by Lynn Messina
While Emma made a notation in Lincoln’s file, Vinnie explained that Alex had offered his assistance in any way possible and would kindly make the request on their behalf to Mr. Jackson. “As you know, he has been going to his saloon for years and is a particular favorite.”
“Alex?” he asked in surprise. “He’s agreed to aid and abet this madness?”
Emma laughed. “Yes, though he did lay some ground rules before agreeing. No bribery or blackmail.”
“Or seduction,” Vinnie added with a twinkle. “I believe he was very adamant about that.”
At the word seduction, Huntly whipped his head around to stare at her and he noted how vibrant she looked in her pretty yellow walking dress. It seemed to him she always looked bright and alive, her eyes glinting at some private joke. It was an illusion, just a trick of light, because he knew how deeply in mourning she was.
He knew and he had to struggle to keep it in mind, for he must not accost her again. To that end, he looked away, first out the window to the left of her shoulder and then at the table covered with files.
The room was silent for almost a full minute, then Emma said, “You must want to see your own dossier. I have it in the other room. While I’m gone, Vinnie, ask him about the Earl of Moray.”
Before the marquess could protest, she was out of the room and he was left alone with Vinnie. Keeping his eyes purposefully down, he read the labels on the files, looking for Quentin Wallop, Earl of Moray.
“She’s just provoking you, my lord,” Vinnie said softly. “You don’t have to rise to the bait.”
Huntly found Moray’s file underneath Townshend’s, opened it and flipped through it without reading a single word. He wasn’t interested in what it said; he simply needed something to look at so he wouldn’t stare at Vinnie. “I understand the appeal, you know, of what you’re doing: strategizing, moving the puzzle pieces around until they all fit. And I understand why you’re doing it.”
“I appreciate your understanding,” she said.
Now Huntly glanced up at her, searching for some hint of irony or sarcasm in her voice or face and finding none. “Would you stop if I asked?”
Vinnie folded her arms across her chest and smiled faintly. “I don’t know, my lord. What will you offer me in exchange?”
Huntly should not have been surprised by the reference to the scene in the carriage, and yet it took him entirely unaware. He’d been so focused on resisting her, on keeping his mind in the moment and not in Mr. Brill’s office, that he’d forgotten how their outing to the shoe factory had ended. “You are still angry,” he stated flatly, unsure if he was relieved or disappointed. Logically, he knew he should be the former, for it put her even more firmly out of his grasp.
“No, I’m really not,” Vinnie said with a thoughtful look. “At the time, of course, I was distressed to learn you had an ulterior motive for doing what was genuinely the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me. I’d had what I thought was the perfect day, and you betrayed that memory by informing me it was all a lie. But to be completely honest, I cannot blame you for what you did. You’re in an untenable position and are entitled to try to extricate yourself by any means at your disposal. I should not have expected otherwise.”
This gracious speech should have pleased Huntly, but instead he found her calm acceptance of his betrayal to have a disconcerting effect on him, for it created an ache somewhere near his heart. He didn’t know how to account for it and could attribute it only to the madness of the situation, which had somehow gotten entirely out of hand.
To his dismay, he discovered the new sensation was even more disturbing than the memory of Miss Harlow in Mr. Brill’s office (breasts heaving, eyes lidded, lips swollen), and he immediately looked down to study the Earl of Moray’s file as if the information it contained was vastly engrossing. Scanning the first page, which comprised the rudimentary facts of the earl’s life, he tried to find something to comment on in order to end the silence, which was far too potent for his peace of mind. When Vinnie didn’t speak, he read the note scribbled at the top of the page, “Desires a French cook,” and looked at her. “Is this really how you want to gain admittance?”
It was a fair question, Huntly thought, but Vinnie’s long, hard stare made him feel as if he’d inquired about the state of her ankles. Finally, she said, “How else will I gain admittance? A strong essay, an informative presentation, an intelligent interview? You must admit, my lord, the deck is stacked against me. What are the odds down at Brooks’s these days? I believe the original wager was given three to one odds that I wouldn’t get in and now it’s up to ten to one.”
