing. That is…I don't think he did. But someone is trying to kill him.”

Both of the Fitzgibbons looked startled.

Emily knew it sounded outlandish. But she had been doing a great deal of thinking in the last few days, and she had come to some clear conclusions. Lord Warrington was in danger, which he refused to see. Someone had to do something.

And it was so much more interesting than simply going to balls and evening parties. The Season was amusing and interesting, but a trifle limiting, Emily admitted. Watching out for Lord Warrington would add a fascination to events that didn't seem to require all her abilities. She was used to watching out for her parents. Could it be she actually missed this? Of course not. She was happy to be free of the endless alarms and debates, living in ease and luxury.

But she couldn't allow a fellow human being to be harmed, she added righteously. Her conscience would rebel. She was obliged to help. She could do a good deed, and occupy her mental faculties at the same time. Splendid. Praiseworthy, even. There was nothing more to it than that.

“They tried to drown him back home, and then to crush him with an urn here in London. He was in a shipwreck too, but I'm not sure… He thinks it is all accidents. I could not convince him otherwise. So he is not being careful, you see. And I cannot watch over him all the time, because I am not free to come and go as I like.”

“Why should you watch over him?” asked Mary, her eyes glinting with curiosity.

“I don't wish to see him murdered,” Emily answered a bit quickly. “And they tried first right outside our house. I feel…responsible.”

“That's nonsense.” Daniel looked perplexed. “Why should you?”

“Well, I…I was there, you see. I untied him. And when the urn fell in the park. And he isn't paying the least heed to it. It is…it is like watching a runaway team about to trample someone. You must try to pull them away.”

Her host seemed about to dispute this, but Mary spoke first. “Who is he?”

“His name is Sheldon. Lord Warrington, that is.”

“A lord?” snorted Daniel. “We've nothing to do with lords.”

“You're visiting among the
ton
,” said Emily. “Jack is in the gaming houses, and Flora at the theater. And I'm sure all of you hear things.” She spoke the last words firmly, knowing quite well that they gathered information along with other valuable commodities.

“We can pass the word,” agreed Mary. She ignored her husband's surprised look. “What does this lord look like?”

“Oh.” Emily blinked, unaware of Mary's close scrutiny. “He's tall,” she began, “and, and very…well muscled. His skin is bronzed; he has been in the Indies. Brown hair and hazel eyes that are extremely…penetrating.”

“Engaging manners, I suppose?”

Daniel gaped at his wife. Emily bit her lower lip as she struggled to form a reply. Richard was abrupt and sarcastic. But his rare smile was certainly engaging. He acted decisively in a crisis. She had felt so safe in his arms. Hurriedly, she banished this thought. “His manners are…indescribable.”

Mary nodded as if she had gained important information. “We'll see what can be done.” Her husband shrugged, then nodded.

“Thank you.”

“Your dad shielded us from the magistrates,” was the placid reply.

Emily smiled at them, then rose to go. “You will let me know if you hear anything?”

The Fitzgibbons said they would and stood to see her out.

“May I call again to see Sarah? I so love talking to her.”

The earlier awkwardness returned. Daniel shifted from one foot to another.

“She is all right?”

There was another pause, then Mary replied. “She's not ill or anything. But we're a bit on the outs.”

“Why?”

“She's gone to work for some German feller who reads fortunes,” Daniel blurted out.

“Not fortunes,” corrected Mary. “He contacts their dead relatives.”

Daniel made a derisive noise.

“Dead?” said Emily.

“He holds—what d'you call them—séances. Pierces the veil and gets messages from those who've passed on.”

Daniel snorted again. “He's supposed to have brought some swell back from the dead.”

“People, mostly women, give him gifts,” explained Mary. “He pays Sarah well, treats her well, too.”

Her husband growled. “So she says.”

“So I know,” was the confident reply.

“You don't wish her to work there?” ventured Emily.

“It's not that I object to taking money from marks,” stated Daniel, as if he had made this argument many times before. “But I draw the line at making light of death and the hereafter. It ain't a game, you know? There's some things not to be meddled with.”

