First Season / Bride to Be (27 page)

Her sister's lips turned down. “She always was a little sneak.” Her expression showed that she regretted the remark as soon as it was made.

“What's there to be sneaking about?” demanded Alasdair. “I'll have the whole story, by God. And if there's anything smoky about it, someone will pay.” He glared around the room pugnaciously. George gulped.

“It was rather…soon for an engagement,” said Olivia.

Alasdair growled.

“Emily is lovely,” countered the duchess. “Can you be surprised that she captivated a young man…”

Another rumble from Alasdair made her falter briefly.

“And there was a prior acquaintance,” she added. “So it is not really…”

“What?” Alasdair glowered. “Emily wasn't acquainted with any young sprigs of fashion.”

“It was the gentleman who had trouble on the road,” Olivia told him, clearly not for the first time.

“Eh?”

“The one you wanted to paint as Samson,” explained Emily, then wished she'd held her tongue as her father's irate gaze swung in her direction.

“That vagabond?” He looked incredulous, then enraged. He turned on the duchess again. “You've engaged
my
daughter to some wandering scoundrel who can't even keep a horse under him?”

This seemed unfair even to Emily. “He is Lord Warrington, Papa.”

As usual, he ignored any point that might weaken his argument. “This will all have to be gone into in detail. I have not given my consent, and I think it highly unlikely that I will do so.”

“We will certainly talk with the young man,” said Olivia soothingly. She smiled. “And as long as we are in town, we can renew some old acquaintances. You can put us up for a few days, Julia?”

Her sister looked horrified.

“I…that is…are you sure you would not be more comfortable…Papa…”

“Well, Papa did say that I was never to darken his door again,” Olivia pointed out. “And he and Alasdair have never really gotten on.”

From the way her aunt's eyes widened, Emily took this to be a considerable understatement.

“And with Emily here…” Olivia let her voice trail off and fixed her sister with a steady gaze.

The duchess looked wildly around the room. Her son evaded her gaze. Her husband shrugged, disavowing responsibility. Emily kept her eyes on the floor. While she felt some sympathy for her aunt, her longing for her parents' company was far greater. “Of course you are…welcome,” she murmured at last.

Her sister gave her a genuine smile. “Thank you, Julia. Really, we won't trouble you in the least.”

If the duchess believed that, Emily thought… But clearly, she didn't.

Later that evening, a more expected arrival was taking place as Lady Fielding greeted her late husband's niece. Richard returned from dinner at his club in the midst of these effusions and in time to admire Lydia Farrell's dashing traveling costume and the favorable changes time had wrought in his relative by marriage.

She was no longer skinny and diffident. Quite the contrary. The years had generously rounded her figure. Her face was slightly fuller as well, which became her, her complexion was ruddy rather than pale, and her dark brown hair gleamed with vitality. All the country air, he decided. “How do you do, Lord Warrington?”

“Oh, you must call him Richard,” exclaimed his mother. “We are all family here.”

“I don't think I could do that,” was the cool reply.

The look that went with it told Richard that he had been even ruder than he remembered when they had met years ago. “Please do,” he said.

She seemed surprised, and examined his expression before saying, “Then you must call me Lydia.”

“Good,” said Lady Fielding as she led the way to the drawing room. “I'm so glad you've come. It has been so long.”

“More than ten years.” Lydia threw him another sidelong glance. “I believe Richard was still at school the last time we met.”

“A scrubby schoolboy, in fact. And you were barely out of the schoolroom.”

She smiled ruefully. “It has been a long time. But I don't think I ever called you scrubby.”

“Even though I richly deserved it.”

He had startled her again.

“You were extremely polite,” he added.

“I expect I was a mass of nerves. My upbringing was very retired, you know. I had no idea how to go on in society.”

“You grew up in Wales?”

She nodded, turning away. “What a lovely room.” She sank gracefully down on a sofa. “And how wonderful not to be bouncing in a carriage any longer.”

