Chapter Seven
It had been less than a week since Nicholas last saw Philip. It felt like half a lifetime. Declaring that his brother deserved to know was all well and good, but it was only now sinking in that Nicholas had to be the one to tell him.
As the heir, Philip had always been closer with their father. They’d spent hours together on the estate while Philip learned the business of eventually becoming Marquess of Wakefield. For the first time in his life, Nicholas wished his brother had turned out as rigid and impervious as their parents. It would make it easier, knowing nothing could phase him. Instead, Philip approached the position with more warmth than any of his predecessors. Philip cared. It was part of what made him such an effective member of the House of Lords.
It was also why Nicholas was still standing in the hallway, afraid to go into the study of his brother’s London house. Even the house was warm, inviting. Doors were left open to spread the light from the windows throughout. The laughter of the next generation of Wakefields could be heard drifting down from the upper floors.
“Your nephews look exactly like that when they have something difficult to tell their father.” Caroline, future Marchioness of Wakefield, stood at the foot of the stairs smiling sympathetically.
“Any advice?” At two and five years of age, Nicholas doubted his nephews had ever had to deal with a confession of this magnitude, but he would take all the help he could get.
“Avoid prevaricating. Try not to cry.”
Sound counsel. Nicholas resolved to at least achieve the standard set for the nursery. “I’d better go in, then.”
“Godspeed.” Caro grinned as she passed him.
Nick knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
Too late to turn back. Nick left the hallway behind and stepped inside.
“Nicholas! Glad you made it.” Philip put his pen down and stepped around the desk to shake Nick’s hand. “How was the train?”
“On time.”
“That’s a bloody miracle. Perhaps someday they’ll even be predictable.”
Nick chuckled. “That’s not very patriotic of you.”
Philip grinned. “If they manage this network of theirs across England and it works, I’ll be the first to congratulate them.”
“But you still prefer canals.”
“I can’t help it. There’s no soul in locomotives; they’re so violent. Canal transport has poetry.”
“Don’t let Mother hear you waxing lyrical about poetry.” Nick chuckled.
“Or Father.” Philip smiled back.
It was time. Nick couldn’t pretend everything was right in the world when it wasn’t. “Were you in the middle of something?”
“Nothing too important. Is there something to discuss?”
“There is.” Nick went to the decanter. “Whiskey?”
Philips eyebrows rose. “It’s the middle of the afternoon.”
“It’s about Father.”
A seriousness took over Philip’s face. “And it requires whiskey.”
Nick recalled the fortifying comfort of having a glass in his hand while he discussed the situation with the estate agent. “It does.”
“All right, then.”
Sitting across from his brother, Nick told him what he knew. He told him what he’d seen, and what their mother and Mr. Fletcher had confessed to him.
The whiskey remained in Philip’s hand, untouched, while he leaned back in his chair and studied the lines of the hardwood floor. “So.”
“So.”
Nick studied the reflection of the light off the cut crystal tumbler, casting patterns onto the dark leather of the sofa, while he waited for Philip to process the situation.
“You never think…you never consider your parents getting old, until it’s upon you.”
“I thought you should know.”
Philip nodded slowly, brow furrowed. “I’ll have to make arrangements. It will take a few days, but we can—”
“No,” Nicholas said. “They didn’t want to tell you because they didn’t want you to give up your life in London.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not. You’re doing good work here. The children are happy. Caro is happy.”
“He’s my father.”
“He’s my father, too. I can do this until you’re ready. I can fill in for you.” Nicholas’s grin was lopsided. “After all, that’s what I’m for.”
“Nick, you know that’s not how I feel.”
It wasn’t, and Nick was grateful for it. All through childhood, Philip had gone out of his way to support Nicholas as an individual, not just a failsafe. But it didn’t change the facts. “Last year was a hard year for the country, and you don’t know what’s ahead of us. England needs you where you are.”
Philip shook his head. “England will manage.”
“Then finish out the session at least. Mother will never forgive me if I told you and then you did exactly what I promised not to let happen.”
