Chapter Thirty-Seven
Upon hearing word that her guests had arrived, Emma hurried to the parlor of Worley House. They were assembled. Her comrades. They were not great in number, but they were mighty in faith—an aging army in muslin and lace that would be her salvation. As any good general would, Emma greeted her troops with warm compliments, an affectionate squeeze of their hands, and an invitation to sit.
“Ladies, I have called you here to beg your help. You have been supportive of me and great friends to both my dear Aunt Agatha”—she smiled warmly at Lady Ridgely—“and my departed mother. I know I can count on your support and discretion now.” She did know it. It was why she’d come to London when she could no longer stay at Brantmoor.
Lady Blythe lay a gentle hand on Emma’s arm. “You’ve only to ask, dear, and we shall help however we can.”
“Always be assured of our friendship and support,” Lady Markwood added.
Emma looked among her comrades-in-arms—three faces of sincerity and fierce loyalty—and was near to tears. They could not know how much their heartfelt friendship meant at just this moment. She had been in London for less than a day when she sent out the missives and her friends had come. She swallowed a very large lump of emotion and forced a confident smile. “Very well then.”
And then she explained. She told them absolutely everything she knew about Charlotte. The truth of her upbringing, the death of her mother, her time as a kitchen maid, and the threats of Mr. Pritchard. All the ladies listened without disapproval or judgment—at least not for Charlotte.
Lady Blythe shook her head. “I never had much interaction with the old Worley, but I always thought he seemed surly and unpleasant.”
“Such a shame for Charlotte and her mother,” Aunt Agatha added, “to endure such difficult circumstances, struggling to make their way, when all the while, the duke had the means to provide for their ease.”
Lady Markwood nodded. “My thoughts precisely. Even if he chose to be unyielding and would not restore them to their places in the family, he should have seen to their welfare. It was a duty of both honor and matrimony.”
“Sadly,” Emma said, “we cannot undo it. Charlotte’s upbringing has been… quite unconventional.” She sighed, but it did not expel the heaviness from her heart. “Charlotte’s knowledge of England is not favorable. She spent her entire life knowing her English father would allow her to starve or worse because he would not accept her. Now that she has arrived in England, she has been told she must change herself entirely, or the rest of society may not accept her either.” Emma looked from one lady to the next. She had to make them understand. “Charlotte does not play the harp or the pianoforte. She does not know the steps to any dance but one. She is still very unsure of the orders of rank, and as you may understand, she does not much care. But she is a good girl. She deserves to have some happiness and acceptance restored to her.”
“She is already accepted.” Aunt Agatha took Emma’s hand in a firm grip. “There may still be many to win over, but she will not begin without family or friends.”
“Thank you—all of you,” Emma said softly. She hoped Charlotte would be grateful for this show of support. How could she not? It wrapped around Emma like a comforting blanket on a frigid night, and it would comfort Charlotte too, if she would receive it.
“Ladies,” Lady Markwood said, setting aside her teacup. “I am sorry to disrupt all of this positivity with a reminder of bad news, but rumors are already building about this mysterious sister of Worley’s. Lady Charlotte will require more than the smiling attendance of a few well-meaning friends if we want to assure her acceptance. She will require those friends to have a plan.”
Lady Markwood was not wrong. Too much about Charlotte was shrouded in mystery. Her connection to a duke who mysteriously withdrew from society would only fuel speculation. The sponsorship of a social failure, duchess or not, and her three aging friends hardly constituted a promising launch for a new debutante.
“You are right of course,” Emma said. “As I have not been in London since Charlotte arrived, I’ll need detailed accounts of the rumors currently circulating.” When none of the ladies responded, Emma smiled gently. “I’m well aware of the sort of rumors likely being discussed about my family. I will not be offended to have you repeat them to me. You are not the authors. This is absolutely necessary.”
Lady Markwood offered first. “I heard the family had hidden her away in an asylum because she was unwell in the head.”
Once the dam was broken, the news rushed forth.
“I heard she ran away as a child and was raised by gypsies,” Lady Blythe contributed.
Gypsies? “But that makes no sense,” Emma said. “Charlotte was only three when she disappeared. How could she have run away on her own?”
Lady Markwood’s shoulders lifted and fell. “Logic is rarely a prerequisite for rumor, I have found.”
Lady Blythe patted her friend’s hand. “Very true, my dear.”
Aunt Agatha cleared her throat. “Your uncle heard at the club that Lady Charlotte is not Worley’s sister at all, but a mistress he collected during his years away and he has declared her his long-lost sister in order to bring her into his household under the new duchess’s very nose.” Aunt Agatha’s cheeks flamed.
“Yes. Well. I have heard that one too,” Lady Markwood admitted. “Only I heard specifically that they met in Spain—that the girl is Spanish.”
Lady Blythe nodded. “Yes. Yes, I’ve heard that as well. There is also the rumor that Lady Charlotte is a complete impostor—that she heard of the duke’s reappearance and has popped up to claim a connection because the duke is not in his right mind.”
Well, they were getting into the spirit now, weren’t they, Emma thought. “And why, pray tell, is the duke not in his right mind?”
