"Precisely what I was thinking," Adam said. "Given Miss Hastings' propensity for wailing, I didn't want to bring up the subject until after I could calm her down. But I intend to look into the business."

"Shady dealings, I should say."

"Had Miss Hastings not been there at the solicitor's establishment, I would have torn into him."

"He sounds like a bloody idiot."

"He did let us see the revised will."

"I doubt that was ethical."

"She was one of the beneficiaries."

Nick shrugged. "I'll give him that."

"Before I bring in old Emmott," Adam said, "I think Miss Hastings and I will poke about the Ceylon Tea Company."

Nick's brows hiked. "Then you're going to share your suspicions with the lady?"

"She may look young—younger than she is—but she's not without intelligence. Once she calms down, she'll begin to question the validity of the new will."

Nick regarded his brother with an amused expression. "Does this mean the bank will be void of your presence for three straight days?"

Adam thought for a moment before he answered. "I suppose it does. I do have a very capable clerk."

"Does this mean you're not going to get foxed tonight?"

Why was it his older brother always managed to sound like a scolding father when he was only a year older than Adam? "I suppose it does. I may not be in love with Miss Hastings, but I have a new interest, and that is to take care of this young woman."

Nick folded arms across his chest. "Exactly as I said. Miss Hastings will be good for you."

* * *

"Let's begin in the morning room," Lady Fiona said.

Like a glutton with food, Emma devoured all the sensory details which flashed before her on the way to the morning room. Glittering crystal chandeliers, ablaze with hundreds of candles, suspended from heavily decorated ceilings far above. The floor of carrara marble upon which they tread was bordered with sienna marble. The massive arched Palladian windows, pedimented doorways, and gilded pilasters spoke to the classical influences that governed this amazing house.

The morning room—the smallest chamber she'd seen here—was all scarlet and gilt. Even though it was not being used this evening, a fire blazed in the hearth. Everything she saw bespoke the finest quality. The draperies and upholstery were of silk, and she wondered if the gilt cornices over each of the chamber's three windows were of real gold.

And if all these beautiful rooms and all their nearly priceless contents weren't enough to dazzle, the elegant Lady Fiona mesmerized Emma with her melodious voice, fair beauty, and impeccable dress. Emma was compelled to stare at her beautiful hostess. Her flawless face was surrounded by artfully arranged hair of pale blond, and her dress of cerulean blue was surely the most handsome dress Emma had ever beheld. Not only did it fit to perfection, the hand that had sewn the thin muslin gown was also perfect.

Emma found herself wondering if such innate good taste came naturally to those from aristocratic families, or had it come after the lady wed one of the richest men in the kingdom. Adam had told her that his money could make Emma something quite above the ordinary (she most certainly knew herself to be ordinary), but she would never be able to compare favorably with the beauty of Lady Fiona.

When they went back to the home's massive central hall, Emma finally got the opportunity to tilt her head and observe the celestial ceiling.

"Nick brought in an Italian to paint this ceiling," Lady Fiona said.

Emma wondered how the artist had managed to paint such a magnificent scene above his head. Had he lain down? Nymphs and seraphs lazed by a vivid waterfall which sprang from a verdant hill.

The two women then mounted a terrazzo staircase that was wide enough for five to walk abreast. She wondered, too, if its banister was constructed of real gold. The first chamber they came to on the next floor was what Lady Fiona called the Blue Salon. Pale blue silk damask covered the walls, and a thinner silk of the same shade draped the windows, while the furnishings were upholstered in the same blue, only in a heavy silk brocade. All furniture was gilded French.

"This is lovely," Emma said. It was truly more lovely than any room she had ever seen.

"We spend a great deal of time here, and as you can see, there's room for many people. I will be so happy for you to marry Adam and come play whist with us here. You do play?"

Emma nodded. "I can play, but I will need to gain more experience before I could be truly competitive."

Lady Fiona took Emma's hand, grinning. "Now I must show you our most famous chamber." She led Emma down the corridor lighted by gilded wall sconces and came to a stop in front of a closed door. "This is also the smallest chamber." She opened the door and stood back, beckoning Emma to enter.

A lone candle rested on a slender wall shelf to illuminate a wooden box on the floor. A large white bowl was centered in it.

"This is really the most clever invention," Lady Fiona said. "There's no need for servants here. Fresh water is piped into the bowl, and afterward . . . it's swept away and refilled with clean water."

Emma stared at the contraption for a moment. "A pity it's not a bit higher. It would be awfully difficult to wash one's face in that bowl without contriving to get down on the floor."

Lady Fiona burst into laughter.

Oh, dear, what had Emma said wrong?

"Forgive me for laughing," the lady said, though she made no effort to wipe the smile from her face. "It's just that the notion of one washing one's face in there is funny—though it shouldn't be."

"Pray, my lady, why is it funny? Why should it not be funny? I do not understand."

