Chapter Twenty-Six
The next few days were spent in a frenzy of packing, cleaning, auditing, and letter writing. George responded immediately, saying he’d help them unpack and settle in at Bath. He also said he’d taken the liberty of buying a new coat of dark green superfine—a necessity, he informed them, if they were going to be hobnobbing with earls and the like.
A generous promissory note arrived from the Countess of Rossbury for Emma to purchase traveling clothes and for any other expenses she might incur before arriving in Bath.
She stared at the money in her hand as if it were a vicious beast poised to bite her.
Had James put his mother up to all this? Was it guilt over his appalling behavior that had prompted him? Had he remembered that Emma had lain with him that night? Had he finally realized it was she, not his angelic Belinda, he’d held in his arms in the makeshift bed?
She prayed most fervently that he did not. If he ever taxed her with it—and she hoped he was too much the gentleman ever to do so—she’d persuade him it was just a feverish dream, the sort of thing that often accompanied an attack of the ague.
Whatever his purpose, or the reasons behind his actions, the viscount had been thorough. He’d even organized the transportation of themselves and their possessions and paid for it in advance. It had never occurred to him they might not want to accept his offer—indeed, by having everything in readiness, he’d made it practically impossible for them to do so.
Emma wrote secretly to Charles to inform him of these developments, and tried to explain her motives for agreeing to them. She begged him to forget that she’d worked as a governess at Figheldene and to mention the circumstance to no one in Bath when he came to visit his Aunt Letitia.
She didn’t write to Mrs. Keane. She’d let James deal with that.
George managed to arrive the day before they were due to leave Tresham. He was looking dashing as ever, proudly showing off his new coat with its W-cut lapels and silk lining and breathing new life into the exhausted and chaotic household.
She tried—and failed—to have a private conversation with him, outlining her concerns over James’s plans for Tresham. It being July, they would be approaching the end of the Season in Bath, but activity here in the countryside didn’t stop. All around Home Farm the haymaking was going on in earnest, and it looked to be a good yield. The wheat, too, looked promising. But would any of that matter a fig to the viscount, when all he wanted to do was tear everything up and turn the place into a characterless army barracks?
That final night, the rest of the family were all so tired they sought their beds while the sky was light and the thrushes still singing. Emma lay sleepless on her bed, gazing through a mist of tears at the bare walls of her chamber. How she would miss this place! The pink and orange sunsets of autumn, the mistletoe in the orchard, and the strongly scented box hedges of the old knot garden.
How could she stand to live in a bustling town like Bath? They still wouldn’t be able to afford a carriage, so how would she be able to get out into the countryside? Would she never again be able to sit on a field gate at dusk and listen to the soft churr and liquid song of the nightingale?
She must have fallen asleep at last, because the next thing she knew, the cockerel was crowing, and her mama was shaking her awake.
The next few hours passed in a blur of carrying boxes, chasing around the house to make sure nothing important had been left behind, and saying an emotional farewell to their tenants and neighbors.
Then followed a journey Emma had hoped never to make—the journey away from Tresham Hall.
With no expectation of ever returning.
Each mile traveled was harder than the last, and she felt as if she were being torn in two. How was she ever to survive the coming experience in Bath? And how was she to cope with the fact that once these short weeks were over, she’d no idea what was to become of her?
Her mama believed she might make a good match, but Emma knew better. Her previous Season had proven she did not possess the kind of pleasing personality that prompted gentlemen to propose. Only the kind that made gentlemen take advantage of her, apparently. Even with the countess’s sponsorship, what were the chances? Especially in so short a time? She was too much of a realist to expect miracles.
No doubt, she’d end up somewhere as a governess again. So what was the point?
However, she made every effort to hide these gloomy thoughts from her parents, who seemed quite excited about going to live in the city. She must try to appreciate that. Although she saw James’s manipulations as thoughtless arrogance, to Mama and Papa his intervention was a godsend, the end to a tough period of trial.
So she pasted on a smile and resolved to make the best of the situation.
Her fear that being the Countess of Rossbury’s protégé would rob her of any control over her own life was confirmed upon their arrival at Daniel Street. Barely had they set foot in the door than a footman arrived with a note from her new protector requesting her presence. As soon as Emma had separated out her things—which the countess was adamant should take no longer than an hour—the viscount would collect her in the carriage and convey her and her boxes to Great Pulteney Street.
Their coachman had driven them past the Rossbury’s house on arriving in Bath and paused a while so they could admire the edifice. It wasn’t as grand as Birney House, the Rossburys’ country estate, but for a townhouse it was magnificent. Emma could hardly imagine herself being allowed to go through the servants’ entrance, let alone the front door.
As she bustled about in the unfamiliar surroundings of the house on Daniel Street, she wondered why on earth James was coming for her in a carriage. Great Pulteney Street was only just around the corner, the very briefest of walks. Their new manservant could probably have wheeled her few possessions over there on a handcart.
Separating out her hat boxes from Mama’s, she grimaced. The reason was obvious. The countess wanted the Rossbury carriage to be seen out and about the town so Bath Society would be reminded what august personages were living in their midst.
There was the distinct sound of an equipage drawing up in front. Here so soon?
Her stomach felt like lead. She hated leaving her parents before they were settled. And how should she greet the man who’d engineered such a massive upheaval in all their lives? She hadn’t set eyes on Tidworth since he left Tresham the day his parents came to fetch him. She wasn’t looking forward to the encounter…for so many reasons.
Curiosity won over caution, and she peeped around the shutters to watch the coach disgorge its occupant.
