The Marriage Wager (22 page)

“We will say it isn’t true,” put in Caroline, who had moved close to her husband and looked rather white.

“Well, of course we will
say
it,” exploded her mother. “But no one will believe us. On the contrary, the more we deny it, the worse it will be.”

“We will ignore it,” said Colin. “It is not true, and we will not dignify such a story by speaking about it.”

His mother groaned again. “The notes went to the daughters of two earls and a viscount. There is no doubt they will believe it. We must
do
something.”

Emma was shivering—not with upset, but with anger. She clenched her fists in her lap. How dare the girl do this to Colin? She had claimed to love him. Could she be so self-involved that she did not realize she was ruining him?

Noticing her distress, Colin pulled her to her feet. “We are going home,” he said. “We can speak of this tomorrow when heads are clearer.”

“Tomorrow it will be all over London,” protested his mother.

“I do not see how we can prevent that,” he answered, taking Emma’s arm.

The sight of his solicitude was too much for the dowager. “It’s all
her
fault,” she said, glaring at Emma. “None of this would have happened if it weren’t for her.”

Colin turned instantly, his violet eyes blazing. “Be silent! I do not want to hear that again, Mother. Do you understand me?”

“If you hadn’t insisted on marrying her, we—”

“If I hadn’t married Emma, I would probably have throttled you by now,” Colin declared. “Leave it, Mother!”

She gaped at him. Before she could think of a suitable reply, he had turned away and was escorting Emma down the stairs and out to their carriage, which had been summoned some minutes ago. “You know there was nothing between this chit and me,” he said as they drove away.

“Yes,” answered Emma, almost absently. She was wondering if there was anything she could have said to prevent this catastrophe.

“You didn’t tell me she had approached you.”

“I… it didn’t seem important. If I had realized what she would do!”

“Clearly, she is a lunatic,” he said curtly. “Perhaps we should suggest that she be shut up in Bedlam.”

Emma said nothing. But her mind was racing. There had to be something she could do to save this situation.

“I will not let anyone hurt you,” Colin added. “You may be sure of that.”

Emma’s eyes filled with tears at the determination in his voice. Facing the loss of his respected position in society, which was so important to him, he still thought of her and defended her. She would not allow disgrace to fall on him because of their marriage.

The first shock was wearing off. As they reached home, Emma gathered her wits and began to think. Through the long hours of the night, she went over things again and again, examining every angle. Gradually, she started to form a plan.

When she finally did fall asleep, near dawn, Emma slept heavily, and she did not wake until well past her usual hour of rising. The slant of light through the partially open curtains told her it was after nine. For a few minutes, she lay in bed, reviewing her thought processes of last night, searching for flaws. Though she acknowledged a number of risks, she could not improve upon the plan she had outlined. It had to work.

Rising, Emma dressed to go out and left the house on foot with only Ferik to accompany her. Within twenty minutes, they reached the home of Colin’s mother. Ferik knocked, and they were admitted. “My lady has not yet come downstairs,” the butler informed Emma.

“I will go up,” she replied. “Wait for me here, Ferik.”

“Yes, mistress.”

“But you can’t just…” began the butler. Ferik stepped into his path like a human wall as Emma hurried up the stairs. She passed the drawing room and started up another flight. There, a startled housemaid directed her to the dowager baroness’s bedchamber. Emma stepped up to it and knocked briskly on the door.

“Yes?” came a voice from within.

Taking a deep breath, Emma opened the door. “Good morning,” she said, sounding more confident than she felt.

The baroness was sitting up in her bed, wearing a fetching creation of lace and pink silk. A breakfast tray was before her, bearing the remains of coffee and toast, and she was holding a letter from the pile that lay beside her cup. “You?” she said.

Emma took the stool from the vanity table and placed it close to the bed, then sat down.

“What are you doing here?” Colin’s mother demanded, putting the letter aside.

“I have come to talk to you about the situation with Lady Mary Dacre.”

The baroness groaned. “Such a complete disaster. I don’t want to think about it.”

“We must.”

“We?” replied the older woman, with a touch of hostility.

“You gave her a great deal of encouragement,” Emma pointed out. “She told me of it.”

“Well, what if I did?” she blustered. “She was perfect for Colin. Breeding, family connections, fortune. And she had some spirit as well. Colin was always complaining that the girls I presented to him were insipid.”

“That is certainly not the case with Lady Mary.”

“If you had not—”

“If
you
had not encouraged her so markedly, she would not imagine herself in love with him now,” Emma interrupted.

They glared at each other for a long moment.

“I know you don’t like me,” continued Emma more temperately then. “But we must work together if we are to spare Colin humiliation.”