"I'm sorry. I did not properly explain our water closet." Lady Fiona's ivory cheeks coloured. "One actually sits over the bowl . . ."

All of a sudden, Emma understood. Then she began to laugh at the notion of one washing one's face there. All the while, she nodded. "I do understand. It is a frightfully clever contraption. So you call this a water closet?"

The lady nodded.

"So it's actually a . . . waste eliminator."

"Indeed." Lady Fiona took her hand again. "Permit me to show you our bedchambers. Only family members can see these."

Emma thought each of their set of chambers resembled their owners. Nick's royal blue rooms were masculine, solid, and tasteful. Just like him. And Lady Fiona's ivory chambers exuded her elegance and femininity.

Lady Fiona lingered in her chamber for moment. "Please don't be offended, my dear Emma, but I thought perhaps you might like to wear some of my dresses until yours arrive. I'm sure your lovely muslin dress was perfect for Upper . . .?"

"Barrington."

"But it's not quite smart enough for London. I would, of course, have my maid cut them down for you, since you're smaller than me."

"I couldn't ruin your dresses."

"These would be last year's. I was going to give them away, anyway."

A smile lifted Emma's face. "I've always hated sprigged muslin. I would be delighted to accept your kind offer."

For the next twenty minutes Lady Fiona, along with her maid, showed Emma the dresses, and the maid took her measure. "I will have them ready for you tomorrow."

"Now let's look at the chamber where you'll live until you're officially the next Mrs. Birmingham. It used to be Verity's room. That's Nick's and Adam's only sister. She's now Lady Agar and no longer stays here when she's in London because they have Agar House." Lady Fiona shrugged. "They spend little time in the Capital as they prefer living in Yorkshire."

From there, they mounted the stairs to the top floor, where Lady Fiona proudly showed Emma the huge turquoise ballroom that took up the entire top floor of their house. "We presented Verity, here. Several hundred attended that night."

Emma would loved to have been there, but only as a spectator, not a participant. She had no desire to participate until she was assured she would not embarrass herself.

They finished up the tour in the library where the brothers had been talking. Both rose when the ladies entered the chamber.

* * *

The bedchamber Lady Fiona assigned to Emma was even more beautiful than the one at Mr. Birmingham's house. It was a swathed in emerald silks—even on the walls—and all the furniture was gilded.

Dear Adam had her portmanteau sent around so she could claim her own necessities. After she dressed in night clothes and climbed upon the big, canopied bed, she had time to reflect on the most important day of her life. It was difficult now to remember the raw hurt that sliced through her when Mr. Wycliff told her she was not Uncle Simon's heir, when he’d disclosed Aunt Harriett’s death. She'd sat there before the solicitor's desk feeling as if the life had been strangled out of her, unable to utter a single word.

How grateful she had been to Mr. Birmingham . . . Adam, she thought reverently, for being her voice.

And how exceedingly grateful she was to him for what came afterward. His stature grew even more when he offered himself as her savior. For that is what he was. Her savior.

The drunken man she'd met the previous night bore no relationship to the commanding, kind-hearted man he was today. Even though she had only known him only four-and-twenty hours, and even though he might be a heathen, she believed she was falling in love with him.

It saddened her to know she would not see him the following day. He would be getting the special license for their marriage and tying up unfinished matters at his bank. Then, she thought with an explosion in her heart, they would marry the next day.

Even were he not vastly rich, she would have been drawn to him. It wasn't just his extraordinary good looks that attracted. It was the man's selflessness and generosity, his altruism. What woman wouldn't fall in love with him?

The day that had begun so badly had turned into the happiest day of her life. What fun it had been to be fitted for beautiful ball gowns, lovely bonnets, and dazzling jewels. She felt like a waif who'd learned she was a princess.

Even the nervousness that had assaulted Emma when she first faced Lady Fiona soon evaporated under that lady's friendly ways. Repeating memories of the day's occurrences prevented Emma from sleeping. Her thoughts dwelt on all of it.

Guilt assailed her, too. Were she truly altruistic, she would not have accepted Adam's offer. But she was far too selfish to deny herself. Instead, she assuaged her conscience by telling herself that marrying her would be good for him. After two consecutive drunken nights, he stayed sober tonight.

She had been able to divert his thoughts from Maria. If only she could purge his mind of that horrid woman!

* * *

As he stood before the altar at St. George's, Miss Hastings' tiny hand in his as she vowed to be his wife, Adam felt as if he were in a dream, a dream steeped in her light rose fragrance. This wasn't how his wedding day was supposed to be. He'd always thought he would marry a beauty with whom he'd fallen in love. Emma was not a beauty (at least she hadn't been when he'd proposed, but she looked quite fetching today). He was not in love with her. And he wasn't even going to bed her.

His tinge of regrets, though, wasn't as strong as his need to take care of Emma. From the first night he'd seen her lugging that giant portmanteau behind her frail little body, he'd felt the need to look after her.

