Chapter Three
Embleton House
Half past noon
“You both need to see a barber. Today, if at all possible. Luke, your style is appalling, and this”—she gestured at Timothy’s queue—“whatever that is . . . is . . . ghastly. You also need to shave. You cannot possibly think to attend any social event looking so slovenly.”
Many things had indeed changed in six years.
Some, however, had not. Lady Embleton, Phyllida, dowager duchess of Embleton, had eased into her late sixties with style and fortitude.
She had set aside the colors of mourning she had worn long after her husband’s death and now sported the brighter colors allowed by the ton’s fashions.
Today’s red linen gown, with its shorter skirt for walking and frills along the sleeves and neckline, insured she would be the center of any room—or park.
With her posture still ramrod straight and her graying blonde hair coiffed to perfection, her presence dominated, no matter the setting.
Timothy bowed slightly. “I am pleased to see you as well, Mother.”
Phyllida’s cheeks reddened a bit. “Oh, posh.” She held out an arm. “Then spare me a kiss.” As they embraced, she cleared her throat. “If I had not greeted you so, you would have thought me mad.”
Luke chuckled. “Or at least ill.”
“Thank God I am neither.” She motioned toward the matching wingbacks in front of the fire. “Sit down and tell me about your business in London, and I will tell you which events we will be attending so you can work around them. But first tell me how Gordon and Ella are.”
Timothy reached into his coat and pulled out a thick and sealed letter packet. “They are well, parents of two stout sons. They have homes in Boston, New York, and Charleston.” He presented the packet to her. “Ella sent this, since she did not trust me to get all the important details correct.”
Phyllida took the packet and placed it on an accent table near the settee. “Wise woman. I shall enjoy it later at my leisure. Now. Do sit.”
Timothy waited until Phyllida had settled on the settee, then sat in a wingback opposite.
Luke, unbidden, went to a table next to the door and poured two glasses of whisky from a decanter on a silver tray.
Timothy accepted one with a look of gratitude as Luke eased down in the other wingback, stretching his left leg in front of him.
Phyllida watched each motion with an amused expression. “Early for liquor. Am I that intimidating?”
Luke took a sip of his drink, then saluted her with the glass. “Yes.”
Timothy leaned back in his chair, trying to ignore the twist in his gut.
“Your letters have been rather insistent . . . almost threatening . . . which puzzled me. The Embleton lineage is secure. My brothers have all married and produced a passel of sons. There are more than a dozen males between me and the title—”
“Almost two dozen,” interjected Luke.
Timothy cleared his throat and shifted uneasily in his chair. “Which means there is no reason for me to produce an heir. So why the implied threats of ruination if I do not marry? You made it sound as if I am on the very precipice of bringing abject disgrace upon the entire family.”
Phyllida remained still for several minutes, lips pursed, her eyes roaming over every inch of his body.
Finally, she glanced at Luke, then focused resolutely on Timothy.
“When you were younger, you were rather gregarious, bounding about town as if you had no cares in the world. You left abruptly, leaving any number of disappointed women and more than one shade of scandal.”
“I was not yet twenty. And I assure you I left no woman with an untoward—”
His mother waved hand. “That is the past. But the rumors continued. Especially as you explored the world under Gordon’s auspices.”
Timothy stared at her, not completely believing her words. “You heard rumors about me. From America.”
“And India. Europe. A good mother stays apprised of her children’s wellbeing.”
Luke snorted into his whisky. “Never doubt that.”
Phyllida shot Luke an annoyed glance, then returned to Timothy. “At first, I believed you remained impoverished, supported by our cousin’s generosity.”
As Timothy had intended. “Mother—”
“Then I discovered that you had invested wisely with Gordon and some of his American companies but not so wisely with others. Especially those here.”
The twist in Timothy’s gut turned into a double fisherman’s knot. How could she possibly—“Mother—”
“Some of your wealth is legitimate and in-depth. Gordon has done well by you. But I also have learned that some of your income has built other kinds of businesses, which you should be ashamed to claim. I know about the brothel in Boston and the one in Munich. The gambling den in Bombay disguised as cricket club. And that despicable establishment here in London that Mark once owned.”
