Chapter Seven
After a sleepless night worrying over all that had happened, the next morning Emma made her way wearily to the stillroom to mix up a batch of Willie’s cough medicine. She’d no idea if Tidworth was still in the house—she understood several of the guests had stayed over, but was the man who’d so disturbed her tranquility among them?
She sighed heavily, then jumped in alarm as a pair of cool hands clamped firmly over her eyes. The hands remained in place as a hard masculine body pressed against her from behind and a soft voice whispered, “Guess who, Miss Hibbert?”
Her heart thumped in painful anticipation. Tidworth had come to destroy her equanimity.
She spun around, only to discover her tormentor was not her nemesis, but Mr. Charles. She put her fleeting sense of disappointment down to the fact that she was keyed up to defend herself against whatever Tidworth intended to tax her with.
Now her carefully planned speeches would have to wait.
The expression of studied innocence on Charles’s face soon stripped her of her seriousness. It was impossible to remain cross with him when he looked at her like that, and as she well knew, if she didn’t humor him, his mood could easily be tipped over into one of his sulks.
Had Tidworth said anything to him about her?
“What are you about today, Miss Hibbert?” Charles asked.
“I am making the tincture for Willie’s cough.”
“Then don’t forget to put plenty of licorice in—he’s much more likely to take it without complaint.”
“Good to know.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me if I enjoyed the party last evening?”
“Of course, sir. I trust you enjoyed yourself. I understand we were privileged by the attendance of a member of the aristocracy.”
She had to assume the name Tidworth was part of a title. It was worth a shot.
Charles’s brow furrowed for a moment, then he exclaimed, “Oh, you mean Tidworth? Yes, he’s a viscount, son of the Earl and Countess of Rossbury, but he’s decent enough. Indeed, I hardly think of him as an aristocrat anymore. I invite him to everything. He’s very well connected. I fully expect him to get me preferment in the Admiralty Office one day, or Whitehall, or some such place.”
“You know him well, sir?”
“Indeed. We both attended the same dismal prep school at Malmesbury, though I was a deal younger than he. I used to run errands for him, clean his boots, serve him his meals, and so on. But he was never unkind to me. Quietened down a lot at the end of his army career, mind you—never was the same after Waterloo. Shall I stir while you measure?”
The tiny room barely permitted two people to stand shoulder to shoulder without touching. She busied herself over the sink and hoped he wouldn’t notice her fingers were trembling. “Would you mind getting the ipecac down for me, Mr. Charles? It saves me fetching a chair. So, did your friend enjoy his evening?”
“I should say not,” Charles replied, handing her down an ancient Delft jar sealed with a large cork. “He left without saying goodbye to anyone. Something must have got him in a pet, as he’s never rude like that. Honor and correctness are everything to him. But Miss Hibbert, you wound me! You don’t ask me about my plans to be a grand gentleman in the government. Are you interested only in the nobility?”
It took a moment for his words to sink in. Viscount Tidworth was no longer at Figheldene. She could breathe a sigh of relief.
“Of course not!” she replied when her heart resumed its normal rhythm. “I was merely curious about the viscount. So he’s prone to dark moods, is he?”
“Yes. But that doesn’t matter. You’ll be meeting many more aristocrats if you go along with my plan—some even higher than he.”
She blinked at him in puzzlement. “What plan, Mr. Charles?” Was this one of his so-called tricks that Mr. Keane had objected to last night? A feeling of dread stole over her. Had she escaped one crisis only to be catapulted into another?
“Well, it’s not quite finished,” he said. “I’ve barely seen Philippa this morning to discuss it—she has a headache today and complains of exhaustion. Really, you’d expect a girl of her tender years to be up to dancing the whole night long with no ill effects, wouldn’t you?”
“I’m in no position to comment, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must take this medicine to the kitchen to warm it.”
“That wretched brother of mine! What does he mean by having a cough all through the spring? The rest of us threw it off in March, but not Willie. I’ve seen him eat more horehound candy than you can shake a stick at, but his cough refuses to budge.”
Emma did not want to be drawn into a discussion of her pupil’s ailments. She’d finish her letter to George today, and ask advice on Willie’s condition. She said, “I really must carry on with my duties now, sir.”
She turned to go, basin in hand, but Charles interposed his body between herself and the door.
The bowl trembled in her fingers. What was the fellow about?
“You’re in too much of a hurry, Hibbert,” he said, his voice very low.
She kept her eyes lowered, her expression blank. Was he planning on flirting with her, despite his father’s dire warnings? Thankfully, with the household already up and about, he could do no real damage without being caught.
Hearing his intake of breath, she raised her head to meet his eyes, trying to achieve an expression that neither invited nor repulsed.
His hand pressed beneath her chin, tilting her face up to his as his pale-blue eyes smiled down at her.
For a horrifying moment, she thought he was going to kiss her.
Instead, he scanned her face with insulting intimacy, then asked, “Tell me, Miss Hibbert, do you think you could pass for a lady?”