Adam had never been one to sit idly by when he possessed the capabilities to solve problems. He preferred to lead. In Emma's case, he liked to be the one to make her dreams come true.

When the ceremony was concluded, he and Emma turned around to see Nick and Lady Fiona and William along with Lady Sophia and her brother, Lord Devere, gathered there to celebrate this special occasion. Seeing his family there made the wedding seem real.

He was now a married man. Emma was no longer Miss Hastings. She was now Mrs. Birmingham.

* * *

Adam had lied. His brother William was not the most handsome Birmingham brother. But, she had to own, he was very handsome, and just like Adam, he was kind. He and his Lady Sophia, whose beauty Adam had neglected to praise, had insisted on hosting their wedding breakfast, and nothing could have been nicer. Even the flowers—masses of white narcissus—were perfection.

Emma could not have hoped for a better reception from her bridegroom's family. Thankfully, the ivory dress Lady Fiona had cut down for her made a lovely wedding dress. She no longer felt like a waif. In fact, when she peered into her looking glass, she thought no one would take her for the imposter she was. She actually looked as if she belonged in the powerful Birmingham family. (Though she was not so pretty as the fair Lady Fiona or the dark-haired beauty, Lady Sophia.)

With the addition of Lord Devere, who she learned had been appointed as her temporary guardian, there were seven attending their wedding breakfast in William and Lady Sophia's pale yellow morning room, so she was taken aback when William kept playfully addressing his wife as Isadore. Not wanting to seem too provincial, she refrained from questioning them. She would ask Adam later.

"I am so happy that Adam's wed," Lady Sophia said. "Won't it be great fun for all of us to start our nurseries together?"

Emma diverted her gaze, her cheeks hot.

Adam, too, avoided eye contact with anyone as he directed a great deal of attention to carving up the piece of ham on his porcelain plate.

"My dear wife," William teased, "it is not good manners to speak on such topics. One would think an earl's daughter would not be in such want of good manners."

"You, Mr. Birmingham," Lady Sophia responded lightly, "are not to chide your wife in public. What a shame your pious parents failed to teach you proper manners."

Nick, as the oldest and as was his custom, attempted to preside over the table even if this was not his house. "Enough." He glared at William. "I do miss Verity being here."

"And Mama, too," Adam added, turning to his bride. "Mama is at present in Yorkshire at our sister's home. Verity has been brought to bed of a son."

"The future Earl of Agar," Lady Sophia murmured.

"Perhaps one day, my love," Adam said to Emma, "I will take you up North to meet Verity. None of them spends much time in London."

As Emma sat there with her husband's siblings, it was impossible not to see how deeply in love each of his brothers and their spouses were. "Is she, I wonder, besotted over her husband?" she asked. Oh, dear. More heat darted to Emma's cheeks. What a stupid remark. They all must think her a great ninny.

But none of them looked at her as if she'd just broken a fine Sevres vase. In fact, it was as if they understood the transition of her thoughts.

It was her husband who put her at ease. He regarded her with an amused expression as he nodded. "Yes, all of my siblings do act rather besotted over their mates, do they not?"

She nodded shyly.

The two other couples burst out laughing. Lady Sophia brushed a kiss on William's cheek. They were far more demonstrative than stiff Nick and his prim Lady Fiona, but Nick's smoldering gaze when he beheld his wife was more telling than a folio of love poems.

The very contemplation of these couples' love sent her heart racing, her stomach fluttering. I wish I were truly Adam's wife.

After the breakfast had been eaten, Adam thanked their hosts. "We must go."

"You did not say where your wedding trip's to be," Lady Fiona said.

Adam shrugged. "Perhaps later we shall travel to the far north to visit Agar and Verity. For now, we stay in London. There is much that demands our attention."

Once they were in his coach, she felt even more exuberant. How thrilled she was to be alone in the coach with him, to have him sitting at her side, holding her hand. "What did you mean our attention? You're not racing to get back to that bank of yours?"

"I set my affairs there in order yesterday. What needs to be done there can be handled by my clerk." He drew a breath. "I thought you and I would pay a visit today at the Ceylon Tea Company."

She peered up at him from beneath lowered brows. "Then you're thinking what I'm thinking?"

He nodded, squeezing her hand. "As husband and wife, we share everything, Emma. All I have is yours. And all your cares are mine. You must feel free to speak with me upon any subject—especially your suspicions about your uncle's will."

“You think there’s a chance my uncle’s new will was forged?”

“I do.”

Her eyes misted, but she was quick to tell him she was not going to cry. "I'm just so touched by your concern for and understanding of . . . me. But before we go to the tea company, I want to show you the last letter Uncle wrote me. A man who wrote that letter could never have cut me off as he did."

"We'll go to our house now and read it."

Our house. It was almost as difficult to believe that gracious mansion her home as it was to think this magnificent man her husband. She did so feel like the waif who found out she was a princess.