“I'll tell Sarah you were asking after her,” said Mary.

Smiling her thanks, Emily turned to the door.

“No good'll come of it,” Daniel muttered. “She ought to stick to honest thievery.”

A bit bemused by his unexpected philosophy, Emily went on her way.

“There is no more income to be squeezed from your Somerset properties,” declared Elijah Taft.

Richard looked at the craggy old man who sat opposite him in his mother's library. He had known Taft all his life, a dour West Country man with a daunting knowledge of estate management. Taft's belligerence was completely justified by their history. In the past, Richard had condescended to see Taft only when he wanted money and had berated him soundly when there wasn't any. Yet Richard still found that the man's attitude galled. “They're in poor shape, aren't they?”

Taft bristled. “When you put nothing into your land, my lord, when you pull our every spare penny and let buildings fall to ruin and fields…”

Richard held up a hand. It was true; he had never made the least effort to manage his patrimony, or indeed to learn much about it. The decaying house depressed him. But even if he had tried, there was no money to mend anything or salvage acres that had been neglected for more than a generation. “Cottages and barns need to be repaired, I suppose. And other things.”

“A thousand other things, my lord. And there's no more income to be gotten out of…”

“I know,” Richard said sharply. The man might be right, but it made the situation no easier to face. “The problem is, there is no money. That's always been the problem, hasn't it?”

“There was a reasonable income—once.”

“But my father was not a reasonable man.”

Taft said nothing. He didn't need to. His face showed his agreement.

“And my grandfather not much more so, I understand.”

“He did his best,” was the gruff reply.

Taft and his grandfather had grown up together, Richard knew. They had been fast friends from early boyhood, and Taft had taken on the management of that Lord Warrington's affairs as a mission as well as a job. He had made the property his lifework. No one knew it better or cared more for every inch of the land. “I don't have the thousands of pounds that are no doubt needed to set things right,” he pointed out.

“If every cent was put back in,” Taft began.

“You wish me to live on nothing at all?” He would be more dependent on his mother than ever.

Taft's glower was familiar from days gone by.

Richard was assailed by an unfamiliar bitterness. It was all well and good to decide to change. But circumstances didn't always allow one to do so. “The house is falling to pieces, full of mice and damp. Perhaps we should just pull it down and have done with it.”

The flare of rage in Taft's eyes was almost daunting.

He didn't really mean to tear the place down, Richard thought. He was only dispirited by the damage that generations of neglect had left behind. The task of saving the estate seemed overwhelming, and rather lonely as well. He started to withdraw the words.

“You worthless excuse for a man,” Taft blurted out, obviously laboring under intense emotion. “You don't deserve the place—”

“You forget yourself!” snapped Richard.

As Taft struggled for control, Richard grappled with a fury that he acknowledged as unfair. But that didn't make it any less fiery. It was one thing to criticize oneself; it was quite another to have accusations thrown in one's face by an employee. “If you find my character so distasteful, perhaps you would like to end our association.”

He couldn't help feeling a twinge of satisfaction at Taft's stricken look. “I…I beg your pardon, my lord. I have devoted my life to keeping…”

Guilt made Richard brusque. “Yes, yes. Very well.” The clock on the mantel chimed. “I have an engagement.”

Taft rose. He had recovered somewhat, the lines of his face once more hard and craggy. He bowed his head in curt acknowledgment and went out.

He would have to find a way to begin repairs, Richard thought. Perhaps he would allow Taft to make use of all the income for a time. If nothing else, he would leave the land in a better state than he found it. But this sounded long and difficult even to the new Lord Warrington. He couldn't imagine being like Taft, spending his whole life in a hopeless cause.

Putting these thoughts from his mind, Richard called for his curricle to be brought round. The steam locomotive he was to see this afternoon intrigued him far more than estate management. He would always be more interested in new mechanisms and inventions than in land and crops. It was another of the things that made him so different from his peers.

