At last, with the help of Mrs Wrighton, he placed his slumbering burden on the bed. He stood for a moment watching and then shook his head. How could he have been so stupid to confuse her with a boy, with her jutting cheekbones, dainty chin, and rosebud lips?
‘I’ll stay here for now, sir, until Polly arrives,’ said Mrs Wrighton. ‘Poor Miss Emma. She looks all done in. We thought they’d all perished long ago… and now here she is, and dear Master James too.’ The old woman dabbed at her red-rimmed eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘The dowager will be in alt to know that they’re safe. The poor lady clung to the belief that they were still alive long after the rest of us had given up all hope. Inconsolable she was when the courts declared them all dead. She took it far worse than the news of Master Frederick’s death.’ Mrs Wrighton sent Richard a knowing look. ‘If you ask me, sir, begging your pardon, but his passing was more like a blessing. Such trouble he caused her.’
Richard quelled his curiosity about the unlamented Frederick and, with a final glance at the sleeping figure in the bed, departed for his own room.
Richard rubbed his eyes. Goodness, he was exhausted. His new bedchamber was chilly, but he was past caring. All he wanted was a good night’s sleep. Tugging his boots off, he padded over to the door and placed them neatly side by side. Next came his neckcloth, which was carefully removed and folded, then set on a chair. Just because his valet wasn’t around, there was no excuse for disorder, he told himself, stifling a yawn. Next came his shirt and breeches, which he folded and placed with the discarded neckcloth. He smiled as he pulled the nightshirt from his valise. Thank goodness Carter always insisted on packing one. Richard rarely wore a nightshirt, but this night would be an exception. It was damned chilly.
Only regretting that he’d neglected to compose the letters to the dowager and his solicitor – they required a clear head after all – Richard finally crawled under the welcoming covers of the bed. His last waking thoughts were of the young lady’s sleeping face.
Chapter 3
The following morning, Emma was gradually coming to her senses. Thoughts jostled in her head. She’d been walking with Jamie through Minster Lovell. Then there’d been a long, gravel drive. A house… yes, it was Easterby Hall. A front door. Then… nothing. Emma groaned. Her head hurt like the devil, and she couldn’t remember anything save reaching Easterby Hall’s front door.
‘There, there, don’t fret now. Everything is well. Would you like a sip of water?’
Emma’s eyes shot open at the sound of the woman’s voice. She blinked and screwed them shut again. Why wouldn’t everything stay still? Was she in a bed or a boat? Someone held a soothing compress to her brow. Taking a deep breath, she slowly re-opened her eyes. Thank goodness the swaying had stopped. Across the room, light peeked through closed shutters, and coals glowed in a large, ornate fireplace, making the room pleasantly warm. She caught the faint smell of lavender.
Emma looked up at the young woman standing at the side of the bed. The woman smiled.
‘Here, drink this. Your mouth is dry, I’ll be bound.’
Feeling as weak as a kitten, Emma took a sip from the glass that the woman held to her lips. Water had never tasted as good.
‘Where am I? Who are you? Where is my brother?’
Holding a finger to her pursed lips, the maid shook her head.
‘Speak to me. Tell me what’s happened. Where am I?’ Emma’s voice began to rise as panic gripped her insides.
‘Oh, miss, please don’t get into a pother, else I’ll get into trouble.’ The maid’s ruddy cheeks reddened even more as her eyes checked the door. ‘I’ve been told not to talk too much because you need to stay quiet.’ Smiling shyly, she bent towards Emma and whispered, ‘You’re quite safe. I was told you stumbled and banged your head, and then you fell into a deep sleep. The doctor saw you last night and he’ll be calling again today. He told the master that you will soon be better.’
Only slightly reassured by the maid’s words and still feeling sick and slightly dizzy with no memory of what had happened, Emma persisted. ‘But where am I, and where is Jamie?’
‘Why, miss, you’re at Easterby Hall. The new master arrived yesterday. It was he who took you in. If your brother is the young lad who also arrived last night, well, he’s in the parlour having breakfast. Shall I go and fetch the housekeeper?’
