The Forbidden Lord (6 page)

“But I would never—”

“Wouldn’t you? To save your mother from further suffering? Granted, some might think it a noble gesture.” He patted his waistcoat pocket. “But
the law does not. If I decided to unburden myself about the events of that day to…say…my friend, the magistrate, and made it clear that you could have done it yourself, he would be very interested. What do you think, Miss Fairchild? If it came to a trial, whom do you think they would believe?”

The room seemed to sway around her. The answer to that question was painfully obvious. She’d have no chance against Lord Nesfield’s power and lofty station; there was no proof of her innocence. Besides, even if she could win such a trial—which was doubtful, given his connections—she and Papa would still be outcasts everywhere. “You wouldn’t—You couldn’t be so cruel—”

“Your poor father. To see his daughter brought to trial for murder. It would kill him.” He gave an unearthly cackle. “It would kill
you
. And what a pity to see such a pretty girl’s life cut off in its prime.”

She shuddered. “You would lie about me that way? You would bring me to trial for a murder I didn’t commit? How could you?” She grasped at straws. “It would mean scandal for you, to have your rector’s daughter accused of murder.”

“Do you think I care about scandal with my daughter’s well-being at stake? You wish to protect your father.” He pounded his cane on the floor. “Well, I shall protect my daughter’s reputation and future at all costs.”

She stared into the fire, wishing it would spill out and consume Lord Nesfield with all his nasty threats. “Why me? Surely there’s some other poor girl you can blackmail into doing as you wish.”

“Because you are the best person for our scheme.” His impersonal eyes ran over her with the thoroughness of a man choosing a prize race-
horse. “You’re genteel enough to pass for nobility, and you’re clever enough to learn what you don’t know. No one of consequence in society knows you, so you won’t be recognized by some friend. The only ball you’ve attended where any of the
ton
might have met you was a masquerade ball, and you wore widow’s weeds and a mask. You didn’t even dance, for God’s sake.”

Folding his arms over his chest, he said, “So you see, it must be you. No one will know you, nor care when you disappear and return to your safe little life here.”

No one would know her. That wasn’t true! Lord Blackmore had seen her without her mask. Of course, she could hardly tell Lord Nesfield that she’d been alone in a carriage with his enemy, a man notorious for his associations with women. For one thing, Lord Nesfield wouldn’t believe it. And if he did, it would merely give him one more thing to hold over her.

Besides, she wasn’t even sure Lord Blackmore would recognize her. The earl had only seen her briefly by moonlight. He’d probably already forgotten her face.

Still, others might know her, no matter what Lord Nesfield believed. “What about Lawrence, my cousin? If he sees me in London—”

“Do not be absurd. A London barrister does not attend society balls. And if you happen upon him in the street, you can tell him you came to London with Sophie.”

She cast about in her mind for others. “What about the Gormans? And the Taylors?” she said, naming the two most prominent families in Willow Crossing. “They go to London for the Season, and they know me. What of the Drydens?”

“The Drydens’ grandchild has just been born.
They won’t leave their estate with the newborn there. The Gormans aren’t going to the city this year, because they don’t want to leave Mr. Gorman’s ill mother. As for the Taylors, their daughter’s coming out last year cost them so much they’ve decided not to go to town this year.”

“But surely there will be someone—”

“If there is, I’ll take care of it.”

“What about Papa? How can I explain why I’m leaving him?”

Lord Nesfield lifted his scrawny shoulders in a careless shrug. “We’ll tell him that Sophie needs you in London. It will be better if he did not know the rest, for he might object. Or would you rather tell him the truth?”

Tears sprang to her eyes. Ruthlessly, she held them back. Wretched man! This was so unfair! If she ever saw Sophie again, she’d strangle the girl for doing this to her!

No, she mustn’t blame Sophie. It was her own fault—if she had been more careful with the laudanum, none of this would have happened, and Lord Nesfield wouldn’t have this hold on her. This was her punishment.

Still, to actively take part in his deception would be an offense against every moral precept! Yet she had no choice. She doubted God would want her to sacrifice her life for such percepts, especially when it would mean heartache for Papa.

“Very well. I’ll do as you wish.” The words were wrenched from her.

“One more thing.”

Her eyes burned with unshed tears. “What more could you want from me?”

“You must keep your reasons for helping me a secret, even from my sister, or I swear I will make good on my threats.”

“Lady Dundee wouldn’t approve of your black-mailing, I take it?”