As Huntly preferred not to think of the wager placed in the betting book at Brooks’s, he did not know where the odds stood, but he couldn’t deny they were not in her favor. “I will admit it,” he said readily. “But you must admit in turn that the only reason you want in is because I told you to stay out. You seek to thwart me.”
“Not just you. The dowager, too. I can’t decide whom I hope to thwart more,” she said, her dimples peeking out as she smiled. “In some respects, you are right, my lord, but in others you do me a disservice, for I would truly value being a member of a society that feels passionately about the subjects I feel passionately about. I would relish that sense of community and common purpose, and I think I would contribute something of value. Having admitted that, however, I cannot deny that your and the dowager’s insistence that I must not apply has strengthened my resolve. For most of my life, I’ve been an unassuming person with modest ambitions. Emma would call me docile, for I tend to stay where I’m put because it’s more practical than engaging in a pointless argument. I’ve chosen not to want things because I’ve spent my whole life watching my sister struggle to have more and being punished for it. But then something happened, something worse than anything I ever thought could happen.”
The ache in Huntly’s heart grew as he realized to what she was referring. “You mean your fiancé’s death,” he said softly.
She seemed surprised by his astuteness, for she stared at him a long while before saying, “Yes, my fiancé’s death. And it made me realize we all get punished regardless of what we do and that the truly pointless thing is to give up before we even try. So I am trying,” she said earnestly before assuming a less personal, more businesslike tone, “which is why I would be very grateful if you’d weigh in on the matter of Lord Moray. We’ve established two possible courses of action.”
“Yes, I see opportunity number one is a French cook. Short of giving him Alex’s own chef, I can’t divine how you will perform that trick. What’s the second option?” Huntly asked, accommodating her need to change the subject and lighten the mood. He did so eagerly because he found he didn’t like thinking about her fiancé, this departed paragon who held her heart. It bothered him more than he could say that he couldn’t go toe-to-toe with the gentleman and take his measure.
“Get him back into Weston’s good graces,” she said, leaning over the desk to straighten the files, which were scattered everywhere. She seemed intent on arranging them in a single pile. “Moray had the very unfortunate luck to be caught altering one of the esteemed tailor’s finest masterpieces: a slim-fitting double-breasted coat made of the highest-quality wool facecloth. He was displeased with the heft of the silk velvet collar.”
“Displeased with anything Weston does? Unfathomable!”
“Well, the earl doesn’t have your low standards and asked Stulze to make a few adjustments, which he did, although he was not delighted to be reworking a coat rather than making one,” she explained as she tidied the already neat stack of folders.
“Did Stulze cry rope on him?”
Seemingly satisfied with her ruthless organization of the files, Vinnie placed the ordered pile on the desk and stepped back. “No, but there appears to be some disagreement over how Weston showed up at Mr. Jennen’s shop at the particular moment the button maker was crafting new gilt buttons to replace the ones that had been
lost during the alterations.”
“I trust Stulze retained ownership of Moray’s silk velvet collars?”
“Yes, and although the change in tailors created no marked difference in the earl’s impeccable style—his waistcoats remain the envy of all—the loss has haunted him ever since.”
The marquess smiled faintly. “And you and Emma are going to put him out of his misery.”
“Weston owes her a favor.”
Huntly somehow resisted asking why the most sought-after tailor in London owed the Harlow Hoyden a favor—no doubt it was a long, involved, fascinating tale—and undid all of Vinnie’s fine work as he looked through the dossiers for another victim.
“Lord Peter Waldegrave,” he announced. “What do you have in store for him?”
“Ah, old Nippy,” she said with relish. “An excellent choice.”