Different. And open to ridicule and blank incomprehension if he showed it—except to one person in London. Taking his hat and gloves from a footman, Richard allowed his thoughts to linger on Emily Crane. He could still feel that kiss on his lips, feel the effect in every fiber of his flesh. She was damnably alluring.

London was turning out to be more enjoyable than he had expected, Richard mused. Perhaps he would stay in town for the whole of the Season.

* * *

Richard dropped his hands and let the team increase its pace on this straight stretch of road. It had been an odd afternoon. The locomotive had been fascinating, but Emily Crane had been…he didn't know what to call it. Impertinent? Her conversation had veered from his relatives to his position in society to the dangers of holding a grudge. She had gone on for quite some time about the possibility of making enemies among the
haut ton
. She seemed to see it as some kind of battleground, rife with verbal rapier work and relentless vendettas. What had she been up to in her short time in town? She was a decidedly unusual girl.

To top it off, the groom perched behind them in the curricle appeared to have overindulged during their luncheon at the inn. He was continually nodding off and then jerking awake again to gaze around blearily. Richard was beginning to fear that he would lose his grip and fall.

Emily cleared her throat nervously. Richard braced himself for another odd remark. “Lord Warrington?”

“Yes?”

“I…there was something I wished to speak to you about.” Emily took a deep breath and then spoke in a rush. “My aunt tells me that gossip about my parents could be quite harmful to me. So I wanted to ask you please not to mention that you…that is, that they…your visit to them.”

The request surprised Richard, and annoyed him. “Do you imagine that I spend my time gossiping?”

“I…I didn't mean…”

“Do you imagine I tell malicious tales for the pleasure of it?”

She bit her lower lip.

Richard was assailed by a rush of wholly unprecedented embarrassment. Had Emily Crane heard all about the old Lord Warrington? Embarrassment became humiliation. No doubt she had, and had probably despised the man described.

The emotion he felt then stunned him. In all of his twenty-nine years, he had never worried about what a woman might think of his character. He hadn't cared. The old Warrington had had only one purpose for a woman.

“I don't spread rumors or indulge in tittle-tattle,” he added stiffly, wondering if she would believe him. “I have more important things to do with my time.”

“You talked to me of nothing but my parents at the ball,” Emily snapped. “How was I to know that you would not…”

“I didn't know you were trying to conceal their identity. That scheme is unlikely to fly, you know.”

“I am not trying…”

“What
are
you trying to do?”

Emily hesitated. “My aunt is very knowledgeable about society.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“I am not.”

Richard felt a spark of interest.

“I must be guided by her advice.”

“Must you?”

Emily looked up at him. She was an enigma, he thought. He couldn't predict her as he could so many people he met. “You wish to succeed in society?”

“Why shouldn't I?” She looked him straight in the eye as if daring him to answer.

Richard was startled by a strong pulse of desire. His hands had found her body delightfully rounded in all the right places, he remembered. Her red-gold hair, brushing his chin, had been like threads of flame. Sternly, he called himself to order. This was out of the question—he certainly didn't need any more complications in his life.

The sound of hooves pounded up behind them. Richard pulled a little to the side to let the other vehicle pass. It came abreast of them—a light carriage and four going flat out. The driver had a hood pulled up over his head, obscuring his features. How the devil did he see the road with that thing on? If this were some young blood racing for a wager, he would most likely be foxed as well. And deadly dangerous.

Richard started to slow the curricle, but at that moment, the other carriage veered slightly and slammed into it, rocking the lighter vehicle. Both teams shied, one of the leaders squealing. Richard fought the reins, every muscle in his body taut.

The other carriage hit them again. The driver must be sodden drunk, Richard concluded. He pulled hard on the ribbons, trying to halt his thoroughly spooked horses. The leader threw back his head in a challenge and tried to bite his opposite number.

Richard hauled harder as the other carriage careened into them again. In the midst of the chaos, he noticed a small gloved hand clutching the seat beside him. Emily wasn't making a sound, he noted with approval. Then all his attention was claimed by the plunging team. There was something wrong. They were moving away from the curricle to the left. Risking a glance downward, Richard saw that the traces had parted. The only links between the curricle and the horses were the reins in his hands.