“He was injured in the war and has become an excessive opium eater.”
“Oh my.” Emma blinked. She tapped her finger to her lips. “I think we shall have to start writing these out.” She rose and crossed to the writing desk. Gypsies? Opium eaters? The stories were even more outlandish than she’d expected. She sat at the desk and found a sheath of paper and pen. Quill poised, she turned to the other women. “All right, you shall have to repeat everything. Then I will take down any others if there are more. Are there more?”
The three ladies exchanged glances.
Clearly, there was a great deal more.
* * *
“Are you not at all worried for the duchess?” Charlotte asked, as the ducal coach drew to a halt in front of John’s London residence.
Blast. He wanted the silence back. He was only partially guilt-stricken for the harshness of his conversation for the first part of their journey from Brantmoor, because it had gained him the silence. “I am not.” It was even mostly true. “She is a resourceful woman.” That bit was definitely true.
“I still do not understand,” Charlotte said plaintively. “Where would she have gone?”
“I do not know. For the moment it is not my primary concern. We shall proceed as planned. You will ready yourself for your debut and I will locate and handle Pritchard.”
Charlotte stared as though he were daft. “How am I to ready myself?”
“Do you not know the name of your dressmaker?”
“Madame Desmarais.”
“Perfect. We will be able to locate her shop without difficulty, I am certain.”
“You are taking me?”
John wanted out of this carriage. He needed a drink, but first he had a man to find. “You can’t be wandering the streets of London with only a maid for your chaperone while Pritchard is running loose planning God knows what.”
Charlotte quieted, but her mouth drew into a scowl. He paused and softened his tone. “We must be cautious for your safety, Charlotte.”
“What of everything else?” she asked. “The dances and the horse riding?”
“We won’t be riding any horses this week, Charlotte, and we shall sort everything else out. If the duchess does not return in time.”
The door to the seating compartment was opened and a hand offered to aid Charlotte down. John followed her, gratified to be out of the damned box. Dances and riding lessons didn’t matter if there was danger of harm befalling Charlotte. “There will be no preparations today, Charlotte,” he told her. “I will be otherwise occupied. I suggest you take the time to settle yourself into your room and become acquainted with the house.”
She nodded.
“Do not leave the house,” he commanded, as they entered the main hall, his boots echoing on the black-and-white marbled floor. “Do not allow visitors in.”
Charlotte began to nod, but halted as a chorus of ladies’ laughter filtered to them. She froze and looked to John.
John’s jaw set. With booted footsteps thudding, he tramped up the stairs to the main parlor and swung open the door. A cluster of matrons, giggling like schoolgirls, stood gathered around the writing desk.
He cleared his throat. When that went unnoticed, he cleared his throat again. Loudly.
The laughter ceased and the cluster broke apart, revealing the duchess seated in the small chair, pen in hand, as though happily writing a letter. Here he’d been tearing across the countryside looking for her, and she was managing her correspondence.
She lay the pen down and pivoted in her chair to face him, chin raised. “Your Grace,” she said.
“You’re here.”
“I am.”
“Good.”
He turned and shut the door on them all, manners be damned. Let them go back to cackling over whatever it was that so entertained them. He stomped back to the main hall where Charlotte stood waiting, still in her bonnet and shawl.
“The duchess has arrived,” he announced. “She will see to whatever is left to be done. The housekeeper will show you to a room.”
He found his study and shut himself up in it. He would have his manhunt, but first he would have a drink.
* * *
Four ladies stared at the recently slammed parlor door, then glanced at each other in awkward uncertainty.
“Well,” Emma said, rising from her seat, “We have made good progress. We should reconvene in a few days.”
“Yes. Of course,” Aunt Agatha said, already reaching for her shawl.
“We shall leave you to your family, now that they have arrived,” Lady Markwood said.
Emma smiled at them. We shall leave you to your scowling duke, more like. She didn’t blame any of them for fleeing. She didn’t really want to speak to him herself. “Thank you, truly, for your help,” she said, squeezing each woman’s hand in turn. “Your support is a great comfort to me.”
She accompanied them to the front hall and wished them good day again. “Don’t forget,” she reminded them as they departed, “if you have any new stories, please jot them down.”
Then they were gone and there was nothing left to do but see him. She considered a walk to clear her head, but knew she was only unnecessarily delaying the conversation. She’d been impulsive to run off. He was rightfully angry with her. Once she had reached London and thought to send a letter, it was too late. The family had intended to leave for London in the next few days anyway. By the time she was able to get a letter to Brantmoor, explaining that she’d gone ahead early, they would be traveling themselves.
Emma rapped lightly on the study door.
“Come.”
She hesitated before pushing the door open, but immediately chided herself for her timidity. What was there to fear? That he would not love her? That was already the case. She turned the knob and walked into the study.
He was seated at his desk, with his chair turned to the side, facing the window rather than the desktop. He had no papers in front of him, no quills at the ready. He only stared out the window. He continued to do so for a very long, quiet moment then he turned to look at her over his shoulder. The look was so cold, she felt the chill from it run through the length of her spine. Angry, perhaps, had been an underestimation on her part.