Lady Fielding prepared to pour tea; and Richard leaned back in a chair, taking a cup when he was offered it. Lydia raised one brow. Clearly, she had expected him to excuse himself.

“How is your family?” asked his mother.

“Very well, thank you. Jeremy and Thomas—my sons—are at school now. William is deep in the spring planting, as he is every year. I tried to convince him to come with me, but he hates society. He said he would rather be shut in a cellar for a month than trapped in a ballroom for one night.”

Richard smiled at his mother's incredulous expression.

“But you must… Surely even in Wales there is some society?” she said.

“Oh yes. We dine with friends, and there is even an assembly hall not too far away.” She gestured as if dismissing this topic. “Tell me about London. I have only been here once before, when I was presented years ago.”

As his mother began to relay all the latest gossip, Lydia appeared amused and interested. His mother was more animated than he had seen her for a long time. This visit was really a fortunate accident. Perhaps it would solve one of the host of problems that beset him.

* * *

Emily signaled a hack near the duchess's town house, and quickly climbed in. The household was in disarray this morning as her parents settled in and her aunt brooded about the consequences of their visit. No one had seen her slip out alone, and no one was likely to miss her for an hour or two.

The cab let her out at the Fitzgibbons' house.

“Have you heard anything?” she asked when they were seated in the drawing room.

Daniel looked solemn. “There's a whisper—no more than that, mind—that some bullyboys have been after your Lord Warrington.”

“He is not my…”

“We saw the announcement in the paper,” put in Mrs. Fitzgibbon. She smiled at Emily over her knitting.

“Oh.” It was public knowledge now. Emily's heart quailed when she remembered the evening party they were to attend tonight and all the attention the news would draw. Her parents would probably want to go along. A small shudder shook her.

“We wish you very happy,” added Mary Fitzgibbon.

“Oh. Er, thank you.” Mary was eyeing her dubiously. She would have to learn to do better than that. She would be pelted with congratulations—sincere or not—tonight. “Bullyboys?” she managed.

Daniel shrugged. “The sort you can hire to cosh a bloke or slip him into the river.”

“Killers, you mean?” Her voice squeaked a little on the words.

Her host nodded. “Nobody we would know, you understand. Or our friends, either. I don't hold with violence, so I don't hear, you might say, directly. Can't vouch for the truth of it.”

“He has been attacked, though.”

“Well, there you are then.”

Emily sat still for a moment, trying to take it in. It was one thing to have suspicions, and quite another to have them confirmed. Confronted with actual flesh and blood killers, she felt daunted.

“So that's that,” added Daniel. “Happy to have been…”

“Can you find out anything more about these men? Particularly who hired them?”

Daniel shook his head. “I don't care to get mixed up with…”

“We could ask the Bruiser,” suggested Mary.

He glared at her and made a gesture as if cutting off further talk.

Mary absorbed it placidly. “It's her promised husband. We can't just let it go.”

“The Bruiser'd be no help,” was the response. “And dealing with the likes of him ain't what I like at all.”

“I don't want to get you in trouble,” began Emily.

“You're exaggerating, Daniel,” declared Mrs. Fitzgibbon. “And the boy was a great help when Jack had his…little problem.”

“Boy!”

“You know quite well he is little more.”

Daniel looked extremely unhappy. “There'll be a price.”

“I would be happy to pay whatever…”

“If money's all he asks,” growled Daniel.

“You worry far too much,” said his wife. She smiled at Emily. “It's what's kept us one step ahead of…difficulties. But this is quite all right.”

“If you're sure.” Emily frowned at Daniel's woebegone expression.

His wife gave him a look.

“I reckon it'll be all right,” he conceded.

She let out her breath. “Thank you. I don't know what I would do without your help.”

“Happy to do it, my dear,” answered Mrs. Fitzgibbon. Her husband merely grimaced.

In the hack on the way home, Emily thought over what she had heard. The worst sort of ruffians were apparently after Richard. She must tell him this right away. She would have to get him alone, make him listen.

