Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Emma looked no different in the glass.
That was the troubling part.
Her hair was pinned neatly at her nape. Her collar sat straight. Her lips gave nothing away. No one would know Mr Stanton had kissed her beneath a church pew while a stranger moved through the shadows. No one would know she had kissed him back.
She knew.
So did her pulse, which had not settled since.
Worse, she remembered too much. The heat of his mouth. The smooth glide of his tongue. The desire alive in her veins.
It was everything she should avoid.
It was everything she craved.
The door opened without a knock. Melinda appeared, heavy-lidded, the circles beneath her eyes growing darker by the day.
“Abigail said you’re unwell.” Melinda didn’t cup Emma’s chin and kiss her nose as their mother used to. She didn’t say sunlight took most ailments away.
“I’ve a terrible ache behind my eyes.” She needed an excuse to see Mr Stanton, though the megrim was not entirely invented. She’d spent half the night awake contemplating one man’s mouth rather than a dead man’s clues.
“Well, we can’t have you moping about the house. I’ve sent her to the apothecary to collect a tonic.”
Melinda rarely paid her any attention unless there was something to gain. “You’ve invited Lord Howden to tea?” She resisted the urge to groan and press her fingers to her temples.
“Not today.” Melinda’s mouth curled slowly, and Emma wondered what wicked plan had put that glint in her eyes.
“Tomorrow, then? That’s probably wise. I don’t feel well enough to receive afternoon callers.”
Melinda grinned and clapped her hands. “Then you’d better rest and take the tonic. I’ve accepted an invitation to the theatre tonight. We’re to accompany Lord Howden to see The Sleepless Woman at the Adelphi. I’ve picked out your gown.”
The Adelphi. Tonight.
She had plans that didn’t involve Lord Howden or an evening at the theatre. Mr Stanton would be waiting outside the coffeehouse at ten. The thought of him standing there in vain caused an odd pull in her chest that had nothing to do with the investigation.
“But Lord Howden has seen the play twice.”
Melinda gave a theatrical tut. “He’s not going to see the play, silly. He said your eyes lit up when you mentioned the demon bat. The pulleys can be temperamental. He didn’t want you to miss the macabre.”
If only that were the reason. She feared he had another motive for inviting her. One that would set most women’s hearts racing, and hers plummeting like a brick in a well.
“Isn’t he thoughtful?” Melinda prodded.
“Extremely thoughtful.” Mr Stanton wouldn’t waste time with foolish melodrama when he meant to put the world to rights.
“But not sentimental.” Melinda spoke as if it were a good sign. “Practical. Precisely the sort of man an excitable lady needs.”
Yes, one wouldn’t find Lord Howden stealing kisses from his wife after twenty years of marriage. It should have been a blessing. After last night, it was more like a curse.
“There’s nothing wrong with a little excitement,” Emma said, though she’d had more than her share of late.
Melinda jerked as though a bird had hit the window. “Need I remind you how our parents died? Tangled in those stupid ropes in the English Channel. Perhaps if they’d not drunk a bottle of burgundy with their picnic, they might still be causing havoc.”
Emma closed her eyes against a wave of grief. Were it not for her parents’ hobbies and passions, they might still be alive. But what would life have been without the madness that made them happy?
“You don’t need to tell me.” She’d spent the best part of four years being reminded. She thought of Thomas sitting alone by the fire with his claret. A marriage of convenience didn’t seem so idyllic.
Melinda patted her shoulder as one might a mangy cat. “Once you’re settled with your own house and family, life will be more bearable.”
Everything was bearable with a nightly dose of laudanum.
“I’m not sure Lord Howden and I are suited.” He had a pleasant manner, but with him, she barely felt her own heartbeat.
“Nonsense!” Melinda blinked as if Emma had spoken in Greek. “He is handsome enough, though that soon loses its shine. He is wealthy, titled and quite easy to manage from what I’ve seen.”
“But his family is not without scandal.” If she couldn’t meet Mr Stanton, she would use the evening to learn whether Lord Howden’s conscience matched his manners.
“His father was responsible for that terrible accident in the mine. Has he paid the injured compensation? Has he visited the wives of the deceased?”
Melinda stared blankly. “He’s a peer. Scandal bends around a title. Why concern yourself with the poor in Staffordshire, of all places?” She stepped back. “Heavens, you really are feeling unwell. Abigail will be back soon with your tonic. Perhaps then you’ll stop talking gibberish.”
Emma met her sister’s gaze. “And if I’m not well enough to go? Will you send my regrets to Lord Howden?”
