Chapter Twenty-Four
Emma’s mama paced up and down in the hallway, occasionally stopping to smooth down her skirts and pat her lace-edged cap. “What on earth are they talking about in there, Emma?” she asked. “And why did they call your father in?”
Emma didn’t know, and she didn’t care. “If they want to take the viscount back with them, they’re most welcome,” she said sourly.
“Emma! It’s not like you to be so uncharitable. But you’re exhausted, and it’s making you fretful. If Viscount Tidworth is well enough to travel home today, you must go up to bed the instant he leaves.”
Emma let out a long breath. “I’m sorry. And yes, I am bone-tired. If Tidworth is to be moved, now would be the time to do it, before the next cold paroxysm attacks him. His parents will not have come prepared to transport an invalid, for all their vehicle is so grand.”
Not that she minded how miserable he might feel. Any affection she might have felt growing toward him was now completely quashed.
She wasn’t even sure he was worth the effort of hating. He’d wrapped his body around her like a lover, called her his angel—and then called her Belinda. It proved that, despite his protests, he really was a rake. To be so casual about such things, he must already have been inappropriately intimate with Belinda, whether or not they’d actually coupled. If so, it was very likely he’d done the same with Philippa. Which, admittedly, wasn’t uncommon behavior in one of his standing—for didn’t the very rich have mistresses in every county where they held land, in addition to those in London or Bath? Not behavior Emma could ever condone.
But even if it were just the fever and he wasn’t as vile as all that, he’d still called Emma by another woman’s name. After she had risked total ruin by sliding into bed with him. What had she been thinking? That, and spinning foolish, scandalous dreams about the man. How humiliating! Clearly, he hadn’t been seeing her, at all, but another. It wasn’t Emma he’d thought beautiful, or looked at with such longing.
It was Belinda Carslake. The woman he was still in love with.
How could Emma have been so taken in by his soft, serpent’s words?
Fortunately, George had instilled in her a positive attitude toward sick people. It didn’t matter whether one liked them or not, nor how they behaved. One should always remain detached and ignore all their taunts, complaints, and rudeness. And remind oneself that no patient would have said such things had they been well.
She should have known better than to believe a word he said in his delirium.
She, however, was still a lady, and in control of her behavior. “Do you think I should go out to the carriage and offer the countess some refreshment?” she asked her mother.
“Certainly not!” Mama replied. “I don’t want her thinking us brought too low for propriety. No, indeed. Send Sarah to ask her. I want her to see that we keep a servant still.”
Sarah was duly dispatched, and although she’d got used to the presence of a viscount in their midst, the countess so terrified her she could barely speak when she returned to tell them nothing was required.
“She probably thinks we don’t wash our glasses properly,” Emma muttered, glaring at the open front doorway.
“Then it’s a shame we can’t prove to her we do. Oh, but didn’t we sell our best glasses? I can’t remember. It’s been so long since we’ve had any port or claret to drink.”
“Not all sold, Mama,” Emma reassured her. “And I would defy anyone to say port is better than our elderberry wine.”
“But she’ll have such a refined palate—these aristocrats always do. Though I’m not decrying your elderberry wine, my dear. It’s excellent.”
Their conversation was halted by the sound of a door opening. To Emma’s surprise, the parlor doorway was filled with the tall figure of the Earl of Rossbury, supporting his equally tall son. James had, in remarkably quick time, got himself dressed, booted, and by all appearances, ready for the road. He was pale and looked nauseous but was putting a brave face on it.
When he saw her, his expression softened, and he treated her to his expansive smile, saying, “Here is my nurse, Papa, the redoubtable Miss Emma d’Ibert. I feel I owe her my life.”
She said firmly, “Your life was never at risk, my lord. You flatter me by calling me your nurse—I only did what any sensible person would do under the circumstances.”
“But not everyone has thirdhand medical knowledge,” he remarked drily. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t tease. I feel nothing but gratitude, truly.”
Good. She certainly didn’t want him feeling anything else, thank you very much.
She just wanted him out of her life. She wanted no reminders of how foolishly she’d behaved.
The earl said, “Let me convey our thanks to you for caring for our son. Please send the bill for any expenses to Birney House, and you’ll be recompensed directly. Good day to you.”
She nodded in acknowledgment and curtsied, but turned away when James reached for her hand, busying herself with a bonnet suspended from the coat rack.
A sharp intake of breath was the only indication of his displeasure, and when she next looked around, it was to see Papa helping the viscount into a grand coach which all but filled the courtyard. She stepped outside and stood in front of the brick porch, doing her best to look as if the gold-emblazoned coat of arms, the splendid black team of four, and the liveried lackeys were a sight she saw every day and didn’t impress her.
The countess took her leave with a courteous nod through the window. James stared at Emma, a slight frown marring his face, then gave her a single salute before turning away.
“I suppose we should be glad he’s no longer our problem,” said Mama wistfully. “I only wish the earl and countess hadn’t been in such a hurry. It would have been good to talk to them.”
“That’s a pleasure I can well do without,” Emma muttered.
“Oh dear! They didn’t collect his things from upstairs!” Mama exclaimed. “Can you run after and catch them?”
Chase after the Rossburys? That wouldn’t do at all. Emma still had her pride, and she was in no great hurry to oblige their son in any way.
“I’ll get his things packed up and ready,” she replied. “When they discover the omission they can send one of their servants back. They certainly seem to have enough of them.”
“But it’s such a long way from Birney House to here,” Mama protested.
“We can’t afford the time spent on a fool’s errand.”
This was no exaggeration. If the viscount decided to buy her beloved Tresham, there was much to do—not the least of which was finding somewhere else for her parents to live. They might as well keep the wretched man’s belongings here if the house was soon to be his.
She was so tired! Her eyes were moist with weariness, but lest Mama think they were tears of defeat, Emma turned briskly and marched up the stairs to the box room, where the viscount’s saddlebags had been left.
His spare clothing had been hung up to air by Sarah. It consisted of an excellent quality superfine jacket, a pair of linen shirts, twill breeches, and some well-starched cravats.
There was a walnut box, too, presumably containing toiletries. Curious, she opened it and discovered various brushes, a complete shaving set, and a bottle of cologne.
Cologne he’d no doubt purchased to please her—his precious former lover.
“My angel, indeed! Beloved Belinda, indeed!”
Grasping the bottle of cologne, she went to the window and flung it open, thinking to pour all the scent away. Hopefully it was exceedingly expensive, and he’d be most put out.
But as she unscrewed the top, an exotic, spicy aroma drifted up. Her mind taunted her with a vision of James, tousled and tempting, gazing up at her with those gray eyes, demanding she get into his bed.
She screwed the lid tightly back on the bottle. The cologne was making her eyes water again. She’d send Sarah up later to put his things back into the saddlebags. She wanted nothing more to do with Viscount Tidworth.
In fact, it would make her very happy if she were never to see him, ever again.