“Oh, it’s Colin you’re worried about, is it?” responded his mother. She sat up straighter and rang the bell beside her bed. When a maid looked in, she said, “Take this tray. Can’t you see that I’m done with it?”

The girl bustled in and removed the breakfast tray.

“Yes, it is Colin I’m worried about,” said Emma when she was gone. “I won’t have people believing that he behaved dishonorably.”

Meeting her dark blue eyes, the baroness found no guile in them. “And what of yourself?” she asked.

Emma waved the question away as if it were irrelevant. “Here is what I think must be done,” she said. “And I cannot do it without you.”

As the baroness listened to the plan Emma laid out, her expression slowly shifted from petulance to dawning respect. Her unwanted daughter-in-law had truly thought this out, she realized. She had anticipated the difficult spots and made plans for those as well. For the first time, the baroness really focused her full attention on her son’s new wife. She was beautiful, no question about that. But apparently she was intelligent as well. Unlike Caroline, she had grasped the important points at once. And it seemed that she cared far more for Colin than his mother had understood. To herself, the baroness admitted the possibility—only the possibility—that the marriage had not been a dire mistake.

“So?” said Emma. She had finished her explanation, but Colin’s mother just continued to stare at her.

“I don’t like it,” the older woman said slowly.

“But—”

The dowager held up a hand. “However, I cannot think of a better solution.”

Emma sat back.

“It could work, if they will cooperate.”

“Surely they will wish to stop the gossip about Lady Mary as well?”

“One would imagine so.”

“Then you will help me?” asked Emma.

There was a short pensive silence. “Yes.”

Emma let go the breath she had been holding. “I shall see that it works,” she declared fiercely.

Colin’s mother looked at her once again. Her jaw was tight, her back straight. The look in her eyes was almost intimidating. Yes, she thought, there is far more to Colin’s wife than I had any notion of.

Emma rose. “This afternoon, then?”

“No reason to wait,” agreed the baroness.

“I will come for you in the carriage at two.”

The older woman nodded. When Emma did not leave at once, as she clearly wanted to do, she looked inquiring.

“Thank you,” said Emma with some difficulty.

Her face softening, the baroness smiled.

***

A few minutes before two, Emma came downstairs dressed in a pale green muslin dress sprigged with rose and dark green. She had had her hair dressed rather severely, and it was nearly hidden by a straw bonnet trimmed with rose and green ribbons. Pulling on her gloves, she went through the door that Clinton held open for her and climbed into her barouche, directing the coachman to the home of Colin’s mother. Once there, the vehicle paused only long enough for that lady to climb in, then continued on to a large stone house in Grosvenor Square. “You sent word?” Emma asked.

“Yes,” answered the baroness. “I had no reply, but I know they are at home.”

Emma nodded. One of the footmen hopped down from the back of the carriage to knock on the door, while the other handed them down to the pavement. When Colin’s mother’s announced herself, the butler looked doubtful. “I don’t think, my lady, that anyone is—”

“I must see the duchess,” the baroness replied firmly. “It is a matter of some urgency. You must tell her.”

With an uneasy sidelong glance at Emma, who had not given her name, the butler said, “I will see whether she is at home.” He ushered them into a parlor to the left of the front door and left them.

“Will he throw us out?” murmured Emma when the man had gone.

“I have known Frances Dacre for thirty years. Since she was only Miss Fanny Phelps. She would not dare refuse me.” But her tone was not as confident as her words.

“Come on,” said Emma.

“Where?”

“I think we had better find the duchess and tell her our business ourselves.”

“Emma! You cannot…” But Emma was already in the hall and starting up the stairs. After a moment’s indecision, the baroness went after her.

“Where is the drawing room?” she asked as they ascended.

“There,” said Colin’s mother, pointing right.

Emma opened the door. “No one there.”

“Shouldn’t we wait…?” But Emma was already on the next flight of steps. “Frances has a sitting room next to her bedchamber,” the baroness remembered.

“Good,” said Emma. “We’ll try that. Which way?”

“Emma, this is not at all the thing. What are we to say to her when we come bursting in?”

“I won’t sit quietly with folded hands and then be asked to leave,” she replied. “Or wait for Colin to be whispered about and laughed at by all his friends.”

“Yes, but—”

“If you do not wish to come with me, just tell me where to go.”

Something in her tone made the baroness draw herself up. “This way,” she declared, leading.

They reached a closed door farther down the hall just as the butler came out of it. “What are you doing here?” he exclaimed, profoundly shocked. “I put you in the parlor. You cannot—”

“What is it, Ellis?” called a voice from inside the room.