Then she remembered; they were engaged. They would be expected, and allowed, to talk privately together. She relaxed a little in the seat. She had been right to go along with the betrothal. The matter was even more urgent than she'd known. But now she would be able to really help Richard resolve it. And then, of course, she would break off the engagement. It wasn't going to do anyone any harm. It was all going to work. There would be difficulties, but she would overcome them.

She was feeling quite sanguine as she slipped back into the duchess's house and made her way upstairs. It wasn't until she heard her father's bellow from an upper room that she remembered the difficulties might be greater than she knew.

“Oh dear,” said Emily when she walked into the party and discovered the hostess's scheme of entertainment. She was calling the event “Homage to the Arts,” and she had various examples stationed around the edges of the reception rooms. Emily could see a burly man in the far corner applying a chisel to a block of stone and a group of actors playing a scene on the other side. There was music in the air. Undoubtedly a painter sat in some other part of the house plying his craft. Nothing could be more calculated to enrage her father, who was already out of sorts at the mere thought of attending a
ton
party. She moved quickly into the crowd, putting some distance between herself and the inevitable explosion and callously abandoning her aunt, whose worst fears were about to be realized. Several acquaintances offered their felicitations as she moved through the rooms. Emily accepted them without pausing, searching for a refuge from complications.

Richard was standing in the far salon, watching a pair of dancers stationed in the corner, in an area set off by velvet ropes twined with flowers. In this constricted space, they were taking poses from a ballet, unable to really execute the steps. Richard looked torn between amusement and disgust at the sight.

Emily went to stand beside him just as a young sprig of fashion offered the dancers a bottle of champagne, which they eagerly accepted. “That should make it a bit easier for them,” she said.

Richard turned and discovered her.

“Perhaps we should do the same for all the ‘arts,'” she added.

“You don't approve of our hostess's scheme?”

“It's insulting.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“She's exhibiting artists as if they were animals in a zoo. And all these people”—she indicated the crowd around them—“are treating them just that way.”

“You are an unaccountable creature.”

Emily was taken aback.

“Your conversation is a muddle of inanities and impertinence. But then you come out with an interesting observation—like that one. I cannot make you out.”

“Inanities?” she glared at him.

He was nodding when the festivities were interrupted by a roar and clatter from another room.

“What was that?” Richard moved in the direction of the sounds.

Emily sighed. “I expect it was my father.”

“He is here?”

“He and Mama came up to town yesterday.”

“Ah.” His expression hardened. “Come to see the new son-in-law, have they?” His tone was cutting.

“To thrash him more likely,” Emily couldn't help answering. At his startled look, she added, “My father is… He is not like other people, you know.”

“I did observe that. His arrival must be very awkward for you.”

“Oh, I'm used to him.” She had to smile. “My aunt is in quite a taking. When he said he was coming here tonight, I thought she would faint.”

“I thought you wished to conceal your parentage.”

“What?” She drew herself up straighter.

“You asked me not to speak of them—not to gossip, if I recollect correctly.” His voice implied that he certainly did.

All of her aunt's fears would be realized now, Emily realized. If Aunt Julia were right, her own debut in society might be wrecked by the gossip. She looked around the room at the glittering crowd. It would be too bad; but the truth was, she had much more important matters on her mind. “My aunt was worried. And she convinced me that I must be too.”

“But you have changed your mind?”

Emily nodded impatiently. “I must speak to you about something important.”

“Now that you have snared a husband,” he added.

“What?”

“You needn't care about society's opinion, since you have gotten what you came for?”

Emily struggled briefly to contain her outrage. He didn't understand anything, she told herself. Taking a calming breath, she bent a little toward him and lowered her voice. “I have some information that you must hear.”

“Information?”

“Yes. There are—”

“You are a mass of contradictions.”

“You must listen to me.”

“Either you are the most devious, heartless little schemer I have ever encountered…”

Emily glared at him.

