Chapter 5
For once, Hart didn’t know how to fill his day.
When in London, he generally did as he pleased, either riding or driving in Hyde Park, visiting his club, or walking to the British Museum to search through historical and archeological papers in the Reading Room.
Nights were often spent at the theatre or pursuing more decadent pleasures: drinking, gaming, or bedding a woman of experience and discretion.
On occasion, all three.
When, inevitably, Hart began to feel a sense of connection or obligation, especially to a female, he would announce to Mrs. Peachey and William that it was time to return to the Continent. They were expert at packing up Hart’s temporary household and moving on.
However, this morning felt oddly different.
Drinking his coffee at the dining table, Hart found himself thinking of Emeline St. Briac.
Her irrepressible laughter echoed in his memory, and he saw again the militant sparkle in her violet eyes.
Hart set down his newspaper and frowned.
There was no good reason for this. He had done his duty, as spelled out by the girl’s manipulative father, and now Emeline would be indefinitely occupied with the challenge of obtaining a special ticket to the Reading Room.
True, Hart had agreed to continue to play the role of the cousins’ employer, but that should require only very occasional meetings. Brief, formal appearances.
And at the end of six weeks, he would go. Far away.
Just then, a loud knock at the outside door broke into his thoughts. Mrs. Peachey went to open it, and moments later, Justin St. Briac was striding toward Hart.
“Bonjour,” greeted the Frenchman, barely smiling.
Hart rose and they shook hands. “Good morning. Pardon my appearance.” He gestured toward the tailored, charcoal gray coat that he’d slung over a chairback. “I must have forgotten our appointment.”
“There was no appointment.” There was a note of irony in St. Briac’s deep voice. “However, I was sent away from Emmie’s yesterday, and I am impatient to discover what happened in my absence.”
Hart gave a short laugh and indicated that the older man should take a chair. “Do join me.”
Mrs. Peachey appeared with a fresh pot of coffee and a plate of her special blackberry scones. St. Briac selected one, cocked an eyebrow at it, took one tentative bite, and drew back with a smile. “It is surprisingly good,” he pronounced, adding, “we French are born with discerning palates.”
“I’m relieved that you approve, sir.” Hart folded his copy of the Times and set it aside. “Perhaps you will be comforted to know that it wasn’t long before your daughter sent me away yesterday as well.”
“She is not suspicious of us, I hope.”
“No. I don’t believe so. In fact, the two women appear to be very intrigued by my project. However, when your daughter discovered that one or two women have managed to set foot in the museum’s Reading Room, she became determined to obtain special tickets.”
Justin St. Briac gave a low chuckle. “That should keep my Emmie occupied for a very long time.”
“My thoughts exactly, sir. I should not need to intervene again for several days. Weeks, possibly.”
“So it would seem.” St. Briac looked thoughtful. “Yet, it could be a mistake to underestimate my daughter. She is not like other females. Emeline has a way of surprising everyone.”
Just then, William burst into the room, out of breath. “My lord, excuse the interruption, but as I was returning from your tailor, I saw the duke emerging from a carriage in front of the hotel! I ran all the way up to tell you—” He stared at Justin St. Briac. “That is, I mean to say…”
“I know!” Hart interrupted. Standing, he turned to his visitor. “Given Austell’s dealings with you, m’sieur, he must not know that we are acquainted, much less arranging plans together.”
Before he could decide what to do, another knock sounded. Hart felt a surge of panic even as he thanked Providence for the small alcove that separated the parlor from the entry door.
“William,” he whispered roughly, “greet His Grace and tell him that I have gone out. You don’t know when I will return.”
Quickly, he drew Justin St. Briac into the bedroom and closed the door. The two of them stood together, rigid, waiting until the two, muffled male voices died away.
A soft tap came at the bedroom door and Hart opened it. Will stood before him, looking troubled. “Well?”
“Although I do not care to engage in outright deception, I did as you bade and told the duke that you were out. His Grace replied that he simply happened to be passing and was not surprised to find you away from your rooms. He asked me to give you this.”
As Hart accepted the small envelope sealed with the Caversham ducal crest, he sensed the curious gaze of Justin St. Briac. Gesturing for the others to precede him back into the drawing room, he waited for the two men to turn, then broke the seal and scanned the brief note.
My dear brother,
I have been called away unexpectedly to Caversham. Seems there has been a fire in the kitchen and I fear I must assess the damage.