On a deep breath, the baroness pushed past the butler, saying, “It’s me, Frances. I simply must speak to you.”

Emma slid into the room behind her, quickly taking in the pleasant peach-colored walls and hangings, the comfortable furniture. The Duchess of Morland sat at an exquisite escritoire beside the window in the midst of writing a letter. She was a small, spare woman with blond hair that might once have been as bright as her daughter’s and alert blue eyes. Just now, she looked surprised and annoyed. “Catherine,” she said. “I cannot, really cannot bear to see you just now.”

“I’ve come to help,” insisted the baroness.

“There’s nothing to be done,” was the reply. “I’m taking Mary into the country until this—”

“You mustn’t do that,” interrupted Emma.

The duchess turned to stare at her, suddenly haughty.

“My son’s wife,” murmured the dowager baroness, and the duchess’s expression hardened.

“Please listen to me,” begged Emma. “You mustn’t run away. We can set this right, if we go about it correctly and work together.”

The duchess looked at Colin’s mother, who nodded. “She has a good idea,” she confirmed.

Their hostess drummed her fingers on the top of the desk as she carefully examined Emma. “Very well,” she said crisply. “Tell me.”

“It was in that wretched little village on the mountainside,” said Major Laurence Graham. “You know the one. Don’t recall whether it was in Portugal or Spain. I’d lost track by that time. But the streets were damned precipices and bumpy as washboards.”

“The place where we sat out the winter storms?” inquired Captain Sir Richard Clarke from across the dining table.

“That’s it. Remember we had the big snow, and Snodgrass got hold of one of those tin baking sheets from the cook tent and went sliding down the main street sitting on it. Nearly rattled his teeth out of his head, and broke his fool arm, too, when he couldn’t stop at the bottom.”

“He was going so fast he killed a chicken that ran into his path,” recalled Colin.

Graham, who had been drinking deeply from his wineglass, sputtered and nearly choked. “That’s right. We ate the bird that very night. Gave him a final salute before we carved. Casualty of war.”

“We paid five times what it was worth for that stringy old rooster,” complained Sir Richard.

“Aye,” agreed Graham. “But it was a bargain for the laugh Snodgrass gave us.”

A shadow seemed to pass over the convivial table. All three men lost their smiles for a moment, and looked suddenly older and tireder. The remains of the roast, the crumpled napkins, the half-empty bottle of claret lost their festive air and became scattered detritus ready for the trash heap. The bustle and hum of Colin Wareham’s elegant club dining room—the rich draperies, the warmth, the glow of candlelight—faded into the background. And the bone-chilling cold and endless fatigue of the battlefield extended icy tendrils into the group.

“Dead these three years,” said Sir Richard quietly.

Major Graham, who had had quite a bit of the hearty red wine, thrust out his glass. “Here’s to Jimmy Snodgrass,” he declared thickly. “And all the others, too. Every man jack of them, who ought to be here with us now.”

In silence, they drank. Colin gazed at his former companions, taking in the changes that time and hardship had made in their faces since he met them six or so years ago. They were far from old, yet compared to the men who surrounded them in this room, they looked hard and grim and weather-beaten.

When Graham had suggested this reunion dinner, Colin had been a little reluctant. As he had noticed at the wedding, seeing old comrades from the army was a sharp reminder of the bad times as well as the good. But he knew these men better than anyone else in his life, and he could not refuse the invitation. It was a strange bond, he thought now. He had never met their families, or learned much of their early years. But the things they had been through together knit them closer than an entire shared childhood could have done. He remembered a battlefield where he and Graham had both lost their mounts in heavy fighting. They had stood back-to-back in the bloody mud and wielded their sabers through an endless carnage, until the lines had at last drawn apart and they had been able to stagger back into camp, supporting one another, and collapse, exhausted, on the cold earth by the fire. Nothing could erase that sort of connection.

Still, it was damned difficult to see his own bleakness mirrored in their faces, to watch their mouths draw into thin lines when certain words were used. It made the melancholy even more palpable. It was like the nightmares, he thought—insistent reminders of a past that would never go away. And yet, in the last few weeks, the power of the dreams seemed to be diminishing a bit. “I heard Jennings’s wife had a son,” he said, willing the mood to lift.

Sir Richard brightened. “Did she? An heir for the crumbling acres, eh?”

“He called them that, but I understand it’s a tidy little estate. And very good prospects from his wife’s father,” put in Major Graham.

The cloud passed by. Colin refilled their glasses with the last of the claret.

“You’ll be setting up your nursery before we know it,” Graham said to him. “A real beauty you’ve got yourself. I said so at the wedding.”