There was the familiar form of the viscount, the sight of whom turned the lead weight in her stomach into a flock of fluttering doves. He turned back to the carriage and—to Emma’s great surprise—assisted a small female figure down the steps.
Not the Countess of Rossbury, for she was taller. Why had James brought a woman with him? To make sure Emma didn’t rail at him in the carriage?
She smiled wryly to herself. If he thought the presence of someone else was going to protect him from her disapproval, the man was fooling himself!
Smoothing down her new gown, she tilted her chin and walked boldly into the drawing room.
James stood by the fireplace, one booted foot resting on the empty fender, his hands clasped behind his back, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders. Despite the heat of the day, his white neck linen was crisply pristine, his face fresh and smooth, framed by hair recently cut into the fashionable windswept style. With his long legs encased in tight-fitting buckskins and his light-blue tailcoat, he looked extremely dashing.
But…remote.
His gaze fastened on her as soon as she entered the room, and he stepped forward to give her a smart bow before brushing a kiss across the back of her hand.
All her bravado melted away. She felt as awkward and shy as a girl at her first public ball. Mumbling out a greeting, she kept her eyes cast downward and turned quickly to the young woman standing by his side, attempting to give her a welcoming smile.
The girl curtsied. She looked to be about eighteen, the same age as Philippa Keane. Her hair was rusty in color, and her face was smattered with freckles, quite the opposite of the current fashion in beauty. But the girl’s eyes—which she eventually turned up shyly to meet Emma’s—were an entrancing shade of green, and there was a charming air of innocence about her.
“My cousin, Miss Jemima Pitt,” James announced. “Or should I say, second cousin. Jemima, this is Miss Emma d’Ibert.”
“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,” Emma said, curtsying in return.
She was rewarded with a gap-toothed grin.
Intriguing. If James had an amorous interest in the girl—despite his denials—it was certainly not on account of her looks. Such a pity he hadn’t yet rid himself of his obsession with Belinda.
“I’m so happy to meet you and your family,” Miss Pitt said, smiling at Mama and Papa, then casting a quick look at George. “I’ve heard so much about you from my cousin. You did him the greatest favor, while putting your own health at risk.”
“Not exactly,” George broke in. “The ague doesn’t pass directly from one person to another. It’s in the local environs, usually, and can be exacerbated by damp.”
Miss Pitt flushed, and said, “How silly of me not to know that!”
James leaped to her rescue. “Don’t worry. Mr. George d’Ibert is studying medicine, as his sister has so often informed me. They both speak like walking pharmacopoeias.”
Wretched man! Emma glared at him, not at all in the mood for being teased. It had already been a long day, and there was still the trauma of being inducted into the Countess of Rossbury’s household to look forward to.
“I wouldn’t call it a huge favor, either,” Papa said, breaking the awkward silence, “since Tidworth spent barely one night with us. He was no trouble at all. Was he, Emma?”
She fought down the blush that threatened. If only Papa knew just how much trouble James had been in the small hours of the night! Feeling his intense gaze on her, she said, “No trouble. We were pleased to help.”
James must never know how he’d made her feel that night. The man was her nemesis, and she was going to keep him at arm’s length.
“I suppose we’d better be on our way,” he announced. “You’ll think us either lazy or vain, bringing the best carriage for so short a journey. But I thought to convey Miss d’Ibert around Bath a little, so she might get her bearings.”
“How very thoughtful of you,” gushed Mama. “But before you go, you must let me thank you for finding us such a charming house, my lord. You have excellent taste.”
This wasn’t going to be easy. Emma was determined to dislike James, but her parents had quite the opposite view of him. What would they say if she told them about how he’d surely behaved with Philippa, with Belinda, or, for that matter, with herself?
He accepted the praise with a polite nod, then angled his head toward the door. “Shall we?” he inquired, proffering his arm to his cousin.
Emma was just about to bid her parents farewell when George suddenly burst out, “Miss Pitt, I see you’re limping. Is there anything I can do for you?”
A shocked silence fell on the room. What a horrifying lapse of propriety! What if the poor girl was hiding a club foot beneath the long hem of her carriage dress, for instance? What if one leg was shorter than the other, and she had a built-up boot?
Small wonder Miss Pitt went beetroot red and fluttered her eyelashes a great deal as she stammered, “You are t-too k-kind, Mr. d’Ibert. I’ve pain in my heel.”
“Is it worse after dancing or walking?”
“George!” admonished Mama. “I’m sure Miss Pitt is perfectly well able to find herself a physician should she want one. A well-qualified one. We are in Bath, you know.”
George didn’t look the least bit perturbed. He smiled at Miss Pitt. “If I may be permitted to call upon you in the not-too-distant future, perhaps I may examine the heel?”
“That won’t be necessary, thank you,” James said stiffly.
Emma narrowed her eyes. Was that a hint of jealousy coming to the surface?
Good. He deserved to suffer the same fate as she.
No! Wait! She was not jealous of Miss Pitt. Or the perfect Belinda. Why, the very idea! He was welcome to love whomever he pleased. Emma was completely indifferent.
The farewells were made, then James handed Emma and Miss Pitt up into the carriage and seated himself opposite.
So much for keeping him at arm’s length. If the coach lurched into a pothole, she’d find herself in the viscount’s lap.
A vision flared in her mind of her doing exactly that, accompanied by a warm tingling of arousal.
Good heavens. She sent him a mortified glance.
Curse him! Why was he regarding her with that twinkling gaze, that upward curl of his lips—could he read her mind?
If she couldn’t prevent her body’s reaction every time he was near, she was doomed.