Chapter Nine
The physician had come and gone when Emma began her routine the following day.
According to Julia’s report, Lord Wolverton had been awake when he arrived and had chased the man from his room.
After that no one except his valet had dared disturb him again.
It was to be hoped by the entire household that this was a sign he was recovering and would soon be himself again.
Exactly who he was, what sort of man, was a topic upon which Emma reflected as she sat down with a cup of tea in the informal drawing room with its long scrolled-back sofa and matching rosewood table.
She’d gathered three of the girls together for a lesson on the finer points of paying a social call when Julia and her high-spirited aunt appeared and asked to be included.
Emma could hardly refuse. This was, after all, Julia’s home. Practical experience in the arts of etiquette was essential.
Furthermore, if any well-received person in London were capable of distracting one from troubling thoughts, it was Lady Dalrymple, or Aunt Hermia, as the entire Boscastle family had fondly come to call her.
The robust beldame still had gentleman admirers.
One could not help liking the lively Hermia and the ladies of her painting club, although Emma had privately warned her students not to emulate this unconventional circle of older women who thought themselves past the age of propriety.
“Don’t tell me we’re ’aving tea again,” Harriet said as she burst into the room unannounced and flopped into an armchair, dislodging the other three girls who were standing patiently awaiting Emma’s permission to sit.
Emma frowned. “What are you doing here, Harriet? I did not summon you.”
“Miss Charlotte sent me out to you. I was disrupting history.”
“I don’t doubt it, my dear. Hold your tongue, please.”
“How do I drink me tea if—”
“Silence, please.”
Harriet sighed.
Lady Dalrymple examined Harriet’s scrunchedup face with an encouraging smile. “Another diamond from the coal scuttle, it appears.”
Emma’s eyes gleamed. “We make exceptions at the academy for the young and the infirm.”
“Infirm as in Lord Wolf?” Harriet asked slyly.
Lady Dalrymple shifted around in attention, a woman with a keen instinct for mischief. “Lord who?”
“Not now,” Emma said hastily. “It isn’t a topic for young ears.”
“My ears are quite aged,” Lady Dalrymple said. “Are you keeping secrets from me, Julia?” she demanded of her niece. “What is this mention of a wolf in London? I do believe that the poor beasts died out almost two centuries ago.”
Emma exhaled slowly. “Miss Gardner was ill-advisedly referring to Lord Wolverton, and not a genuine wolf.”
Lady Dalrymple might be in her dotage; she might be as wrinkled and plump as the next fairy godmother. Her mind, however, was anything but ancient. Her fingers fluttered coyly in her pale butter-yellow gloves. “Did you say Lord Wolverton?”
Emma set aside her cup with care. The elixir of scandal wafted in the air, and clearly Hermia had caught an intoxicating whiff of it. “Yes, unfortunately, I did.”
“Adrian?” Lady Dalrymple pressed her gloved knuckle to her chin. “Adrian Ruxley?”
“I believe that is his given name,” Emma said evenly.
“That’s ’is nibs, all right,” Harriet chimed in, taking advantage of Emma’s inattention to stuff a whole gooseberry tart into her mouth.
“I saw that,” Emma said in an undertone, “and I am quite revolted.”
“Well, excuse me,” Harriet said, crumbs on her chin. “No one told me we was just supposed to look at ’em. Or are they for dippin’ in this piddle here?”
“You may leave now, Harriet,” Emma said, not raising her voice at all. “Your lesson is over.”
“Do I ’ave to take another nap?”
“Why don’t you help in the kitchen?” Julia suggested gently. “Learning what is needed to run a home is a useful skill for any gentlewoman.”
Harriet stood. “I’d rather rob a—”
Emma’s eyes widened in warning. “You are excused, Harriet.”
After a moment of apparent indecision, Harriet took heed of the militant fire in Emma’s voice and made a quick escape. Aunt Hermia, however, had not been sufficiently diverted to forget the scandalous topic of conversation.
“What is Adrian doing in this house?” she asked in a conspiratorial whisper.
Emma rose. “He is recovering from an unfortunate mishap. I’m surprised you haven’t heard.”
“Well, I just got back from Tunbridge—what sort of mishap?” she asked sharply.
“I’m sure Julia will be happy to answer your questions, Aunt Hermia,” Emma murmured. “I’ve really left the other girls alone far too long.”
A silence enshrouded the room upon her departure. Julia sipped her tea, and studiously nibbled at her tart. Lady Dalrymple sat and stared at her until Julia began to squirm.
“I will not leave this house until I am told the truth, Julia.”
“Oh, really. How do you know Adrian, anyway?”
“It has been brought to my attention by one of my friends that he would make a fine addition to our deity collection. I knew his father and his aunt some years ago.”
“You are not going to paint an injured man au naturel,” Julia said heatedly. “I will not allow it.”
“This is a matter of art, my dear,” Hermia said with an offhanded shrug. “Is the man possessed of a grand physique?”
“Art?” Julia asked with a disbelieving laugh. “You aren’t deceiving anyone. You and your friends like to draw naughty pictures of handsome young gentlemen. There is no excuse for any of you. I’m quite ashamed, at your age.”
“Need I remind you, Julia, of a certain woman who unleashed upon the populace a sketch of her lover’s primary appendage as a cannon? The Wicked Lady Whitby. Wasn’t that your signature?”
Julia was beyond blushing over that particular faux pas.
Most likely the notorious cartoon of her husband’s royal scepter would be immortalized on her gravestone.
“I don’t know whether Adrian has a grand physique or not,” she said irately.
“He has been abed with a head wound, and it did not occur to me to examine him.”
Lady Dalrymple drained her cup. “I must pay the heroic man my regards.”
Julia’s gray eyes widened in shock. “You are not going to disturb him. It’s indecent of you, Aunt Hermia. It’s—”
“—none of your affair, darling. I’m old enough to be his grandmama. I shall simply offer the gentle consolation that only a lady of some years can give.”
Julia sprang to her feet. “Don’t you dare ask him to pose for your painting circle. He’s a duke’s son. Moreover, he has suffered a blow to the head and hardly knows what he’s about.”
“Goodness, my dear, you make me sound as if I mean the brave man harm. I’ve met his family, as I just told you. His father, old Scarfield, had a passion for me many years back. It’s only common courtesy that I pay his son a call.”
“Alone, Aunt Hermia?”
Lady Dalrymple stood. “Unless you would like to accompany me?”
Julia flushed. “I should like to restrain you. Short of that, however, I’ll only ask you to promise that you will not harangue my guest about posing for your embarrassing club.”