“Repeatedly,” agreed Sir Richard.

“Well, she is. Do you deny it?”

“Not me, old boy. Colin’s a lucky man. It almost tempts one to follow in his footsteps.”

“Who’d marry you?” mocked Major Graham.

Sir Richard, whose engaging homeliness had never hindered him with the ladies, merely grinned.

“There he is!” exclaimed a tipsy voice behind them. “Just the man we were speaking of. Hi, Eddie! Here’s St. Mawr.”

Several diners began to converge on their table from different directions. One of them staggered and slumped onto a seated guest, who pushed him off with a frown. Colin cursed softly under his breath. None of those approaching were men he liked, and all were chiefly known for the extremes of their wardrobes and their propensity to gossip.

“St. Mawr!” A heavy hand dropped on Colin’s shoulder.

They had made his presence a focus of attention for everyone in the room, he thought with gritted teeth. “Steyne,” he acknowledged tersely.

“Man of the hour, eh?” declared the newcomer. The scent of brandy wafted over the table, carried on his breath. “Never knew you were such a one for the ladies, old man.”

“Got to watch the quiet ones,” said one of his companions in a slurred voice. “Always up to something on the sly.”

“Got them dying of love for you,” giggled Steyne. “Or nearly. Morland’s daughter is recovered, they say.”

“A sad misunderstanding,” Colin managed. His fists were clenched under the table.

“That wife of yours must be a saucy little piece, to lure you away from a dowry that big,” laughed Steyne. He leaned down to speak confidentially. “A widow, eh? No green girls for you. She knows a thing or two about keeping a man satisfied, I suppose?”

Blood slammed into Colin’s temples, and molten rage gripped all his limbs. His vision reddened. Before he could think he was on his feet and had somehow gotten Steyne’s throat between his fingers. The sensation as he squeezed and watched the man’s face darken and eyes bulge was enormously gratifying.

“Here,” babbled one of Steyne’s companions ineffectually. “Here, now.”

Colin had a vague impression of men rising from tables, of voices raised. But all he could really see was Steyne’s purpling features and the fear in the man’s close-set little eyes.

“Colin.” Someone tugged one of his arms, but he resisted.

“Colin, lad.” Someone else had the other arm. The two of them were pulling him off Steyne. He struggled.

“Come along,” added Sir Richard. “Let go. There you are.”

Regaining his senses, Colin let his hands drop to his sides.

“No need for a public brawl,” Major Graham assured him. “We can easily find an excuse for you to call this numbskull out. And you can run a sword through him without breaking a sweat.”

Steyne, who had been gasping and sputtering and holding his bruised throat, started to cough at this. “Apologize,” he croaked, beginning to back away. “Meant no offense.”

“Great fuss over nothing,” chimed in one of his friends. He took Steyne’s arm and urged him off. “All a mistake,” he added.

The pair stumbled, but recovered quickly.

“Heard him incorrectly,” jabbered the friend. And then the whole group of intruders turned and fled.

Sir Richard eased Colin back into his chair. He turned a blandly threatening gaze on the crowd in the dining room, who suddenly found their dinners of interest once more.

“Worm,” muttered Graham. “Like to set him down before a French cavalry charge and watch him disgrace himself.”

“All right now?” asked Sir Richard. He poured wine from his own half-full glass into Colin’s empty one and offered it to him.

Colin waved it aside. “I’m fine,” he replied rather irritably.

“Are you?” Sir Richard examined his face. “Not like you, to fly off like that.”

It wasn’t, Colin thought. He had been known throughout his regiment for being slow to anger. They had called on him to settle disputes and intervene in quarrels. His men had relied on him to be even-tempered and coolheaded.

“Fellow deserved it,” muttered Graham. He gestured peremptorily at the waiter and ordered another bottle of the claret.

Something had snapped when that idiot, who really didn’t matter in the least, Colin acknowledged, had made slighting remarks about Emma. It had been intolerable.

“We could go after him,” suggested Major Graham. The wine arrived, and he filled his glass. “Give him the thrashing he deserves. Saber’s too good for him!”

“Do be quiet, Laurence,” said Sir Richard.

Colin waved them both off. “I’m fully recovered,” he said. “Steyne’s not worth thinking about. Everyone knows the man’s a fount of malice and half-truths.”

“There you are,” said Sir Richard, obviously relieved.

“Ought to rid the city of vermin like that,” muttered Graham. But he was only fulminating by this time, and all of them knew it.

“Let us have another glass and forget the incident,” said Colin. “And then I must be on my way.” He had an intense, somewhat irrational, need to get home. He wanted to see Emma, to speak to her and make sure all was well. Senseless, he admitted to himself, but well-nigh irresistible.