“Or you are demented. I suppose, given your upbringing, I should be charitable and choose the latter. But it is difficult for a man who has been entrapped into marriage to be charitable.”

She stood very still, telling herself again that he had a right to be angry. But his words and contemptuous expression still cut her to the quick. “I did not mean…” she began, and found she couldn't continue.

“You do understand that I have no fortune?”

Emily fought to hide her agitation from the people around them. Eventually, Richard would understand. She took another calming breath and rushed on before he could stop her again. “Some…friends of mine have heard rumors about the attacks on you. Ruffians may have been hired to harm you.”

Richard stared down at her.

“They are trying to find out who this may be,” Emily added hurriedly. “If we could find them, then we could discover who is behind…”

“We?”

His gaze made Emily falter. “Well, that is…”

“I have told you it is none of your affair,” he continued, but he said it as if he were mystified, rather than offended, by her persistence.

“You admit that someone is after you, then?”

His frown didn't seem directed wholly at her. “I have been forced to acknowledge that something odd is going on.”

“Thank God,” replied Emily, feeling immense relief.

“Why should you care?”

He really had the most piercing gaze, she thought. It took her a moment to gather her faculties. “I care about anyone who is in trouble.”

He obviously found this unsatisfactory.

“And I was there at the beginning, you know. When those two men were trying to drown you. I have some…some responsibility, since I chased them off.”

“You?”

“The dogs and I.”

He looked bemused.

“And it's interesting,” she finished.

“What?”

Instantly, she regretted that final phrase. “It's an…an obligation.”

He examined her as if he had never seen such a creature before. “Having, as you see it, saved my life, you now feel obligated to safeguard it?”

“That's it.” Relieved, Emily smiled at him.

“Ridiculous,” he pronounced. “The obligation—if one did exist—would be on my side.”

“But if you save something, you cannot just abandon it afterward.”

He looked offended. “We're not talking of a half-dead kitten, or an injured fox.” There seemed to be amusement in his voice as well, though she couldn't be sure.

“So I should just let you be killed?”

“I assure you I am exceedingly difficult to kill.”

“But a systematic attack…”

“Where did you hear of such a thing?”

“I told you. Friends of mine…”

“What sort of friends would be privy to that kind of information?” He looked around the crowded room, his lip curling a little. “Certainly not those you have made in London?”

“Old friends.”

“Miss Crane, you are being deliberately unhelpful.”

“I cannot tell you who they are. They would not wish to be known to you.” The Fitzgibbons would be exceedingly unhappy if she betrayed their true identity, or their connection with some of the town's more unsavory elements.

“Indeed. But I am to take the word of these mysterious individuals…”

“Well, what other clues do you have?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“How else will you find out who is after you?”

“I have certain resources of my own.”

“Are you going to refuse help just because it comes from me?” Emily was horrified to hear her voice break slightly as she spoke.

He seemed to be trying to formulate an answer when a low musical voice interrupted with, “I beg your pardon.”

Emily turned, and almost collided with a tall attractive woman bearing down on them. Emily stepped out of her way.

“Richard, you must rescue me,” said the newcomer. “I believe your mother has introduced me to everyone here, and I have forgotten all their names.”

Emily watched Richard smile down at her. The woman was dark haired and quite beautiful, and she had an enviable ease and confidence.

“And some mad earl smashed the painter's easel,” she continued. “He threatened to slather the hostess in red paint for ‘mocking creative life blood.' I had no idea that
ton
parties were so…active.”

A small sound escaped Emily. That had to be her father, though he was only the son of an earl.

The woman was looking inquiringly at her, as if wondering why she didn't take herself off.

“This is Emily Crane, Lydia,” said Richard. “Miss Crane my, er, cousin Lydia Farrell.”

“Ah. Miss Crane, I'm sorry I didn't recognize you. I've just come up to London. May I offer my felicitations.” Her gaze was speculative and appraising.

“Thank you,” answered Emily faintly.