Timothy felt as if his entire world had frozen, his arms and legs encased in inescapable ice. “How could you—”
“You seem to have forgotten you are a gentleman from a high-placed family.”
“Mother—”
Luke coughed. “You left before you realized that Mother knows everyone and everything that goes on among the aristocracy around the globe. She is a dragon and her hoard is information.”
The room fell silent for several icy moments. Then Timothy took a deep breath. “So your summons was not solely about finding a bride.”
Phyllida studied him. “One by one, each and every one of my offspring has pushed this family close to the edge of scandal, if not ruin. And each time, I have guided them back from that brink. I respect even as I do not quite understand your desire to explore the world, and I admire much of what you have accomplished. But you have been too far over the cliff for too long. It is time you returned to civility before you blunder into something from which you cannot recover. And finding a respectable wife is the beginning.”
Timothy glared at his mother, his face heating, his every sensibility appalled at the dictates she had launched into the atmosphere.
She could not rule over him as she once did, no matter what her status in the Beau Monde.
She might be a dragon, but he was a man.
Six and twenty. He had traveled, made his way on his own.
How dare she start directing him again after all these years—
Luke coughed. “Do not say it.”
Timothy jerked, turning to his brother. “You do not—”
“I do because I once said it. Take a deep draw on your whisky, and I will tell you exactly what Matthew told me. Remember that every good thing that has come your way, every open door, starting with Gordon taking you in hand, has come about specifically because you are a member of this family, the son and the brother of a duke, and the son of a dowager duchess who wields more power than you can possibly imagine. You are a member of a highly respected family. Your oldest brother has the ear of the king, as does your mother. You may have made some decisions on your own that led to great things. Choices that expanded your world. But if you were not a Rydell, under the Embleton crest, those options would not have come your way. And if you are disowned, those doors will shut. Opportunities will fall away, even in America, even from Gordon.”
Luke paused, taking a sip from his own glass as Timothy downed the rest of his whisky. “Do not look at it as extortion as much as it will be taking advantage of your greatest asset. Do not fight the dictates of the family. Learn to use them.”
Phyllida shifted on the settee. “Listen to your brother if you will not listen to me. Matthew will tell you the same thing. So will Mark. Because they have learned. Your family is, as he said, your greatest asset, your most valuable currency. You have done much on your own, and you have become an astute businessman. So evaluate what is before you. Why would you risk your most worthy advantage for the sake of pride?”
A knock on the drawing room door left them all staring at each other, silent. Then Phyllida called, “Yes?”
Stephens entered. “Luncheon is ready, Lady Embleton. Should I have Cook hold it?”
Phyllida looked at Timothy, one eyebrow raised. Resignation tugged down his shoulders as he shook his head.
Phyllida stood, forcing her sons to rise as well.
“We will come now, Stephens. Thank you.” She patted Timothy’s arm, then slipped her hand inside his elbow.
“I will present my goals for you over luncheon. You should take time to consider them. There is no need to say or do anything rash. After all, the coronation is not until August.”
Saturday, 15 April 1820
The Lyon’s Den, Whitehall, London
Four in the afternoon
“I do believe we have entered the fourth circle of hell.” Elspeth’s muttered words barely reached her own ears above the cacophony of voices around them, but Sinclair snorted a laugh.
Elspeth had not expected a rapid response to her hastily scribbled message to the proprietress of the Lyon’s Den, but one had been received by the time she had finished her bath.
The one-line message—Please come at four—had included a separate page of instructions on how to find and enter the building.
They had arrived promptly, and, using the ladies’ entrance, they had climbed a narrow flight of stairs into a small receiving room where they had been met by a tall, muscular woman who had introduced herself only as Helena.
And without any further explanation, Helena had led them through a larger room filled with women dining on some of the finest bone china Elspeth had ever seen.
Not what she expected to see in a gaming establishment.
They had then entered a room filled with clusters of chairs and tables, obviously meant for casual conversation.
On the left side of the room, three tall windows overlooked a massive room below, and Helena paused near one of the windows.