“To old friends,” said Sir Richard, raising his goblet.

They echoed him and drank.

***

Half an hour later, Colin stood in the doorway separating his bedchamber from his wife’s and watched her brush her hair. It was like a veil of silver gossamer falling around her shoulders, he thought. She wore a low-cut nightgown of dark blue silk and cream lace. Her skin glowed. Everything about the room—the delicate objects, the light, sweet scent, the roses on the mantelshelf—was new to his life, filling some of the yawning emptiness that the war had left behind.

Following the mesmerizing movement of her arm, he felt an unfamiliar tightness in his chest. It was not desire, though he was certainly feeling that as well. It was not fear. That he knew only too well from the battlefields. And he was not afraid; he had no doubt he could protect Emma from anything that might come. No, it was more amorphous, a new emotion. He could not define, even to himself, its nature. The uncertainty made him uneasy, and he brushed it aside. “Did you have a pleasant day?” he asked, moving into the room.

Emma turned to smile at him. “Hello. You’re earlier than I expected. How are your friends?”

“Much the same,” he answered. He came forward and put his hands on her shoulders, meeting her eyes in the vanity mirror. Emma put down the hairbrush. “Anyone bothering you with this silly gossip?” he asked.

Emma shook her head, setting the candlelight dancing in her hair. “You?”

He ignored the question, fervently hoping that no one would be crude enough to tell her of the incident at the club tonight. “A lovely gown,” he commented.

Emma’s smile grew impish. “It arrived today. Rather expensive, I’m afraid.”

He smiled back. “Worth every penny.” He bent to kiss her neck just where it curved into her shoulder, and there was a knock at the door. “What the devil?” said Colin, straightening.

Emma met his inquiring glance with a shake of her head.

“Yes?” snapped Colin. “What is it?” Emma drew a wrapper around her shoulders.

The door opened to reveal Ferik, in all his giant duskiness, carrying a tray on which rested a decanter and two glasses. “I heard you come in, lord,” he said. “I was listening for you. I have brought you brandy.”

Colin simply looked at him. Emma closed her eyes and shook her head.

“You drink brandy in the evening,” added Ferik with a good deal of satisfaction. “I have noticed this.” He carried the tray in and set it on a small table in the corner.

“Yes, sometimes,” Colin allowed. “But I did not call for any tonight.” He was eyeing the huge man with puzzlement.

“You could not,” replied Ferik complacently. “Mr. Clinton is asleep. The others are asleep. But me, I do not sleep.”

“Not at all?” wondered Colin skeptically.

“Not as long as my lord and my mistress wake,” he said. “And there is any service I may perform for them.” Clasping his hands on his chest, he bowed deeply to them.

Colin watched this performance with fascination.

“Thank you, Ferik,” said Emma. “We won’t need anything else tonight. You may go to bed. Really.”

Ferik shook his head. “I shall not sleep for a long time,” he told Colin. “You may call me if you wish for anything at all.”

“I shan’t need you,” Colin assured him.

Ferik’s massive shoulders rippled in a shrug. “Who knows what may come?” he intoned. “I always await your commands, lord.” He bowed again, then backed out of the room, shutting the door as he passed through it.

“What the devil was that about?” exclaimed Colin.

Emma’s laughter escaped in a sputter. “He is trying to win your favor,” she explained.

“My…?”

“And to discredit Clinton, so that he may have his place.”

“As butler!” He imagined Ferik opening his door and greeting visitors, and grimaced.

“Well, as head of the staff,” said Emma.

Colin frowned. “Clinton has been with me since I first set up my own establishment. There is no possibility…”

“I know. I have told Ferik over and over, but apparently he does not believe me. Intrigue is the rule where he comes from, you know. Every servant is always plotting against the others.”

“Well, he cannot do so here.”

“I have told him,” Emma repeated.

“Perhaps I had better tell him as well.”

“Yes, why don’t you,” she agreed. “He might listen to you.”

“You don’t sound confident.” Amusement was beginning to tinge Colin’s voice now.

“Well, Ferik is very… unpredictable.”

“Is he?” Colin looked haughty. “If he interrupts us here again, he will discover that I am very predictable indeed, and not very forgiving.” He wondered whether to tell her about Great-Aunt Celia’s opinion of Ferik, and decided against it. “Would you like to go riding in the morning?” he added instead. He was thinking of Cornwall and their rides there.

Emma flushed. “I… I have an engagement,” she had to reply, thinking of the plan she was setting in motion.

“Too bad.”

Emma suffered a sudden attack of uneasiness. “Colin?”