The whiskey glass finally found its way to Philip’s lips. “The session, then. It will give me time to find suitable replacements for my committee seats.”
Nick nodded. That would be enough time, and he couldn’t pretend he’d be sad to start his life with Amelia earlier. “I also wanted to ask your help with something. I intend to seek a profession.”
“A profession?” From Philip’s raised eyebrows and incredulous grin, one would think Nick had asked for help stripping naked in the middle of Westminster Church. “You don’t need a profession.”
“But I’d like one. I’d like to have a purpose.”
“What brought this on?”
The plan had been to lie. To say working on the estate had given him a taste for feeling useful, but Nicholas wanted fewer secrets, not more. And he was done with pretending. “Amelia Bishop.”
“I don’t know why I even bothered to ask.” Philip’s face creased with frown lines. “I don’t condone stealing another man’s fiancé, Nicholas.”
“I’m not stealing her. It’s complicated, but she doesn’t want to marry Montrose.”
“Does she want to marry you?” Philip asked.
“I—” He hoped she would, eventually. “I haven’t asked her.”
“Thank God for small blessings.”
“I mean to marry her, Philip.”
“Well, I can’t pretend to be surprised. I think we all suspected it would go that way someday.” His brother sighed. “Did you have something particular in mind?”
“I want to try for barrister.”
This time Philip’s surprise was pleasant. “Barrister? Really.”
“Yes. I thought, maybe someday, I’d run for a seat in Commons. There are a great number of wrongs that need righting in the world, but I need to know what I’m doing first.”
“House of Commons.” Philip frowned, tapping a finger on his glass. “It’s not a bad idea. Respectable and worthwhile. All right, I’ll help you, but leave me out of your complications. Lord Montrose is a good man and he’s been through a great deal.”
Nicholas wasn’t certain about that, but he nodded. “Nothing to do with Amelia. Just help me find a way to support myself.”
And Amelia, when the time came. It would come. She couldn’t mean what she’d said about not wanting to marry ever. Eventually, this experience with Montrose would fade and she would start thinking about the future again. When she did, Nicholas would be ready.
“Where are we?” The carriage had pulled up to a house in Charing Cross Amelia wasn’t familiar with.
Lady Bishop beamed from ear to ear. “Home, darling.”
“What happened to the house in Covent Garden?”
“The neighborhood was unsuitable for a future countess,” Lady Bishop said, waving her hand as if she could wave away the fact that they had lived there.
“We love that house,” Amelia said through clenched teeth. She and Julia would sit for hours, watching the theatre-goers on the pavements. “You got rid of it?”
“No, more’s the pity. Your father went on about some sentimental nonsense, so now we have two.”
“I want to go to our house.”
“This is our house.”
Amelia’s fist clenched. “I want to go to our real house.”
“Nonsense. Stop being childish. You can’t live two blocks down from actresses if you’re going to be Lady Montrose. Besides, the change will do you good.”
More change. Why was everyone so enamored of change all of a sudden? Why couldn’t anyone leave well enough alone? She wasn’t going to be the future Lady Montrose, and she didn’t give a damn about her proximity to stage players. She just wanted two seconds where something wasn’t shifting underneath her feet. “Julia’s going to hate it.”
“Well, Julia’s not here.”
“But she will be.” There was something about her mother’s tone. Amelia liked this new attitude less than she liked the new house. “She’s coming with Papa later this week.”
Lady Bishop avoided her eyes. “Perhaps. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
They would do no such thing. Amelia and Julia might be fighting—would likely be fighting for quite some time—but eventually they would make up. Lady Bishop was behaving strangely and Amelia wasn’t about to let it pass unacknowledged. “Why wouldn’t Julia be coming?”
Her mother let loose an all-suffering sigh. “She might not, that’s all. We need to be focusing all of our attention on you, and your sister can be…”
Amelia could not believe it. She was going to strangle her own mother. “Did you tell her not to come?”
“Honestly, darling. We’ll discuss it later. The footmen will think—”
“Did you tell her not to come?” Amelia shouted. They were only on opposite benches in the carriage, but she had to do something to break through this madness.