Emma nodded. The maid cocked her head to one side. ‘I’m Polly, by the way, miss. I used to work here, but I had to leave when…’ Looking suddenly panic-stricken, she bobbed a swift curtsey and fled the room, leaving Emma on her own.
Emma, frustrated and assailed by stabbing pains in her temples, sank back into her pillows. After a short while, the aching subsided so she risked turning her head in order to inspect her surroundings. Her bed was a large four-poster with soft feather pillows, fine linen sheets, and several blankets. As her gaze trailed round the room a portrait on the wall caught her eye. It seemed familiar. Two golden-haired lads dressed in their best, the older looking sulky, his arm resting on the shoulder of his younger companion who clutched a book. Emma’s eyes widened as recognition dawned. It was her papa and his older brother, Frederick. She clutched the bedclothes tighter. Where was her uncle, and why was there no sign of her grandparents?
Chills ran down her spine as fresh fears caught her in their grip. The documents she’d been carrying, where were they? There was no sign of her jacket or her clothes. Emma groaned and slid back against the pillows, dredging her memory for any clues.
Matters had gone awry several years previously when they’d left Patras in haste. Her father had been keen to reach the southern part of the Morea as quickly as possible, knowing that Elgin and his party had already excavated much of the Acropolis and other sites around Athens. He’d been determined to discover something of his own, whatever the cost. On their way to Greece, they’d met Lord Elgin in Rome. Like the Smythes, he was using the peace between Britain and France as an opportunity to travel.
While Emma and her mother had spent Palm Sunday observing the processions around St Peter’s Square, her father, Charles, had called on His Lordship. Hearing about his discoveries first-hand fired an unquenchable desire in her father to emulate Elgin’s achievements. Emma was certain that her father’s determination not to let anything hinder his quest for antiquities – not even the safety of his family – was given added impetus by that unlucky Easter encounter.
They’d taken a ship to Malta and from there travelled to Patras. The British consul had advised against heading deeper into the Morea and certainly not on their own. There were just too many risks – from bandits, uprisings, and even pirates.
But Charles Smythe, like the stubborn man he was, had ignored all wiser counsel, and so the scene had been set for the worst of disasters. Emma swiped away a tear as she recalled her mother’s words at their last private conversation. Words that she would never forget.
At the sound of a tap on the door, Emma’s eyes flew open. An older woman, attired in a plain, grey wool dress and a pristine white apron, trotted in.
‘Well, I’m so glad to see you awake, Miss Emma,’ the woman said, her face wrinkling in a smile. ‘I’ll get Mrs Henning to warm you some milk. But you can’t have any food until Dr Chesney says so.’ She beamed down at Emma and folded her arms across her middle.
‘Thank you so much. Warm milk would be lovely, Mrs…?’ Emma gasped. ‘Is it really you, Mrs Wrighton?’ Emma’s mind was so clouded that she couldn’t be sure about anything.
Mrs Wrighton chuckled. ‘That’s right, Miss Emma. I thought you’d remember me. The last time I saw you was just before you set off on your travels.’ The housekeeper’s smile slipped a little. ‘The dowager will be delighted to know that you’ve both returned safe and well. She was distraught when you left and heartbroken when she was told that you were all lost. I didn’t recognise you at first, you were so bedraggled. But now there’s no mi
staking you – you’re the image of your grandmother when she was younger.’ She sent Emma a sympathetic look and shook her head. ‘You’ll look even better when your bruises fade and we feed you up a bit.’
The significance of the housekeeper’s words finally registered with Emma.
‘People thought we were dead? I don’t understand. Father was punctilious in writing to Grandfather, but he never received any replies.’ She frowned. ‘You called Grandmamma “the dowager”. When did Grandfather die?’ There were so many unanswered questions.
A knock on the bedroom door saved the housekeeper from replying. The door opened and in stepped a stranger; a rather handsome-looking stranger, despite his saturnine features, dark penetrating eyes, and stern mouth. Emma blinked. Sporting a coat of dark-blue superfine matched with pale buckskin breeches and wearing a snow-white cravat at his neck, he was quite the most distinguished gentleman she had seen in a long time. Dark curls fell across his brow, and a bronzed complexion indicated he spent time outdoors. His strong jaw and aquiline nose betokened a man of character. Emma’s heart began to beat faster as he scrutinised her face with intelligent eyes and a curve to his lips.