The team turned farther, eager to get away from the melee now that it was free. Richard gripped the leathers, but it was no good. They weren't pulling the curricle any longer, and if he held on he was likely to be dragged from the seat. With a supreme act of will, he let go. The horses raced off, dragging the broken traces behind them. He heard a muted cry from Emily just as the rogue carriage hit them again and sent the curricle plunging down a hill toward a grove of trees. He had a bumping, reeling vision of sky, branches, a huge spray of water, then blackness.

* * *

Richard woke to darkness and rain pounding on his face and chest. When he tried to sit up his whole body protested in one great ache. Where was his spear? His sling? Groping for them, he searched the area for predators.

He found mud. He was half-submerged in it. Then his hand brushed his coat tail, came up to his shirtfront. He sniffed the air. He wasn't in the jungle. He had come home, he remembered. He was home. No great spotted cats or bone crushing snakes were likely to drop on him.

Bringing his hand to his face, he rubbed his pounding head. There had been a carriage…a fall. Struggling up, pulling his boots from the sucking mud, he squinted into the darkness. There was a full moon behind the rain clouds. He could make out the hulk of the curricle, sagging in the middle of a small pond. There seemed to be trees beyond—probably the trees they had crashed through, he decided, as memory sharpened. He had been thrown clear.

He scanned his surroundings. The rain was letting up a bit. He could hear something else, a rhythmic sound. Squelching his way toward it, he discovered his groom, flat on his back on the sodden soil, snoring. Richard shook him. When he got no response, he hauled the man up by his lapels and shook hard. The groom snorted and gurgled, but he didn't wake. How could the idiot sleep in these conditions? He must have emptied a barrel of ale. Richard dropped him, resisting the strong urge to give him a kick. He had to find Emily, yet he was almost afraid to. With her more fragile frame, was she lying broken somewhere nearby?

A movement caught his eye. A pale figure staggered upright, wavered. Striding over to it, he was just in time to catch Emily in his arms.

She clung to him. A hint of warmth penetrated his soaked shirt from her body. She was shuddering with cold and probably shock. “Are you hurt?” he said.

“B-bruised and battered,” she responded, her teeth chattering.

She said it remarkably calmly, all in all.

The rain intensified again, pouring over them, the drops beating on his head. The spring night wasn't frigid, but with the wet and the wind, it was enough to do them harm. He had to find some shelter. Holding Emily close to his side, he led her over to the somnolent groom. “Wait here. I'll find someplace out of the rain.”

She nodded, then sank down next to the groom. “Is he sl-sleeping?”

“Apparently. I'll be as quick as I can.”

Richard left them there and took his bearings. The road was beyond the trees and up a bank if he remembered correctly. He could scramble up there and hope to flag down a passing carriage, but travelers would be few or none on a night such as this. He needed a house. Peering through the rain, he looked for a light. There was nothing. He walked up the low bank of the pond. Rain pounded on his face and shoulders and dripped from his fingertips. He would have preferred the jungle, he thought ironically. There, at least, he could have built a shelter. But this landscape offered no convenient plants with great broad leaves.

He walked a little farther, straining to penetrate the curtains of rain. There seemed to be something…a dark mass against the slightly lighter clouds up ahead. Moving faster, he came to it. Not a house, not even a barn; it was a small three-sided shed for storing fodder. But the overhanging roof kept out most of the rain. There were mounds of dry straw inside. It would do.

Returning to the others, he told Emily about the shelter as he helped her up. “I can walk,” she said when he would have supported her. “Help your poor groom.”

“Poor!”

“There must be something wrong with him to sleep like that.”

“He's drunk,” retorted Richard. But he grasped the man's shoulders and began to drag him across the muddy field.

Slowly, they made their way to the shed. “Oh,” said Emily when she stepped inside. “It is so good to be out of that rain.”