He scowled. “I don’t know. But I don’t want her interference. If you tell her the truth, I swear—”

“You’ve made yourself quite clear.” She straightened her spine. “But if I do this, you must swear to bury Mama’s secret forever.”

He eyed her through his lorgnette. “Certainly. Once I find my daughter’s secret suitor and put an end to his pretensions, you and I will be done with each other.”

“Do you swear it?”

“I swear it.”

I’ll hold you to that vow, my lord
, she told herself fervently as he stalked back into the hall and called for Lady Dundee.
Don’t think that I won’t
.

London
May 1819

E
mily shivered and gathered her fur-edged pelisse more tightly about her flimsily clad body. Beyond the frosted window of the Nesfield carriage, London’s streets glimmered beneath the spring fog. As a child, she’d visited the city only once with her parents, leaving her with vague memories of pinnacled towers and jam tarts.

This week, however, London had left a more distinct impression. Hesitant young ladies and their preening mamas in a long succession of millinery and seamstress’s shops. Endless trips in the carriage through muddy, people-choked streets. And everywhere, the task of pretending she was Lady Dundee’s daughter newly come from Scotland.

Why had she ever thought Willow Crossing dull and uninspiring? How she missed the pale yellow wash of morning sun on their little garden, the
patchwork of open fields, the neat lanes and walks. What she wouldn’t give for a glimpse of home.

Idly she rubbed a circle in the frost on the window so she could peer at the grand houses lining the streets. This was what she was—an onlooker, an outsider. No matter how Lady Dundee presented her, she’d never be part of this world.

Tonight the kind and forgiving moon was absent. There was only the feeble glow of oil lamps that transformed everyday objects into hulking shadows, serving to further lower her spirits. A long sigh crept out of her.

“You’re not nervous, are you?” Lady Dundee said at her side.

“A little.”

“You’ve nothing to worry about, child. After last night, the worst is over. You weathered the presentation at court with the proper amount of modesty. I couldn’t have been more pleased if you’d truly been my daughter.”

The praise warmed Emily. At first, she’d wanted to hate Lady Dundee, but that had soon proved impossible. Though the countess did say outrageous things, she was also friendly and engaging—the ideal companion. She was as different from her brother as sweet cherries from lemons.

Thankfully, Lord Nesfield rarely joined them. He and his sister had decided it would be better if he kept out of sight most of the time, especially since he and “Lady Emma” were supposedly at odds.

“Last night’s presentation at court was easy,” Emily said. “You told me when to walk, when to hand my card to the lord-in-waiting, when to curtsy, and when to withdraw. Even a mere rector’s daughter can manage such things. But tonight won’t be so orderly. There will be more chance for error.”

Lady Dundee drew up her long gloves. “Pish-posh. I’ve been watching you, my dear. You have the natural grace and confidence that comes from good breeding, unlike some of these chits pretending to gentility because their merchant fathers have the wherewithal to keep two carriages. You were raised with the moral precepts that underlie all civilized behavior.”

“Oh, yes, the moral precepts,” she said bitterly. “Like deceiving good people into thinking I’m someone I’m not.”

“Why did you agree to help us if you find it so distasteful?”

Emily cursed her quick tongue as she averted her gaze. “I’m doing it for Sophie, of course. What else?”

“What else indeed?”

She quickly changed the subject. “Don’t mind me. I’m merely anxious about this evening. There are conventions of behavior peculiar to your station that I fear I’ll omit in my ignorance.”

There’d been so much to learn—a thousand little nonsensical rules.
Don’t say “my lady” and “my lord” too much, or you’ll sound like a servant. Never put your knife in your mouth
. Apparently, although country manners allowed it, people of high society thought it gauche.
Never overimbibe, for liquor’s effects lead to a woman’s ruin
.

She and Lady Dundee had repeated the order of precedence in rank so many times that she had nightmares about some great bishop recoiling from her in disgust because she gave a mere viscount precedence over him. And who could have ever guessed that learning the newly touted waltz would be so difficult?

“Don’t concern yourself overmuch with the rules,” Lady Dundee told her. “I can always gloss
over some error by explaining that you’re nervous. It’s only true vulgarity that I can’t hide, and I needn’t worry about that with you.” She patted Emily’s leg. “Indeed, I may have to prod you to be
less
refined. Remember your role: you’re my rebellious child. Otherwise, no man will believe you’d go against your mother and uncle to aid your cousin.”

