The Gentleman Spy: A Guardian/Ward Historical Romance

Chapter 13

With a frown, Emerald continued her attack on the pianoforte. Beau thought her free of accomplishments, so perhaps he would overlook her in this end of the house if he deigned to seek her out again. Notes from Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 resonated in her chest and came to life in the long narrow room. She closed her eyes and hammered on the keys with all the impotent fury she felt. A gust of air alerted her to a door opening at her back, but she remained inside the music. Her fingers moved of their own accord, punishing the black and white keys through the swelling coda of the opening movement.

‘My, my, child,’ the dowager said as she approached the instrument, her delicate applause quiet in the wake of the storm just passed through. ‘Your playing improves every time I have the pleasure of hearing you.’

Emerald flushed at the praise, despite knowing her talent extended beyond what was typical of an accomplished young lady. She’d taken to the instrument as a child, sitting on her father’s lap as he taught her scales and chords, encouraged her to improvise and follow her fingers wherever they led. When she’d arrived at Oakmoss, playing had made her feel closer to him, and since he’d passed, it was one of the few things requiring so much concentration she couldn’t think about him, miss him, mourn him. She often played until her hands cramped and her shoulders curled in so much that Lady Avon worried Emerald would develop an unsightly hunch.

‘Although,’ the dowager said, taking a seat on the bench next to Emerald, who continued to pluck at the keys, ‘your playing is typically…less violent.’

A lopsided half-smile tugged at Emerald’s lips.

Lady Avon absently ruffled through the sheets of music before her. ‘Better the keys, I suppose, than your desired target.’

‘Am I so transparent?’

‘Hardly, dear one. You’re as good at keeping yourself to yourself as any matron of the ton. My son’s return was bound to ruffle feathers, yours especially.’

Emerald hadn’t realised she’d been tapping on the same key in quick succession until the dowager’s hand settled over hers. She was at a loss for how to respond, though many words came to mind—but she wasn’t going to call Beau insufferable, idiotish, dangerous, foolish, irresponsible, or entitlement-in-shiny-Hessians to his mother’s face.

‘I’ve done you a disservice, letting you take on so much.’

‘No.’ Then she said it again, discovering there wasn’t much else she could add to her denial given the truth of the statement. She would never, ever say so to a woman who provided her not just clothing, food, shelter, every luxury she could want, but also kindness, compassion, acceptance. Nor would she share with the dowager the true source of her disquiet. There was nothing either of them could do, so why burden another with so great a weight.

Things Emerald hated included peas, long stretches of wet weather, and how at night she watched for Beau’s retreating form from her window. Twice more she’d seen him disappear into the dark, Saunders by his side. Once, he had turned, and she was sure he’d been looking up at her window, although she’d let go of the drape snatched in her fingers as soon as she’d seen him pause. She had crawled along the hand-knotted Persian rug back to her bed, not that she’d really believed him capable of seeing through the heavy velvet fabric she’d hidden behind. There was one other thing she hated most of all: the relief she’d felt when she caught a glimpse of him the morning after.

At Emerald’s side, her ladyship released a soft sigh, and her lips tipped up in a restrained, wistful smile. ‘George would be incredibly proud of you, you know, but I shouldn’t have relinquished my responsibilities so easily. Ah, save your protestations,’ the dowager said, patting Emerald’s hand when she began to object. ‘My point is that we now find ourselves in a bit of a tangle. I’ve been thinking, if you’re amenable, perhaps we remove to London for the season. It’s long past time, really. It’s just that when George passed…’ She broke off her sentence and gave one almost imperceptible sniff. ‘Be that as it may, I’ve been remiss in my duties to you. I should have taken you years ago, but my motivations have been selfish in not wanting to lose you, which is bound to happen. Every eligible gentleman from the border to Brighton will be requesting your hand.’

Emerald wondered if the disbelief she felt showed on her face. She was not a Calverleigh in any meaningful way, nor had she much of a dowry—three thousand left to her by her father, plenty for a country miss but woefully short of town standards. She suspected the Beaus of the ton would look right through her. Still, the gowns, the dancing, the theatre, and the company would be far more varied than any found in their seaside town. Even if none of that had appealed to her, which it very much did, a chance to remove herself from Beau’s presence felt like a lifeline. She didn’t trust him, but she was also drawn to him like a hummingbird to nectar. The unsettling combination of those two warring feelings made her desperate for some relief.

‘You are too generous with my prospects,’ Emerald replied, a playful lilt to her words, ‘but all the same, I’d be delighted to have a season.’

The dowager clapped her hands together at her chest. ‘Truly? Wonderful. Wonderful!’ Her ladyship sprang from the bench with more enthusiasm than Emerald had ever seen before, and she wondered if Lady Avon had never suggested a season because of her own uncertainty at Emerald’s reception of the idea.

‘Leave it all to me, my dear. March or even early April is when the season really begins, but we’ll go down early. You’ll need a new wardrobe, of course, and time to get your bearings.’

Emerald nodded along at the plans being made, unable to match the dowager’s enthusiasm with her mind otherwise occupied.

In a span of days, she’d been terrified, devastated, angry, annoyed, and now weary.

Beau was putting the entire family at risk with his dangerous behaviour and, she assumed, illegal activities—for why else would he be skulking about in the late hours, with his valet of all people? She desired answers even if she feared them and in addition felt owed some accounting for his return to Oakmoss. Since that awful night, Emerald had begun to wonder if whatever scheme he was involved in was the thing that had pulled him back, rather than responsibility or duty or family.

For days she’d tried to speak with him privately, but for a man with the annoying habit of always being around, he could not be found. The one time she’d caught him in the hall after lying in wait behind the door of the orangery, Mrs Marshall had interrupted with a pressing question from the cook and forced Emerald to retreat.

Once, she’d been certain she’d heard him clear his throat in the library, but when she’d looked inside the room it had been empty. When he deigned to appear in the study after several days had passed, Emerald had wanted answers, but she’d wanted retribution more.

She had delighted in frustrating him and in besting him during their race, but the exhilaration from doing so had been short-lived. Emerald was still without answers, and worse, a pervasive sense of sorrow continued to plague her.

The familiar feeling of anguish which had washed over her once Beau returned her to Oakmoss after that awful night had been a horrid surprise. She’d recognised the feeling on impact: grief. Grief for the man she supposed Beau to be, the one who, despite all his faults, had captivated her for years even from hundreds of miles away. Somehow, in gaining the knowledge he wasn’t who she’d believed, she’d lost a piece of who she thought she was.