‘I’ve come to reassure myself that you’re recovering. You gave us all quite the fright last evening.’
His disturbingly pleasing voice sent warm shivers down Emma’s spine and she almost forgot to breathe. His polished appearance and aura of authority had completely taken her by surprise. If she didn’t pull herself together and respond, he’d be sure to think the bump to her head had knocked her silly.
‘Yes, I am recovering, sir. Thank you,’ Emma said at last. ‘Please would you do me the honour of informing me whom I’m addressing?’
The gentleman’s smile widened, transforming his appearance from one of cool authority to roguish friendliness. Emma felt the heat rising to her cheeks.
‘Of course. How remiss of me. I apologise for my lack of manners.’ He bowed. ‘I’d quite forgotten that we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Richard Lacey, a distant cousin on my late father’s side to Viscount Easterby, who, I understand, was your grandfather.’ As the gentleman spoke, he placed a bundle of papers on the writing desk near the bed, which Emma recognised with shock as the letters she’d kept hidden in her jacket. ‘May I return these to you? Mrs Wrighton kindly passed them to me last night when you were unconscious.’
Relieved that she had her letters back and about to thank him, she almost missed the significance of his earlier words. Then it struck her. Grandfather was indeed dead. Mr Lacey had confirmed what the housekeeper had unwittingly divulged by referring to Grandmamma as “the dowager”. A knot formed in her stomach. She’d never see her beloved grandfather again. Blinking away her tears, she controlled her features, determined not to succumb to emotion before a stranger’s gaze, not even a stranger as compelling as Mr Lacey.
Mr Lacey seemed to realise his mistake. He ran a nervous finger round his cravat.
‘I’m truly sorry to be the bearer of such sad news, Miss Smythe. I should’ve recalled that you and your brother were unaware of the viscount’s death.’ He carried on, as if trying to atone for his faux pas. ‘I’ve written to your grandmother, who I’m sure will be delighted to hear that you and your brother are both alive and well.’ There was another smile, this time an apologetic one. ‘I’m afraid I’m not informed on the state of her health, so I don’t know if she’ll travel here or if she’ll wish you to join her in London. Of course, I’ll be happy to arrange for your conveyance there once you’ve fully recovered.’ Clearing his throat and looking a little sheepish, Mr Lacey added, ‘Pending word from your grandmother, I’ve taken the liberty of sending for my married sister Julia to join us. She’s currently in London and should therefore be able to get here without too much delay.’
Emma’s head began to spin, and not just because of the attractive gentleman standing in front of her. Something wasn’t right. ‘But where is Uncle Frederick?’ she asked. ‘I don’t understand how you come to be here, Mr Lacey.’ The pounding in her head had suddenly got worse.
A fleeting frown appeared on Mr Lacey’s brow, quickly followed by a hesitant smile.
‘Please call me Richard, or Cousin Richard, if you will, for we are cousins… though somewhat distant ones.’ His eyes flicked to Mrs Wrighton, who shook her head. ‘Why don’t you wait until the doctor has seen you, and then I’ll be happy to explain everything.’ He moved rapidly towards the door. ‘I’d never forgive myself if I hindered your return to full health.’ Before she knew it, he had gone. Mrs Wrighton hurried after him, leaving Emma alone and even more confused. Such shocking news. And who was Mr Lacey? Her cousin? She’d never heard of him. Emma rubbed her aching brow. Matters were becoming more complicated just when she’d hoped they’d become simpler.
Ever cautious when it came to her brother’s safety, and mindful of her mother’s final warning, Emma couldn’t erase her troubling thoughts. Could Richard Lacey be involved in the misfortunes that had overtaken her family? He’d certainly made himself at home here. Indeed, he looked to have gained from their losses. Emma’s heart and instincts told her she should trust him, but her head, aching though it was, warned for the need to be on guard until she was sure. Why had she ever believed that getting home would be the end of her problems? The way things were going, these were just the start.