“Amelia! Lower your voice!”
“I will not. You will write to Julia immediately and apologize. You will tell her you don’t know what you were thinking. And you will stop this nonsense of trying to exclude her.”
Lady Bishop lifted her chin, dismissing Amelia’s demands. “Julia understands this is what’s best for you.”
“You will do it, or I will call off my engagement.”
All the color leached from Lady Bishop’s cheeks. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would. You know I’d rather stay in my room and read than be paraded around like some broodmare. Refusing Embry won’t cost me a moment’s unhappiness.”
“You say that, but—”
“Are you writing a letter, or am I?” Amelia interrupted without sympathy.
Her mother drew in a tense breath through her nostrils. “Fine, but you’re not doing yourself or Julia any favors. If you think people will be kind to either of you, you’re wrong.”
Amelia got out of the carriage. She climbed up the unfamiliar steps to the unfamiliar door, leaving her mother’s words behind. A butler whose name she didn’t know greeted her.
“Could someone show me which room is mine?” she asked.
“Of course, Lady Amelia.”
“I’m so glad Lord Montrose is escorting you to his aunt’s salon. I knew you’d like the Chisholms if you gave them a chance. After that mess at the engagement party…”
Amelia let her mother’s chatter fade into the background. She didn’t want to hear about the virtues of the Chisholms or how narrowly Amelia had escaped scandal after Lord Bellamy had come to her rescue. She needed to focus on the task at hand—convincing Embry she wouldn’t make him a suitable wife.
He’d sent more flowers this morning, these ones representing gentleness, kindness, and innocence. The qualities he had spoken so highly of in his late fiancée. While Amelia had no quarrel with her predecessor or any of those virtues, they were not the sum total of her parts.
“Lady Bishop. Lady Amelia. Lord Montrose has arrived.”
Amelia plastered a smile on her face, pretending she was a besotted bride-to-be and not an unwilling captive. As soon as Embry had exchanged pleasantries with her mother and handed Amelia up into the carriage, she let it drop.
“Your cousins are awful, mean-spirited witches. I want you to do something about them.” Amelia would bet quite a bit that the angelic Lily had not been in the habit of making demands.
“Amelia, please.”
“You told Lord Bellamy and everyone else at the party that you were in the wrong. You told me you were sorry. Was that a lie?”
Embry sighed. “No, it wasn’t.”
“Then do something about it. How can you expect me to call them family when even you don’t condone their behavior?”
“I have had the opportunity to get to know your sister and what a lovely person she is. I’m sure my cousins would feel the same if they met her.”
“You claim to care for me, but you won’t even stand by your own convictions?” Amelia let her voice escalate steadily toward hysterics. “Is that how little your word is worth? Was it fear that made you tell Viscount Bellamy you were in the wrong?”
Embry tried to defend himself, but Amelia refused to listen to his arguments.
“I can’t see how you can claim to care for me, to know what’s best for me, and care so little for my feelings.” An affected sniffle insinuated that tears would be soon to follow. Amelia was both impressed and unsettled by how easily she’d adopted the persona of a spoiled debutante.
She turned her face to the carriage wall and refused to look at him. They spent the rest of the ride in uncomfortable silence. She stayed that way through their arrival, only taking his hand for the minimum amount of time necessary to step down from the carriage. As she hoped, once inside he abandoned her and her sullen behavior in favor of less dramatic company.
As soon as he was out of sight, Nicholas found his way to her side.
“I see you managed an invitation.” She tried not to let her joy at seeing him be too obvious. Without Julia, she felt more alone than ever. Nicholas’s familiar, friendly face was a comfort.
“The wonders of the Wakefield name.”
“What about the other thing?” she asked as they strolled past knotted groups of party goers.
“Ahh. Well, the late Miss Valentine was a paragon of womanly virtues, especially noted for her agreeableness.”
As Amelia had suspected. “Anything else?”
