Chapter Fourteen
Heath’s sleek black carriage rumbled over the glistening cobbles of the city street. The three brothers borne within stared back at the receding museum in silence until Devon tossed his black leather gloves onto the seat in disgust, if not defeat.
“This is getting a bit ridiculous. We can’t follow Emma everywhere. She’s planning on attending a Flemish needlework display this evening in Caven dish Square. A man does have his pride.”
“Dear God,” Drake muttered. “I thought ancient pottery was bad enough.”
“At least none of you had to buy pink lace in public,” Heath remarked dryly. “And tomorrow morning she’s been invited to inspect a parish school for the children of unwed prostitutes.”
“Well, count me out on that one,” Devon said. “I think Chloe is accompanying her.”
Heath snorted. “And Chloe, as we all recall, knows absolutely nothing about illicit affairs and staying away from dangerous men. If anything, Chloe will push Emma right into Adrian’s arms.”
“Well, we cannot accompany her forever on all these forays,” Devon muttered. “I’m beginning to feel like my dowager auntie. Moreover, I think Jocelyn is beginning to suspect I’m up to no good.”
Heath blew out a sigh. “We must hang in only until Grayson returns and we have a forum to decide on action.”
“Our presence doesn’t seem to have convinced Wolf to stay away from her,” Drake said.
Heath laughed. “Perhaps he can’t help himself.”
Drake grinned at him. “Emma and Wolf. He’s the complete opposite of our sister, the antithesis of all she holds dear.”
“Actually, he’s not,” Heath said reflectively. “He’ll be a duke one day. And with a little bit of polish, well, who knows? No one would have laid odds on any of us reforming not long ago.”
“As far as I can tell, she’s doing her best not to talk to him at all,” Devon said, folding his arms behind his head. “When is Grayson due to return, anyway?”
Heath drew aside the curtain. “By tonight if the storm doesn’t worsen.”
Jane, the Marchioness of Sedgecroft, and young matriarch to the Boscastle clan by marriage, had arrived at her London residence two hours ahead of her husband Grayson. It was dark by the time she had settled her son Rowan into the nursery with his nursemaid, Mrs. O’Brien.
She barely had time to fortify herself with a cup of brandy-laced coffee before she set back out in her own small carriage for her brother-in-law’s town house.
She hoped Heath would not be home, but even if he was, it was safer to hold a ladies’ meeting there than at home where Grayson was liable to come bursting in and interrupt.
Besides, Heath’s wife Julia had called this emergency gathering. Perhaps Emma herself would attend, although Jane rather doubted it.
Julia’s message insisted upon secrecy and hinted at panic. Jane concluded there was not a moment to waste.
Indeed, Julia’s initial greeting at the door underscored her suspicions. “Thank heavens, you are here, Jane. Quickly. Quickly! Into the family drawing room.”
Jane divested herself of her cloak and gloves, following the taller woman to a private stairs at the side of the house. “Such intrigue. Would your bedchamber not offer more privacy?”
“Not from my husband,” Julia said offhandedly.
“Ah.”
“I meant—”
“No explanations are necessary, Julia. I am myself married to a Boscastle male.” And a hot-blooded breed they were, including the female members of the family, one of whom was already waiting in the candlelit drawing room.
Chloe Boscastle, Emma’s younger raven-haired sister, rose from her chair to embrace Jane.
Chloe was not unknown to notoriety herself.
In fact, she had married Adrian’s oldest friend, the dark-tempered Dominic Breckland, Viscount Stratfield, after a romance that had been sparked when Chloe had found him hiding half-dead in her dressing closet.
Seated comfortably on a tufted sofa behind Chloe were Emma’s cousin Charlotte; Devon’s young bride, the former Jocelyn Lydbury; and Drake’s wife, a past governess, Eloise.
Julia’s aunt, Hermia, occupied the French fauteuil that sat by the fire.
While associated to the Boscastles only through her niece’s marriage to Heath, Hermia had been unofficially adopted by the entire clan.
Her zest for life and penchant for trouble had earned her a place of favor.
The one true love of her life, the Earl of Odham, had been unfaithful to her years ago and was still earnestly trying to win her forgiveness.
“How is that darling son of yours, Jane?” Hermia asked fondly.
“As plump and lively as ever.”
“Always getting into mischief, is he?” Hermia asked approvingly.
Jane sighed. “Especially when Grayson plays with him.”
Hermia chuckled. “I should love to paint him as young Cupid to add to our collection.”
“I assume you mean Rowan and not my husband.” Jane took the glass of port that Julia handed her. All of the women had been tippling since late afternoon, a sure indication of their concern. “It seems I have come from Kent not a minute too soon.”