Vinnie launched into their plan for old Nippy, who, at twenty-three, was actually the youngest member of the society and the hardest to sway, for all he seemed to want was his father’s approval and neither she nor Emma could figure out how to get that for him. (The marquess offered no solutions.) Nevertheless, they were working on an approach and thought perhaps the mentorship of an esteemed elder such as the famous naturalist Sir Joseph Banks might make a fine substitution for paternal affection.
One by one, they went through the files, with Huntly pulling a name from the stack as if selecting a card from a deck and Vinnie explaining their strategy for the gentleman. At first, his interest in their scheming had been a sort of appalled fascination, but the more he heard, the more he appreciated their level of detail and clever planning. As he’d noted earlier, it was a challenging game to figure out how all the puzzle pieces fit together.
Before Huntly knew it, an hour had passed, and although he wondered what could possibly take the duchess so long to find his report—perhaps she was compiling it—he appreciated having the time alone with her sister. Somehow, they had managed to restore their easy rapport of the shoe factory outing and he was grateful that Vinnie felt comfortable with him.
That he could not feel comfortable in her presence was a fact established long before this visit, but her recent speech had made an already challenging situation exceedingly difficult. Her honesty astounded him, the way she simply revealed how she was feeling without taking refuge behind white lies or polite whiskers, and he pictured her again in Mr. Brill’s office—not the irresistible temptress with the heaving breasts but the brave girl accepting responsibility for her actions (which weren’t really her actions). And to call herself docile! It was patently absurd, for Miss Lavinia Harlow did not shrink from anything.
How, he thought as he pulled the last dossier from the pile, could he expect her to shrink from this?
“Mr. Luther Townshend,” he said with satisfaction. “I’ve been waiting all afternoon to discover how you learned of his plagiarism. You and Emma are clearly exhaustive in your research, but that seems like a particularly small needle in an exceptionally large haystack.”
“Oh, we did not do all of this,” Vinnie said with a laugh. “Emma has a team.”
The marquess shook his head. “Why am I not surprised?”
“It is led by the redoubtable Mr. Squibbs, who is the finest lockpick in all of London,” she said, sitting on the arm of a commodious leather wingchair. “She sought him out when she wanted to learn how to break into Sir Windbourne’s residence.”
Surprised, Huntly looked at her sharply. “Your fiancé?”
Vinnie’s face turned ashen, and she looked down at her fingers, suddenly avoiding his eyes. “Yes, um, my sister’s behavior is not always easy to explain. But suffice to say, she is an excellent judge of character and Mr. Squibbs is her best discovery by far. He is the one who oversaw the team that gathered most of the information. And they did it with remarkable speed.”
Hating to see her so anxious and pale, he sought to bring back the amiable companion. “I like your sister.”
Some of the color returned to her face, and she smiled faintly. “Me, too.”
“I mean to say, I like her for Trent. They seem particularly well suited.”
Now the smile was brilliant. “They are.”
Realizing he could stand there looking at her all day—and that that was truly the untenable position he was in—he tore his eyes away and said, “So Mr. Townshend.”
“He was a special case. I actually contributed the information, but it’s not as impressive as you think,” she added quickly. “The book he plagiarized was written by the vicar in my village, a wonderful, kindly old gentleman who noticed my love of horticulture and nurtured it. He was like a father to me, for my own parents were largely absent. Now that we are grown, my mother attends to us more regularly, but my father remains largely indifferent. He didn’t even come to London for Emma’s ball, preferring to remain at Viscount Inchape’s estate in Tunbridge Wells for a seemingly endless hunting party. Mr. Broughton taught me everything he knew about flowers, which was compiled in a beautiful volume called Beautiful Wild Flowers of the English Isles. As soon as I read the first chapter of Botanicus, I knew Townshend had stolen most of the material from Mr. Broughton and was deeply offended on his behalf. That is why we are not complying with Trent’s request not to use blackmail, with his consent, of course. He agrees the circumstance merits it. However, I will readily admit that in this case I’m settling an old score and if you feel outraged on behalf of your fellow society member, it will be perfectly justified. I’m happy to sit here while you ring a peal over my head.”