The room darkened around her as Melinda stepped closer. “You will be well, and you will wear the new gown my husband paid for. You will be polite to his friend. And remember who put a roof over your head. Certainly not our parents.”
There it was. The spite that had led Emma to Mr Stanton’s door, keen to choose any future but this one. Barely a week had passed, yet her original plan had already developed flaws, most of them tall, dark-haired and far too skilled at kissing.
“The neckline on that gown is indecently low.”
“You’ve a pittance for a dowry. A man needs some incentive to marry. For heaven’s sake, Emma, you may do as you please once you’ve taken his name.”
She could feel the walls closing in, almost smell the fusty scent of the moors, hear the cries of wicked children.
Marrying Lord Howden was no longer an option. Yet she needed to buy herself time.
“I understand. Having me here must be quite the burden.” Her sister could barely take care of herself. Even climbing the stairs took effort. “I’ll go for a walk. A little air might settle my head.” And cool her temper.
She’d take a note to the coffeehouse, cancelling her meeting with Mr Stanton. Maybe she could see him tomorrow. Tomorrow seemed like a lifetime away.
“You’ll not go out. There’s a chill in the air. You’ll rest in your room until it’s time to dress.” Melinda’s gaze drifted to the blanket box, but she said nothing about Rowton’s hat. “Don’t give me a reason to send you to Ripon.”
Emma watched the lamps of the Adelphi bloom through the carriage window and tried not to think of Mr Stanton preparing to meet her outside the coffeehouse at ten.
He would not pace or fret. He would stand in the shadows with that unnerving patience of his, noting every passing carriage, already planning what to do if she didn’t come.
And here she was. About to watch a ridiculous play with a sister she despised and a man she couldn’t marry, disappointing the only person who valued her voice.
“There’s quite a crowd here tonight,” she said when Melinda nudged her discreetly in the ribs. She imagined turning in the seat and landing a blow worthy of Mr McCaffrey.
“They come for the horrific transformation of Lekinda,” Lord Howden said. He wasn’t looking out the window. He was looking at her and the indecent amount of flesh above her neckline. “My aunt was keen to join us. She’ll meet us in my box.”
The aunt who’d needed a vinaigrette?
Good Lord. What if this was more than a theatre invitation? What if he asked for her hand tonight?
She would have to refuse, and war would break out at home.
She glanced at Thomas, who looked as though he’d rather be somewhere else, too. At least they had that in common.
Melinda feigned enough excitement for them all. “My sister is so eager to witness the spectacle she can barely form a word, my lord.” She tapped Emma with her fan. “Don’t be shy. You’re among family.”
“I shall try to hold my nerve,” she said, though after watching Mr Bellingham take his last breath, a stage bat seemed a modest ordeal. “I hear they use tricks with the lighting to create a gothic atmosphere.”
“Be prepared for the sudden flashes of fire,” he said.
She doubted anything could compare to the heat Mr Stanton had stirred beneath the church pew.
Inside, the foyer hummed with excitement, every voice pitched a little too high as patrons mounted the stairs, lured by the promise of monsters and mayhem.
Emma considered slipping away in the crush to send word to Mr Stanton. But Melinda linked arms and drew her upstairs, where they took drinks in the cramped saloon before joining Lord Howden’s aunt in the box.
Mrs Ashcombe was a slight woman of about sixty, with pale eyes and narrow shoulders. The introductions were made, though she kept worrying the clasp of her reticule, her attention fixed on the depth of the box rather than the names of her companions.
“Sit at the back, my dear. There’s less chance of that awful smoke clogging the lungs, and less chance of tumbling over the balcony when that dreaded beast emerges.”
Melinda behaved as though the box were hers and wouldn’t hear of it. “I shall need to sit at the back. I’m not sure my heart can bear the strain. Emma can sit between the men.”
Lord Howden drew out the velvet chair. “You have my word, you won’t fall, Miss Vane. It’s perfectly safe at the front.”
Safe from the beastly bat, not safe from prying eyes. Half the heads in the house turned their way. It was as good as printing a notice of engagement in The Times.
She didn’t need stage flames. Heat crept up her neck to warm her cheeks. People whispered to their neighbours. A few pointed. She felt like an adulteress, which was entirely irrational, given that nothing had been announced.
“You’ll grow accustomed to it,” Thomas whispered when the lord went to speak to the attendant. “Howden catches many a lady’s eye. It’s natural they’d want to inspect the woman who’s caught his.”
“Do you vouch for your friend? Would we suit, do you think?”