Emily fidgeted restlessly in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position in the incredibly tight corset she’d been forced to wear, the one that pushed her breasts up so shamefully. She’d never worn a corset at home, nor gowns of such rich elegance. Right now, she’d trade them all for her sprigged muslin.

And discomfort made her cranky. “I’m still uncertain what you want me to do. Should I be forward? Flirtatious? Such things are not in my nature.”

“You can’t know what’s in your nature until it’s been tried, can you? If I understand Randolph correctly, you haven’t been much in society. You may find you enjoy flirting with men. I certainly enjoyed it in my day.”

“But you’re more flamboyant than I. And Papa always says—”

“Forget your father and his strictures. Do what you want, Emily: enjoy yourself.”

“I won’t.”

“You might be surprised.” When Emily shot her a skeptical glance, she grinned. “It’s more common than you think for people to enjoy pretending to be what they aren’t. You attended Dryden’s masquerade ball in Derbyshire. Didn’t you notice how people become different creatures when they don costumes? How they feel free to be wild?”

She thought of her wanton response to Lord Blackmore. “I did.”

Lady Dundee covered Emily’s hand with her plump one. “It’s a common response, and this is no different. Half the members of good society live a pretense every day. One more young woman acting a part won’t bother a soul, and it might save Sophie from a disastrous future.” She smiled. “Lady Emma is your masquerade, merely an amusement. It doesn’t change Emily Fairchild. And it hurts no one.”

“I-I shall try. Although if someone engages me in a battle of wits, I’m not sure I’ll be very convincing.”

“Speak the first thing that comes into your head, and you’ll be fine. That’s what I do. Everyone’s so busy trying to impress one another that honesty generally takes them by surprise.”

“Be honest in my dishonesty?”

“Something like that.” Lady Dundee squeezed her hand, then released it.

Emily straightened her long gloves. Well, at least she needn’t worry about seeing Lord Blackmore tonight. Lady Dundee had made it quite clear that this was a marriage mart, and if ever a man was set on avoiding marriage, it was him.

Ever since they’d arrived in London, she’d dreaded the day she would cross his path. It was foolish, of course, he probably wouldn’t even recognize her. Still, she worried.

But he wouldn’t be around tonight, thank heavens.

The carriage slowed, and Emily glanced out the window. Goodness gracious, there was an ocean of coaches out there. This must be what was called “a crush.”

Wonderful. Nothing like having a huge audience to witness one’s humiliation.

Now they were approaching the front of the mansion, where liveried footmen awaited each guest’s arrival. Crippling fear overtook her.

Reaching up to fluff the corkscrew curls surrounding Emily’s face, Lady Dundee said reassuringly, “You’ll do fine. Don’t worry, I’ll be at your side as much as I can, so don’t hesitate to ask questions if you’re confused about anything.” Lady Dundee lowered her voice as the carriage halted. “Remember, you’re in masquerade. You’re Lady Emma Campbell, daughter of a respectable Scottish laird from a venerable old family. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

Lady Emma Campbell. It still sounded strange to her ears. They’d considered letting Emily use her own Christian name, but hadn’t wanted anyone closely acquainted with Lord Nesfield to wonder at the coincidence that his niece and the daughter of his rector had the same one. Emma was at least similar enough to Emily’s real name to prevent her from growing confused.

So now she was Lady Emma, miraculously transformed overnight from a common nobody to a lady of the realm. But it was all fruitless, she thought, as she and Lady Dundee descended from the carriage. She would fool no one. They could dress her in the rarest satin and put pearls in her hair. They could teach her the waltz and the language of the fan. But they couldn’t make her into an earl’s daughter, no matter how hard they tried. One day she’d be found out—she had no doubt of that.

Pray heaven that she finished her task before it happened.

With casual unconcern for the sleeves of his cash-mere cutaway, Jordan leaned out the window of his carriage and called up to his coachman, Watkins, “What the devil is taking so long?”

“Sorry, milord, but there’s a cart o’erturned in the lane. It’ll take ten minutes at least for them to clear it.”

Jordan jerked out his pocket watch and glanced at it.

“I suppose we’re very late,” his friend George Pollock remarked from across the carriage.

“Yes. Thanks to you and your vanity.” He tucked his watch back in his waistcoat pocket. “I should have left you to hire a hack instead of waiting while you dithered over which waistcoat to wear. And how many cravats did you ruin before you could tie one to your satisfaction? Ten? Fifteen?”

“Probably twenty,” Pollock said blithely. Wetting one finger, he used it to smooth a wayward lock of his blond hair into place. “What good is having money if you can’t spend it on cravats?”