Yours, etc. A.
Standing alone, Hart closed his eyes and drew a sharp breath, wondering how Austell, who lacked both inner strength and monetary resources, would cope with this crisis. Then, exhaling, he put it from his mind.
Emerging into the drawing room, Hart joined St. Briac. “My brother’s appearance here this morning was a warning, I think,” he said. “I may reside in a hotel, but people will notice who comes and goes, nonetheless.”
With one eye shielded by a silk eye patch, St. Briac was inscrutable. “I take your meaning. I will not arrive again unannounced.”
Hart nodded. “When you wish to see me, simply send word.”
They walked together to the door. No sooner had the Frenchman crossed the threshold than he turned back. “I am trusting you to fulfill our bargain, my lord. Do not forget about Emeline.”
The man must be in jest, Hart thought sardonically. It was impossible to forget Emeline St. Briac, for she invaded his consciousness from every direction.
“I will not forget,” he said, “but I have an added stipulation. I must leave London in six weeks, so my obligation to you will end at that time.” Hart already breathed a bit easier knowing there was an escape route on the horizon.
The Frenchman furrowed his brow. “I suppose I must agree.”
“No doubt, six weeks will be more than enough time. Is it not my role to merely, uh, delude the young ladies into believing their income is being fairly earned? Perhaps the less they see of me, the better.”
“Perhaps.”
Watching St. Briac disappear down the hotel corridor, Hart wondered where he could go for a respite from this drama.
“I couldn’t bear to be confined inside that house another moment,” Emeline said as she and Anthony walked toward Berkeley Square. “Your visit was just the excuse I needed to escape.”
Her brother looked smart as always in his riding clothes. “I understand that feeling,” he acknowledged.
They came into the green square, strolling under the spreading branches of great plane trees, and Emeline breathed deeply.
“Oh, lovely. The air is so fresh and sweet, a welcome change from my own house.” She glanced up at Anthony.
“Our darling grandmother has sent us a very sweet cook who, unfortunately, cannot cook at all. In the kitchen, Dora burns or scorches nearly everything she touches, and the smell does linger.”
“I suspect Grandpère had a hand in placing Dora with you,” Anthony laughed. “No doubt he had little patience for such shortcomings.”
Emeline nodded even as she remembered the reason for their meeting. “Enough of this polite conversation,” she declared. Stopping on the footpath that bisected Berkeley Square, she reached for Anthony’s hands. “Tell me, have you brought me our tickets to the Reading Room?”
“Brought them…today?” He blinked. “Such a miracle cannot be achieved overnight.”
“Whyever not?” She felt outraged. “Why must everything I want to do be so difficult? It should be a very simple thing for you, as a respected member of the Geological Society, to obtain cards of admission for your esteemed sister and cousin.”
“Emmie, surely you know by now that London society does not operate according to your wishes.” She recognized all too well his dry, faintly mocking tone.
“I did all I could. The rules clearly require a written application. However, given your urgent plea, I went to the Reading Room this morning and spoke to Antonio Panizzi myself.”
Emeline knew a sense of dread. Everything she needed to do hinged on this simple ticket. If she and Louise were men, it would be provided to them without question, the moment Anthony submitted his recommendations.
“Is it possible that Mr. Panizzi has refused?” she asked in a softer voice.
Her brother put an arm around her. “It’s just that…
he was resistant. The Reading Room is crowded with men, all doing research around long tables and engaging in sober discussions.
I know it’s a lot of nonsense, but they say that it goes against etiquette to mix females into such a place.
” He paused, then added, “And of course, you made a name for yourself during your two London Seasons. Lord Fulham, who was standing nearby, spoke up to wonder why the Exquisite would want to mix with serious male scholars.”
“Fulham!” Her face grew hot as she remembered how the viscount had tried to force himself on her at the Spring Ball, two years ago. “He is insufferable.”
“Even before Lord Fulham spoke up, Panizzi was circumspect. He advised that you and Louise seek out one of the ladies’ reading rooms, where you will be more comfortable.”
“Anthony St. Briac, do not tell me that you believe such fustian!” In frustration, she made a little fist and struck his chest.
“I am but the messenger,” he replied, lifting both hands in surrender.
“Oh, how could Mr. Panizzi be so…backward?” she cried, shocked. “Is that his final word?”