As soon as he reached his bedchamber, Richard took a deep breath. What had come over him? It was surely more than relief at the fact that the young woman was alive. Dolt! He’d been far too familiar. He hadn’t intended to unsettle her, but that was plainly what he’d accomplished. He’d shocked her the moment he’d entered the room. Thank goodness some sense of propriety had intervened. Annoyed with himself for blundering in too soon, he questioned why he hadn’t waited until the doctor had visited.
Striding to the window, he pushed the sash up, allowing the chilly air to rush in. Perhaps a cold blast would settle his nerves. He couldn’t understand it. He was annoyed with himself, and his pulse was racing. What was it about Emma Smythe that made his heart pound and his blood race?
Despite her bruised face, unkempt shorn hair, and boyish figure, she exuded femininity. How could he have mistaken her for a boy? Last night, his first instinct had been to keep her safe. All his protective feelings had been aroused again on seeing her just now. It had taken a supreme effort not to babble that he would take care of everything. She was sure to have thought him completely addle-pated if he’d done so.
As his pulse slowed to a more regular beat, he recalled more of their encounter. Her gaze had remained steady as he’d stupidly broken the dreadful news about her grandfather’s demise. What a clodpole! How could he have been so unthinking? The widening of those penetrating grey eyes and the paling of her cheeks were the only indications of the pain he’d inflicted. Most women of his acquaintance would’ve been calling for the hartshorn and burnt feathers and having the vapours, but Miss Smythe had remained icily calm… at least on the outside. Goodness knows what she’d really been feeling. But then she must be quite exceptional to have survived on her own, to have reached here in one piece and with her brother in tow.
Richard shook his head and took a deep breath of the bracing March air. He was Miss Smythe’s cousin and it was his duty to protect her. The fact that she made his pulse race was neither here nor there. He’d made a promise to his father on his deathbed that he would care for his younger siblings. Richard made another promise, this time to himself. He’d do the same for Miss Smythe and her brother – he’d set all to rights for them, whatever the cost to himself. Because a promise, once made, should never be broken.
Lost in his thoughts and blind to the rolling Cotswold landscape stretching out before him, it was the sudden gust of wind catching the curtains that brought him to his senses. Slamming the sash down, Richard turned and caught sight of his reflection in the cheval mirror. Surprisingly, he didn’t look as disorde
red as he felt. He straightened his cravat and ran swift fingers through his curls. Not as pristine as his valet would wish, but it would do. Satisfied that at least outwardly he looked composed, Richard went to rejoin Miss Smythe’s brother in the breakfast parlour. Dealing with another male was much more straightforward.
Chapter 4
Later that morning, Dr Chesney called on Emma and pronounced her well enough to leave her bed. Fortunately, Mrs Wrighton had discovered a trunk full of Emma’s mother’s clothes in the attic, left behind when they’d departed on their travels, and Polly had been kept busy adjusting them to fit. Now dressed in a sadly outdated but rather becoming long-sleeved dress of blue jaconet embellished with a wide ruffle collar, Emma sat in a large armchair in what had been her grandmother’s favourite drawing room. The cream-and-gold striped curtains had been drawn back from the French windows to give a clear view over the terrace where the green shoots of spring flowers were just beginning to peep over the rims of their tubs. Emma recalled the last time she’d visited. The garden had been in full bloom, and she’d picked a small posy of roses with her mother, which she’d presented to her grandmother in this very same room.
Emma blinked at the sudden appearance of her brother’s nose pressed against the window pane. Getting a grip on her still-fragile nerves, she smiled and waved. Jamie’s face lit up; he wrenched the window open and hurtled in, almost throwing himself onto his sister’s lap.
‘Oh, Emm, you’re recovered. I’m so glad,’ he gasped. ‘Cousin Richard told me you were getting better but I… I was afraid. Wasn’t sure whether you’d wake up at all after last night.’ He looked up at her through lowered lashes. ‘I… I thought I might be left on my own.’
A Gentleman’s Promise: A Regency Romance (Gentlemen Book 1) Page 3