Chapter 10
Hart cocked a brow in disbelief. “You are roasting me.”
“Indeed, I am not. Papa wants me to seek out prospects, does he not? Sir Giles would seem to be ideal. Educated, established, titled, reasonably good looking, and of a proper age.”
Unable to help himself, Hart demanded, “What constitutes a proper age?”
Emeline waved a hand. “I can’t give you a precise number, but it cannot be an elderly roué like some who pursued me during my two Seasons.” She shuddered for emphasis. “I am thinking particularly of Lord Fulham.”
Hart frowned, quite certain that Fulham was scarcely forty years of age. But perhaps to someone young and fresh like Emeline, even Hart at thirty-three, was elderly.
“I can hardly wait to tell Papa the news.”
He watched her go off, wondering what caused her to shudder at the thought of Fulham. Had the man said something improper…or tried to touch her? A hot poker of rage seared Hart, deep in a recess of his chest he hadn’t known existed.
Emeline found her father sitting on a bench in front of a stone wall covered with climbing white roses. He balanced a plate on his lap that contained three delectable apple tartes and a bunch of succulent grapes.
“Papa, really, three tartes?” Emeline pretended to scold as she sat down beside him.
He laughed. “Do not tell your mama.” Gesturing toward Daisy the corgi, who sat attentively at his feet, he fed the dog a piece of crust and added, “Daisy is to blame. She persuaded me to take three.”
For a moment, Emeline leaned against her father’s strong shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent. She loved him desperately, but all her life he had warned her against “men like me.” Smiling, she shook her head. “You are very bad, Papa.”
“Indeed.” He nodded. “That’s why I married your mama, so you would have at least one estimable parent as a model.”
For a moment, Emeline thought of her two brothers.
Anthony had been raised with Charles until the age of ten, believing their father was Sir Harry Brandreth, who died in prison, disgraced.
After Mouette married Justin and Emeline was born, it came out that the couple had met long ago, during Mouette’s first marriage, and Anthony was the product of a shared night of passion.
The confusion the boys had felt, especially Charles who then felt isolated in the family, lingered for years.
“Oh, but you are quite estimable, Papa,” Emeline assured him now.
“Ma chère petite, loyal as ever.” He arched a brow above his slate-gray eyepatch. “Now what brings you to my secluded bench in the midst of this party?”
Emeline felt a little guilty for bending the truth, but after all, had she not learned this skill from Papa himself? “I came to tell you that I have met someone who fulfills the requirements to be on my”—she lowered her voice conspiratorially—“Bridegroom List.”
Immediately she saw him scan the fashionable guests who milled about the walled garden. To her surprise, he declared in a hard voice, “Above all, he must be honorable! I will kill the man who hurts you.” Glaring into the distance, he growled, “Slowly, with my bare hands.”
“Really, Papa!” She wanted to laugh. “One would think you didn’t mean it when you declared you want me to marry.”
He shrugged. “I meant it…but that is also why I want to do the choosing.”
“Outrageous!” accused Emeline.
In the next moment, she spied Sir Giles Peyton walking toward them, a goblet of wine in one hand. When their eyes met, he raised it and gave Emeline a tentative smile. Doubts assailed her. It was one thing to concoct a scheme and quite another to actually carry it out, with real people.
“Papa, that is the man,” she whispered. “Sir Giles Peyton.”
Straightening, Justin peered at Peyton and flared his nostrils. “He looks a dull sort of fellow.”
“You are the outside of enough,” Emeline scolded fondly. Rising, she went forward to meet the young scholar.
“Do hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, speaking in his customary rushed fashion. “’Tis a capital party. So kind of your grandparents to include me.”
Justin St. Briac rose leisurely and extended a hand. When introductions had been performed, Emeline said, “Sir Giles works almost daily in the Reading Room, Papa. He is not only an antiquarian, but also an archaeologist.”
“True, true,” the young man agreed. To Justin he said, “Extraordinary female, your daughter, sir! Holds her own with the best of us.” He quickly turned to Emeline, coloring slightly.
“Miss St. Briac, being aware of your strong interest in archaeology, I thought you might like to attend an excavation. Two days hence, newly unearthed treasures will be revealed at Amity Park, Viscount Tobias Melford’s estate.
A mere hour’s drive west of London. Select guests will gather and a light luncheon will be served.