“Why are you here?” he demanded.
“This is my home.”
His glare tightened and Emma chose not to test his limits. She revised her response.
“I came to begin preparations for Charlotte’s come out. There is much to be done.”
“You left without word. What need was there to run off in secret?” His words were not the plaintive request of a loved one, but the harsh accusation of a prejudiced inquisitor.
“I apologize for my impulsive departure. It was inconsiderate of me.”
One eyebrow rose. “Inconsiderate?” He rose and bore down on her with more malice than she’d ever seen possess him. “My wife was missing. The entire household was concerned for your safety,” he bit out. “It was a great deal more than inconsiderate.”
He stared at her, waiting for an explanation. She could see he wanted to know why. How could she tell him? How could she explain she’d run away from her broken heart? How could she explain that she couldn’t forget how he’d found a way to sail to Boston in the middle of a war. How he’d sacrificed his comforts and the only life he’d known to rush to his sister’s aid. How could she explain that she was weakly and sinfully jealous of the love and protectiveness he gave to Charlotte, because she wanted those things for herself?
She could not, so she told him, “It was wrong of me. I regret causing needless worry for any member of the household. And I am very sorry.”
He stared, unyielding, down into her face as she gave her apology. Then he stepped away and turned his back to her as he spoke. “Imagine my dismay,” he said, his voice menacingly low, “upon realizing my wife had not been seen all morning, racing to Beadwell to find you, and fearing the worst when you were not there.”
Racing to Beadwell? He raced to Beadwell? For her? Emma’s heart lifted, despite his scowling expression. The ride from Brantmoor to Beadwell was not so long—hardly a voyage across the sea—but still, it warmed Emma’s heart. He had sprung into action for her. Because he feared she was in danger.
Because he cared.
“Imagine my dismay,” he repeated, “when I learned the truth.”
“The truth?” she asked. “What truth?”
“Oh yes. Let’s discuss some of that, shall we?” His cruel tone bit through her. She stepped back in response, but he continued without even looking at her. “When I was questioning the innkeeper about Pritchard, for fear that you had met with some foul play, he made certain to thank me for vouching for your gardener, thus saving him from facing charges with the magistrate. I was confused, considering I know no gardeners and have not been asked to vouch for the good character of anyone in years.”
Relief bubbled through Emma. “Oh, he meant Simon,” she hastened to explain.
“Yes, I gathered,” John drawled. “It was convenient, how quickly you acquiesced to our engagement after this Simon was accused.”
Emma bit her lip. It did sound rather mercenary, didn’t it? Of course it was no more so than his purpose for marrying. “What does it matter? Your reasons for agreeing to the marriage were no less practical than mine.”
He turned, eyes flashing with anger. His fist slammed onto the desk. “It matters if my duchess is consorting with the village gardener so openly that the innkeeper would comment to me regarding your ‘tender heart’ for the man!”
Emma stared. Consorting? “Wait, John, you misunderstand.”
His expression became frighteningly calm and cold. “I’m sure you have some perfectly plausible explanation that I am entirely uninterested in hearing.”
“But I do!” She nearly laughed aloud. God, was it true? Was he jealous—for her?
“Let’s have it then,” he snapped.
She did laugh then. She must appear maniacal. Her husband was berating her—accusing her of infidelity—yet the relief and hope she felt far surpassed any affront she might take with his surly demeanor or even offense at his lack of trust.
He cared.
“It is quite good,” she assured him, when her laughter had only brought a darker scowl to his face. “I do have a tender heart for Simon, because he is a boy. He is only thirteen. He is the smithy’s son and his mother died years ago. Mrs. Brown and I—we take care of him, and when I have need of him, he works in my garden.”
“Thirteen?” John asked sharply. He stepped directly in front of her.
“Yes.”
“A mere boy?”
Relief bubbled through her. “Yes,” she said. “Yes.” He cared a great deal. He cared enough to be possessive and—jealous. Oh God, was it wicked that she wanted this man to feel possessive of her, even more than she wanted him to feel worried or protective? Anything was better than the indifference of which she had been so certain.
“A boy.” He spat it. He speared fingers through his hair, sending tidy locks into dishevel. “A damned boy.”
“Yes.” She lay a hand on his arm and beamed up at him. “It was all a misunderstanding.”
He pulled his arm away from her touch as though she had struck him. Why was he acting this way? This was good. His suspicions were wrong. And he cared.
More than cared.
He possessed. Her.
Emma’s heart soared. Hope bloomed within her and sent dancing light to all her limbs.
“I’m so sorry I worried you,” she said, unable to prevent the joyful smile as she gazed up at him. “I never realized you would be frightened for me. I am so dreadfully sorry.”
He stepped away to the desk. He placed his hand upon it and looked down at the hand. “Charlotte is upstairs. I’m sure you two have much to accomplish. I must contact my men regarding Pritchard. I will keep you apprised of all developments regarding Charlotte henceforth.”
Emma didn’t move. She should go. She had, after all, been summarily dismissed. But why? Didn’t he understand? She waited a moment in silence. Surely, he had something more to say.
Only he did not. He said nothing, and it was clear to her she was the one who did not understand.