Lydia looked from her to Richard. “Am I interrupting? I don't mean to intrude on your tête-à-tête.”

Emily had a strong desire to say yes, but she held her tongue as Richard assured his cousin that she was quite welcome. He certainly seemed to find her so. The conversation had been a fiasco from start to finish. It was hard to see how it could have been worse.

“Sheldon,” bellowed a deep voice behind her.

Emily closed her eyes in despair. Things can always get worse, she reminded herself.

“Or Warrington, whatever you call yourself,” continued her father, descending on their little group like the wrath of God. “I want a word with you.”

Richard merely waited. He didn't look the least intimidated.

“I have not given my consent to this engagement!”

Was that a spark of hope in Richard's eyes? It certainly looked like one. People were starting to turn and listen. A few were drawing closer as if part of the entertainment was beginning.

“And I don't like it above half,” her father went on. “Puffing it off in the papers without consulting me.” Alasdair Crane huffed like a goaded bull. “Not quite the thing, eh?” He waited for an answer, but no one gave him one.

Emily watched a series of expressions pass across Richard's face. To her, they looked like temptation, compunction, and regret. She wondered what the crowd made of them. “Have you, er, spoken with the duchess?” asked Richard finally.

“Julia has nothing to do with the matter. We're talking about
my
daughter.” He glared at the other guests, who now surrounded them in a clump. “All of you hear me?” he demanded. “Did I speak loud enough for you jackals?”

Emily was shaken by a crazed desire to laugh. Since she also felt utterly humiliated and unaccountably afraid, what came out was more like a bleat.

“And you, my girl. You ought to have known better than to accept him without consulting your parents.”

The laugh was in her throat, side by side with a moan. She gulped and nodded.

Her mother came gliding up and put a hand on Alasdair's arm. She whispered something to him.

“I've said what I meant to,” he answered aloud. “You come round and see me,” he commanded Richard. “I have some questions for you.”

Richard was actually smiling, Emily saw with incredulity. He bowed his head in acknowledgment.

“Come along,” added her father peremptorily to Emily. As she followed her parents through the murmuring crowd, Emily saw Richard's cousin thread her arm through his and smile warmly up at him.

* * *

When Richard presented himself at the duchess of Welford's splendid town house the next day, he found he was looking forward to the visit with a surprising amount of anticipation. He had been summoned by Alasdair Crane, after all, and he could only foresee the unexpected.

The butler ushered him into a small parlor near the back of the house. It was well away from the main rooms, he realized with a smile. The duchess must have given orders to keep her unpredictable brother-in-law as far from her as possible.

The door opened, and Alasdair Crane came in. But the bluster and outrage of their last encounter was gone. The man looked almost forlorn, Richard thought.

“I have no studio here,” he said, as if this would naturally be Richard's first concern. “I cannot paint. And Olivia is making me buy new clothes.” He fingered the lapels of his coat—which did indeed look new—as if the mere sight of it pained him.

“That…that is too bad.” Richard had to hide a smile.

“It's intolerable. She knows that.”

Was he supposed to offer some sort of solution? “Perhaps you could use a room on the upper floors for a studio?” The place must have thirty rooms.

Crane shook his head. “Julia claims the smell of paint makes her ill.” He grimaced. “I've always doubted that she and Olivia were really sisters. Old Shelbury's such a dry stick. I shouldn't wonder if their mother played him false.” This idea seemed to cheer him. “Olivia's father must have been a different sort altogether—an artist even.”

Richard couldn't contain a short laugh.

It attracted Crane's full attention. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“You summoned me, sir.”

“I did? Oh yes.” He shook his head again. “Can't think clearly when I'm not painting. It's this engagement, isn't it?”

“I believe so,” answered Richard, making an effort to keep his voice steady.

“Yes, that's it.” Emily's father walked over to a sofa near the fireplace, his steps heavy. “May as well sit down.”

He did so, and Richard followed suit. Silence fell.

“Look at that light,” said Crane suddenly.