“She was a woman after Lady Wakefield’s heart. Never spoke out of turn, didn’t hold any unpopular views. Perfectly behaved.” Nicholas touched her elbow, directing their stroll through the library.
“It’s a wonder your parents didn’t try to secure her for you.”
“Wouldn’t have worked. Aside from her weak constitution, which would have made her unsuitable to Lord and Lady Wakefield, all accounts have her firmly and ridiculously in love with Montrose. They were quite besotted with each other.”
Amelia felt a pang of regret. “It’s a shame she died. I suspect they would have been quite happy together.”
“It is a shame,” Nicholas agreed. “But it’s no excuse for holding your family ransom.”
Right. Focus on the task at hand. “Well, I’ve already begun. I made demands and had an emotional outburst in the carriage ride over. What else would you suggest?”
“Strong political views.”
Amelia pondered. “I don’t think I have any.”
“Sure you do. You’re favorable toward women’s rights and labor reform.”
“Well, yes, but not enough to make a fuss about it.”
“Might I suggest,” Nicholas said, as they looped back around to the parlor, “that you consider making a fuss. I hear Lady Chisholm takes exceptional offense to independently-minded women.”
Amelia followed his eye line to the woman holding court on a settee, dressed in a mountain of peach bombazine. There were easily fifteen men and women in her immediate vicinity.
“So many people.” Amelia had never liked being the center of attention. Even the holiday pageants she and Julia threw, attended only by Nicholas and her parents, caused her deep waves of panic. The only way she’d ever been able to do it was with Julia by her side.
Nicholas squeezed her arm. “What can I do to help?”
The panic was churning in her stomach. Amelia searched for something—anything—that would calm it. “Make me someone else?”
His face immediately lit up with a smile. “Easy. You are Dionysia of Tralles, a woman of exceptional strength and perseverance.”
“You only know her story because I told it to you.”
“Then it should be easy for you to remember. Channel Dionysia.”
Dionysia of Tralles. Legendary sprinter. Fearless competitor. Amelia could do this. Dionysia and her sisters would never let themselves be blackmailed into an unwanted marriage. They would be all for women’s rights. “I’m Dionysia.”
“You’re Dionysia.”
“Oh God. Please don’t let me be sick in front of all these people.”
Nicholas tried to stay close to Amelia when they insinuated themselves into the crowd around Lady Chisholm, but Amelia kept insisting they should stand apart. He strongly suspected she was trying to insulate him from the scandal she was about to cause. He had no one but himself to blame for her thinking that way. Their whole lives, he’d let his family name hold too much sway. Somehow, he would have to convince her things were different now.
“I rather like the new styles from the continent,” some young miss made the mistake of saying.
“Nonsense,” Lady Chisholm barked. “They stray much too far from tradition.”
From the other side of the group, Amelia spoke up. “I don’t think they stray nearly far enough.”
“Excuse me?” Lady Chisholm gasped.
“I said I don’t think they stray nearly far enough.”
“I heard you, Lady Amelia. I only hoped I was mistaken.”
Amelia frowned. Nicholas thought she might give up, but then her shoulders straightened and she lifted her chin. “Are you mistaken often?”
“Rarely.” Montrose’s aunt peered at Amelia. “And what do you imagine might be appropriate attire for a young lady?”
“Trousers,” Amelia announced.
A murmur went up through the crowd. It was everything Nicholas could do to hold in a laugh. All the more so because he knew Amelia was being honest. In this regard, he was on Lady Chisholm’s side. He’d seen Amelia in trousers a number of times and he knew how distracting it was. Were it to become a popular trend in women’s fashion, the entire country would devolve into anarchy inside a week.
Lady Chisholm narrowed her eyes. “Young lady, I see that you think you’re being amusing, but I assure you, you are not.”
“There’s nothing amusing about it,” Amelia soldiered on. “By restricting women to clothing that lacks functional practicality, you confine them to lives that amount to little more than being showpieces.”
“What’s wrong with that,” mumbled a young man near Nicholas.
Lady Chisholm turned positively purple. “That is quite enough, young lady. Hold your tongue.”