“You should have spent it getting your deuced carriage repaired, so I didn’t have to wait for you.”

“Relax, old chap. Since when do you care if we’re late to a marriage mart? You’re not looking for a wife.”

“No, but Ian is. God knows why he has this urge to marry, but I promised to help him. I was supposed to reach Merrington’s before Lord Nesfield and his daughter Sophie leave, and since it’s nearly eleven already, that’s unlikely, isn’t it?”

Ian Lennard, the Viscount St. Clair, was Jordan’s closest friend, and rarely asked favors of anyone. It galled Jordan to fail him now because of Pollock’s ridiculous vanity.

“St. Clair won’t mind if you’re late,” Pollock
said. “He’s not that desperate. If you don’t arrive in time, he’ll merely try his scheme on her at the next ball.”

“It doesn’t matter. I said I’d be there, and I will. I keep my promises.”

The carriage shuddered forward, and the sound of the horse’s hooves clopping over cobblestones filled the air. Jordan relaxed a fraction.

“That’s not what’s irritating you, and you know it,” Pollock retorted as he flicked a minute speck of dust off his gloves. “You don’t like having your schedule upset, that’s all. Everything must go precisely according to your plan, or you lose patience.”

“Anyone would lose patience with a dandy like you,” Jordan snapped.

His friend frowned. “I’m not a dandy, but I do believe that being well dressed is the mark of a good gentleman. Besides, I
like
dressing well. That’s the trouble with you, Blackmore. You don’t know how to relax and enjoy life.”

“Yes, I’m a dull fellow, aren’t I?”

“If the shoe fits…” When Jordan scowled at him, Pollock tugged on his impossibly high cravat, then went on in a mulish tone. “You must admit you can be a blasted machine sometimes. Your life is consumed with running your estates efficiently and running things in Parliament. Everything’s orderly; everything’s part of some plan.”

“That’s not true.” But it was. He did like an orderly life. God knows he’d put up with enough disorder as a child without having to endure it as an adult. So yes, he hated it when things went wrong simply because some fool didn’t behave in a logical or timely manner.

But that wasn’t what had Pollock miffed. The man was merely peeved at being called a dandy.

“Then there’s the way you treat your women,” Pollock went on bitterly. “I’ve never seen a man who can take a mistress, then cut her off without a thought because she erred by falling in love with him. And they all fall in love with you, blast you. They don’t realize your charm is merely a means to an end. They think you care. You always make them pant for you, then toss them out into the cold when they want more than sex from the arrangement.”

Now Pollock was hitting a little too close for comfort. “You’re still angry at me about Julia, aren’t you?”

“She’s my friend.”

“Your mistress, you mean. If I hadn’t ‘cut her off without a thought,’ you wouldn’t have the benefit of her company now.”

Pollock glanced away. “Actually, she and I have parted ways.”

That caught Jordan by surprise. “Already?”

“I grew tired of competing with you for her affections.”

Jordan winced. His parting from Julia had been particularly messy. “That isn’t my fault. She and I had a very clear arrangement: mutual satisfaction of each other’s physical needs and no more. I can’t help it if she changed her expectations. I never did.”

For a moment, the air was thick with Pollock’s irritatingly sullen silence, punctuated only by the rattling of the carriage wheels on stone. Ever since Julia, their friendship had been a bit strained, though Jordan didn’t know what he could do about it.
He
wasn’t the one suffering from romantic whims.

Pollock sighed. “I don’t understand you. Love isn’t something you turn off and on like a damned
spigot. You can’t control it as you control your financial affairs. Haven’t you ever wanted to lose yourself to love?”

“Now that’s a dreadful thought. Relinquish everything for a fickle emotion? Not a chance. What kind of fool abandons reason, good sense, and, yes, control, for the dubious pleasure of being in love?”

Only once in his life had he come even close to losing control because of a woman. Strange how he still remembered that night in the carriage with a certain Miss Emily Fairchild. What kind of madness had possessed him? It must have been the full moon, as she’d said. That was the only possible explanation for why he’d nearly seduced the wrong sort of woman.

He’d paid for it later, too. His stepsister Sara had plagued him relentlessly with questions until he’d deliberately picked a fight with her devil of a husband to take her mind off matchmaking. A pity it hadn’t taken his mind off Emily’s lavender-scented hair and lithe, enticing body. Or her fascinating way of making statements that took him completely by surprise. Women rarely took him by surprise.