“Oddly, I find his treatment is the only one I don’t object to,” he confessed with a sigh, then looked at the desk covered once again with scattered dossiers. So much information, he thought. So much maneuvering. He could not conceive how any of it would turn out. He did not suppose the play he’d set in motion with his careless action could come to any good, but he was done trying to stop it. As Vinnie had said, an invitation had been issued in her name and she alone reserved the right to accept or decline. Neither he nor the dowager was entitled to dictate her response.
The clock on the wall struck three o’clock, and Huntly, realizing just how long he had been there, announced that he should be going. At that moment, the door opened and Emma entered, carrying a tray of tea cakes.
“Look what I found,” she announced as she placed the tray on the table in front of the settee. “The dowager was trying to hoard them, but I know where Mrs. Crenshaw keeps the stash. Sit down, please, and I’ll arrange for tea.”
Without further urging, Vinnie deposited herself on the settee and helped herself to a cake. Huntly, judging the distance from one end of the sofa to the other insufficient, sat in an armchair. Then he watched in amusement as Emma stuck her head outside the doorway and called for the butler.
Caruthers promptly appeared. “May I compliment your grace on successfully crossing the threshold?”
Emma laughed and darted a look that was at once amused and confused to her sister and Huntly, as if to marvel at the odd things servants sometimes say. “It’s what I do, Caruthers. Crossing thresholds. Crossing lines. Now, we would really appreciate a pot of tea. Could you please arrange that?”
Caruthers promised to return shortly, and Emma, taking a tea cake for herself, sat down on the settee next to her sister. “I must apologize, Lord Huntly, for being unable to find your dossier. I swear to you that we did compile one, as I’d hate for you to think we are so confident of your vote, we won’t try to coerce you. I simply must have misplaced it. I can’t imagine where.”
“Maybe Alex took it,” Vinnie suggested. “He removed his own.”
“You compiled a dossier on your husband?” Huntly asked, as amused as he was horrified.
Emma shrugged. “Not intentionally. There was a breakdown in communication between me and my team. Anyway, since I can’t seem to find it, why don’t you fill us in personally on all the pertinent facts. Remember, we are looking for weaknesses to exploit, so kindly start
with your worst failings and work your way up.”
Huntly, who had been on the verge of making his excuses, found this request to be so outrageous he had no choice but to comply. “I assure you, my worst traits are dreadfully dull, such as failing to join the captain of the Triton for meals because I was too engrossed in my work.”
“Don’t be modest. I’m sure you have some remarkably interesting ones, too,” she said confidently. “Regardless, every bit helps. Please continue. And don’t forget to take a tea cake.”
Although he’d had one foot out the door, Huntly consented to stay for a tea cake, and while he ate, he related several tales about life onboard ship. He tried to take his leave again a few minutes later when Tupper brought the tea, for he still had so much to do. Out of five assistant interviews scheduled for the day, he had conducted only two. But Emma insisted he have one cup and he got so much pleasure from hearing Vinnie laugh at his stories that he couldn’t refuse. He accepted the one cup and then another, and calling himself a fool, he had a third.
No assistants were hired that day.
Chapter Ten
Upon discovering she was the subject of a caricature by the famous Martin Holyroodhouse, Vinnie’s first thought was that she was now part of an exclusive club whose exalted membership included Lady Caroline Lamb, Napoleon, Prinny, Beau Brummel, several dozen politicians and Emma.
Her sister’s response was not as sanguine, and her angry invectives, which she shouted as she strode from one end of the drawing room to the other, could be heard in the square outside.
“Please have a little respect for my ears, Emma,” the dowager said from a chair next to the window. “Although I am aging as fast I can, my hearing remains deplorably strong.”
Emma, who was not inclined to comply with any requests when in a rage, actually broke off mid-swear and apologized. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I know I’m not helping, but I can’t stand inactivity. I need to do something. Can I not just go down to St. James’s and buy out the stock?”