“Begging your pardon, but no. I will not.”
It was time for Nicholas to lend a helping hand. “Are you saying you think women would be a match to men if they dressed the same?”
Fifteen sets of eyes swiveled his direction, but they immediately returned to Amelia when she tendered her response. “I do. Take riding, for instance. Many women are exceptional riders, but the restrictions of a side saddle and skirts limit their ability to compete in sport.”
“Compete!” Lady Chisholm’s shrill tones had drawn the attention of the rest of the party goers, including Lord Montrose. He was on the verge of turning purple and trying to make his way to Amelia’s side, but the crowd around her had grown too thick.
“You can’t honestly think a woman could outrace a man on a horse,” another man said. Nicholas recognized him as Mr. Bradley Preston, third son to Sir Walter Preston and a renowned gambler.
“I can and I do,” Amelia said earnestly.
Lady Chisholm wasn’t the only one to take offense to that, although she was certainly the loudest. Montrose had finally waded his way through to Amelia. Before anyone could say anything else, he dragged her off by the elbow.
Mr. Preston sneered.
Nicholas wanted to grind his face in the dirt. “I’ll wager a hundred pounds she can beat you in a matched race, Preston.”
“Do you mean that, or are you causing trouble?”
“I’m a Wakefield. We don’t cause trouble.”
Preston sized him up. “A hundred pounds?”
“One hundred pounds.”
“She’d never do it, though.” Preston’s covetous expression contradicted his words. He wanted that money.
“I can guarantee she would. If she doesn’t, I’ll consider the money forfeit.”
“Wakefield, you’ve got yourself a wager.”
A silent carriage ride later and Amelia was back at the townhouse, but when the wheels rolled to a stop Embry didn’t move to let her out.
“Embry?”
“I blame myself,” he said to the tops of his boots. “You were distraught and I neglected you. It’s only natural that you should seek to gain my attention other ways.”
For heaven’s sake. “I stand by the things I said, Embry.”
He waved it off like so much noise. “You’re hardly a bluestocking, Amelia. No, I drove you to this behavior and that villain Wakefield egged you on.”
Amelia was speechless. He was actually blaming himself—and now Nicholas as well. It was beyond comprehension.
After a moment, Embry nodded. “I will think of how to make this right. In the meantime, get some rest. You’re not yourself today, but I’m sure you’ll feel much better in the morning.”
He stepped out of the carriage and reached up to hand her down. There was nothing for her to do but take his offered hand. She could hardly live in the carriage, and she was too baffled by his thought process to trust herself to make a counter argument.
“Please make my excuses to your mother. I’ll come around for a visit tomorrow afternoon.”
Amelia nodded and made her way inside. How had her plan managed to go so far awry? She’d behaved abominably. She’d been difficult from the first moment, deliberately offended his family member, and caused a public spectacle. He should be livid, but instead he was making excuses and blaming himself. Was he truly that incapable of seeing her for herself?
“Amelia Marie Bishop!” Her mother shouted from the drawing room. “Get in here this instant.”
Apparently news traveled fast. “Yes, Mother?”
Lady Bishop put her pen down with a clatter, splattering ink across the lap desk. “Lydia Chisholm sent a rush message over with an appalling story about your behavior. I’m writing her an apology right now.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. She’s going to be my aunt, after all. I think she just has to learn to live with me.”
“What on earth is the matter with you?”
“Not nearly enough, apparently.” She couldn’t even scare off a fiancé properly.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh,” Amelia added. “Embry sends his excuses.”
“I should think so.”
“But he says he’ll call tomorrow.”
“You’d better pray he’s not calling to end your engagement.”
Amelia sighed. “He’s not. He assured me in the carriage that he doesn’t blame me for my opinions.”
“Well, if that isn’t a blessing I don’t know what is.”
The words faded as Amelia left and went upstairs again. She wished Julia was on her side. Julia would know how to get her out of this. Instead, Amelia had to face it alone. Being outrageous was exactly as awful as she’d always imagined it would be.