“That all depends,” Julia said. “It might even be too late to thwart our male counterparts.”
Hermia set her glass upon the table. “Too late for what? It’s only ten o’clock or so. In my day, an evening’s entertainment would just be getting under way. You younger women must have been fed on milksops.”
“I am referring to the situation that has developed between Emma and Adrian Ruxley,” Julia said in annoyance. “Don’t you ever pay any attention to me, Aunt Hermia?”
Chloe, who had been playing idly with her pearl bracelet, glanced up with an incredulous expression. “Emma? And Wolf? A situation? This is too delicious.”
Eloise Boscastle, the former governess who had once hoped to work at Emma’s esteemed academy before marrying into the family, looked aghast. “Lady Lyons and that…mercenary? You must be mistaken.”
“Of course she’s mistaken,” Jocelyn said, almost choking on her sherry. “Emma and Lord Wolverton are the most unlikely match in all of London.”
“In England,” Chloe amended merrily.
“The whole of Europe for that matter,” Eloise said, clearly defensive of the paragon whom she still held in her heart as an untarnished example of all a lady should aspire to be. Indeed, it was no secret to the family that Eloise had esteemed Lady Emma for years.
“Julia, you must speak plainly to us,” Jane said. “If this is a matter upon which we are compelled to act, there is no time to mince words. All I know is that Adrian came to Emma’s rescue at a wedding. Perhaps not in the most graceful of ways, but—”
“It is already too late,” Charlotte Boscastle broke in very quietly.
Jane drew a breath. “I see. Then exactly how does the situation stand between our two—dare I call them—lovers?”
“I would say the situation is at a complete standstill,” Charlotte replied. “I don’t believe that Emma can take a step these days without one of my cousins peering over her shoulder.”
Chloe snorted lightly. “I do remember their smothering guard myself. It’s a miracle Dominic and I ended up marrying with the four devils boxing me in. And now they’ve added Gabriel to their ranks. Poor Emma. To think she’s found love this late, at last, only to—”
Jane wandered over to the window. “You’re probably right. They’ll ruin this for her—oh, Lord above. He’s here.”
“Lord Wolverton?” Hermia asked eagerly, halfway out of her chair.
“No. Grayson, the cabal leader, come to decide Emma’s—”
A dull thunk shuddered through the wall. “Did you hear that?” Jane asked, whirling around in alarm.
Chloe examined a loose bead on the instep of her slippers. “Yes. Grayson has never gone through a door he didn’t slam. You should know that by now, Jane.”
“It wasn’t the door,” Jane exclaimed. “It—”
“—came from the other side of the house.” Charlotte leaned forward, pointing over her shoulder. “From the side where Emma’s suite is located.”
Adrian climbed up the rickety wooden ladder and swung one arm, then his right leg over the sill, grateful to that imp Harriet for remembering to open Emma’s window.
Of course he’d paid the greedy little urchin good coin for the favor.
No doubt she would still try to blackmail him into buying her silence.
Well, he would deal with Miss Gardner tomorrow.
If all went well tonight, he might even want to reward her.
He glanced around, surveying the darkened chamber. He’d landed in the bedroom, as luck would have it. A sea coal fire smoldered amber-gold in the grate. Good. She wouldn’t be cold after he’d declared his intentions and taken her to bed.
Through the door that adjoined her suite, he glimpsed her sitting in the next room on a saberlegged rosewood chaise, a book on her lap.
Her beautiful, long hair was loose, gathered over one shoulder.
Rapunzel. He wanted to twist it around his neck, his arms, his hips.
He could almost feel the softly spun strands caressing his back, his belly.
His beautiful Renaissance angel.
He moved quietly toward her. She hadn’t noticed him yet. In his day he could have sneaked aboard a ship of pirates and slit their snoring throats before he disturbed their dreams. Surely he could sneak up on the woman he desired and—drop to his knees beside her.
He walked straight into one of the potted plants on a marble pedestal that flanked the door. She leapt to her feet, her luminous eyes widening in shock.
“You!”
“Damn it, Emma.” He caught the pot of English ivy before it could crash to the ground, then rebalanced it carefully on the pedestal. “Please, whatever you do, don’t scream.”
“I have absolutely no intention of indulging in such a useless act.” She looked up slowly into his face.
“If your appearance here is in regard to those lessons in deportment again, which you desperately need, I shall refer you to a certain French count who is an acquaintance of Devon’s.
I understand he is more than happy to instruct Englishmen in the refined arts. ”
He walked her back into the chaise. “Darling, I don’t give a damn about my manners. I never did.”