” He bowed to her. “Be honored to escort you.”
Her eyes lit up. “An excavation! Oh, yes, I should adore it. How kind you are to invite me.”
Behind Sir Giles, Emeline noticed that two more guests, a richly garbed couple, were making their way across the crowded garden.
It came to her that she had met them both in passing, during her two Seasons.
The man, slender and pale, wore side-whiskers, a monocle, and a tall silk hat, while his wife was clad in a fashionable gown of moss green, set off by a matching green hat decorated with ostrich plumes.
They were the Duke and Duchess of Caversham, Emeline realized. Many guests turned to greet the duke, but the nobleman’s gaze was fixed on a tall figure near the arbor. Hart.
Sudden realization dawned. This man, the Duke of Caversham, was Hart’s brother!
Hart had mentioned him, but perhaps she hadn’t been listening properly.
A memory returned from a long-ago ball, when Frederica had pointed out the duke standing with his shockingly attractive brother.
She had commented on the stark difference in their looks, adding that one wouldn’t think they could be twins.
“It does happen, I believe, that some twins don’t look at all alike, but even so… ”
Turning back to speak to her father, Emeline found him pretending to listen to Sir Giles drone on about archaeology tools. “One must use a brush, you see, like the sort our cook uses to baste the fowl!”
Even as she watched, St. Briac turned his head ever so slightly, following the progress of the Duke of Caversham as he drew closer to Hart. Her father’s good eye narrowed in a way that made Emeline wish she could read his thoughts.
Hart knew a sense of dread as he watched Austell coming toward him. Margaret seemed to be focused on their host and hostess, but Austell clearly had other priorities.
This was the reason Hart hated parties. One either felt trapped in conversation with a dead bore or forced to encounter a person to be avoided.
Hart had been in both situations more times than he cared to remember.
Once, at a court function following Queen Victoria’s coronation, he’d been cornered by the inebriated husband of his latest paramour.
The man had proven to be both a dead bore and a person to avoid.
It was all so much simpler for Hart to do as he pleased, ignoring social conventions, coming and going from London whenever he sensed a change of scene was in order.
Now, as Austell drew near, he wished he hadn’t come today.
“Ah, what a surprise,” he greeted his brother with a faint smile. “I thought you had obligations at Caversham. A kitchen fire, was it not?”
Austell seemed not to hear. “What are you doing here? I thought you could not be bothered to go out in society!”
Damn. Keeping his face impassive, Hart replied casually, “I am acquainted with one of the guests who shares my interest in archaeology…and I also came to pay my respects to the legendary André Raveneau.” As long as he kept his association with Justin out of it, there was no reason for Austell to be suspicious.
And meanwhile, Hart could deftly turn the conversation around.
“But what of you? I had no notion that you and Margaret were friendly with this family.”
Austell peered over at the Raveneaus. “As you say, André Raveneau is a legend. He doesn’t care a jot for social status, yet everyone wants to know him, to claim friendship with him.
And even though his wife, Devon, is American, she’s become rather an icon here in London over the decades.
” He paused, considering. “As a duke, I felt obliged to attend.”
Even as he spoke, Justin St. Briac came into view. The Frenchman made his way toward the Raveneaus, Emeline on his arm. Hart drew a breath and watched for his brother’s reaction.
When a footman paused before them with a tray filled with champagne goblets, Austell took one and drank it a bit too quickly. “I’d forgotten that Justin St. Briac is married to the Raveneaus’ daughter, Mouette,” he muttered.
Hart watched, feeling tension thicken the air. “Has he offended you?”
“Not precisely.” His brother flushed. “You may as well know, I have had a few…difficulties of late with my…” He turned his face away from the arbor where St. Briac stood chatting with his in-laws. “Investments.”
“I see.” Hart felt as if he had suddenly stepped in quicksand.
“You did mention that you had some concerns about a loan from St. Briac.” He wished he could tell Austell that he had mended matters for him so there was no further cause for worry, but of course his brother’s pride was too fragile, and Hart’s own bargain with St. Briac had not yet concluded.
“I have a bad feeling about it,” Austell said as beads of sweat dotted his brow. “Do you know, I often wish that I hadn’t come into this dukedom after all, that you might have been the first born, the heir to the title and all the bloody problems that come with it!”