The sound of an off-key baritone voice belting out a rather naughty ditty was a welcome distraction, and Emma peered out the glass to discover Bart digging not far from the conservatory.
“Oh, there is Mr. Carson.”
“I fear that singing is not his greatest talent,” Lord Hartshore admitted with a wince. “Still, what he lacks in skill he more than compensates with his enthusiasm.”
“Yes.”
Lord Hartshore shrugged. “It makes him happy.”
Reaching for her champagne, Emma turned her gaze back to the gentleman across from her.
“Have you ever attempted to halt him from his diggings?”
His brows rose. “Why should I?”
“Because there is nothing to find.”
He leaned back in his seat with a nonchalant movement. “How do we know he might not stumble across some treasure or other? Besides, it is the search that pleases him. Do we all not search for some treasure in our life? Fortune, notoriety . . . love?”
Emma was forced to concede that she had not considered the matter in that particular light.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
The golden gaze swept over her pale features. “What treasure do you hope to discover, Miss Cresswell?”
She did not have to ponder the question. “Security.”
“A worthy goal.”
“But dull,” she challenged, knowing that few would ever comprehend her burning need.
Astonishingly, a somber expression descended upon his dark countenance.
“I suppose that rather depends upon whether one possesses it or not. Like most luxuries, we take it for granted until it is gone,” he said in low tones. “I recall enough of my parents’ habit of appearing and disappearing from my life to sympathize with the fear of not knowing what the morrow might bring. It was Aunt Cassie who at last brought me comfort.”
Her heart skipped at his gentle understanding. “And what do you search for?”
He considered for a moment before replying. “Happiness, I suppose. Pleasure, beauty . . . love.”
“Love?”
“Does that surprise you?”
It did, Emma acknowledged. Among fashionable Society, gentlemen rarely admitted the need for such an emotion. Indeed, it was often frowned upon as a symbol of weakness. Of course, this gentleman was hardly the traditional sort, she wryly reminded herself. His strength came from deep within and was not dependent upon what others thought of him.
She felt a pang of envy at his natural confidence.
“I would think if you were searching for love, you would travel to London.”
“Why?”
“There are any number of suitable young maidens to chose from in town,” she said, pointing out the obvious.
An odd expression descended upon his lean features. “You think one can shop for love as if it were a new coat?”
She was taken aback by his probing question. “Well, they do refer to the Season as the Marriage Mart.”
“Ah, but choosing a proper bride and falling in love are two entirely different matters.” He leaned forward, bringing him close enough that the heat and scent of him seemed to surround her. “I have no interest in the herd of debutantes being auctioned to the highest bidder. I wish to possess the same magic that Cassie and Fredrick shared.”
For no reason, a sharp pang assailed her at the thought of some beautiful maiden bewitching this gentleman.
She set down her fork, her appetite suddenly absent.
“And you believe you will find such a maiden in Kent?”
“Actually I trust in Fate to drop her at my very feet.”
There was something in his husky tone that had her gaze lowering to her half-empty plate.
“I wish you luck.”
His chuckle sent a shiver down her spine.
“Thank you. I have a premonition that I shall need it.” There was a rustle, then a bowl of ripe strawberries was waved beneath her eyes. “Some fruit?”
She was saved from the necessity of answering as the door to the conservatory opened and a flustered Lady Hartshore made her way to the table.
At her arrival, both Emma and Lord Hartshore rose to their feet.
“Oh, Cedric, my dear,” she cried in distress. “Forgive me for intruding on your lovely luncheon.”
“We were just finishing,” Lord Hartshore assured the older woman. “What has occurred?”
“I was sitting in the back parlor, enjoying a lovely cup of tea, when that dreadful . . .” Her words trailed away as her gaze landed upon the table. “Is that lobster?”
Tossing Emma an amused glance, Lord Hartshore obligingly reached for the platter of lobster.
“Yes, indeed it is. Would you care for a taste?”
Lady Hartshore eagerly reached out to take the buttered delicacy.
“Well, perhaps just a taste.”
Lord Hartshore reached for another plate. “Some custard?”
She reached out her hand, only to pull it hastily back. “Oh, it looks so tempting, but Fredrick says that custards always give me nightmares.”
Lord Hartshore’s lips twitched again, but he readily set aside the dangerous custard.
“Well, we cannot have that.”
Lady Hartshore heaved a sigh. “No, I suppose not.”
“Was there a reason for seeking me out, Aunt Cassie?” he prompted gently.
“Of course. How silly of me,” Lady Hartshore exclaimed, returning the lobster to the table. “That wretched vicar has called.”
Emma grimaced, but Lord Hartshore merely shrugged. “I suppose it was inevitable.”
“Yes,” Lady Hartshore mourned, then visibly brightened. “Although his companion appears delightful enough. And quite handsome.”
Sensing the flighty countess was distracted once again, Lord Hartshore steered her back to the purpose of seeking him out.
“Do you wish me to rid you of your unwelcome guest?”
Lady Hartshore pressed her hands together. “If you would, my dear. I must ensure that Mrs. Borelli does not do anything foolish.”
“I shall be along in a moment,” Lord Hartshore promised.
“Thank you, Cedric.” With a grateful smile Lady Hartshore scurried away. No doubt pondering how to hide the most deadly knives from the ready hands of her volatile cook.
With a rueful grimace Lord Hartshore turned back to the silent Emma.
“It appears our interlude is at an end,” he apologized. He held out his arm. “Shall we become St. George and rid Mayford of its dragon?”
“Perhaps I should help Lady Hartshore.” Emma belatedly recalled her duty to her employer.
Reaching out, he firmly placed her hand upon his arm. “Oh, no, I refuse to do battle with the vicar without the support of flanking troops. Besides, your presence will ensure that I do not prove to be more dangerous than Mrs. Borelli.”
Emma allowed herself to be led from the room, flashing him an amused smile.
“You could always take Pudge. He clearly is accustomed to your devious tactics.”
He gave a bark of laughter. “I fear the last occasion Pudge encountered Mr. Allensway, he possessed the poor taste to ... er ... relieve himself upon the man’s new shoes. I doubt if he has managed to conjure the Christian spirit of forgiving and forgetting.”
She tried to choke back her laugh at the image of Pudge happily soaking the vicar’s shoes.
“You are making that up,” she accused the earl.
“I wish I were.” Lord Hartshore heaved a mocking sigh as they made their way through the corridor. “Mr. Allensway condemned poor Pudge to the netherworld.”
Emma gave a shake of her head. Although she should no doubt regret whatever weakness had prompted her to join Lord Hartshore in the conservatory, she could not conjure the elusive emotion. Instead, she knew that she would tuck the memory of their afternoon together along with their other shared moments in a secret portion of her mind. Memories that would be pulled out when she was far from
Kent to bring brightness to a dark day.
Reaching the front parlor, he flashed her an encouraging smile before they stepped through the door. At their entrance, two gentlemen rose to their feet.
Emma gave the vicar a cursory glance before turning her attention to the tall gentleman with long, gray hair pulled back from his thin countenance in a velvet ribbon. A heavy mustache covered his upper lip and a pair of thick glasses distorted his green eyes. He was attired in somber black with an ebony cane in one hand.
As Lady Hartshore claimed, he was a handsome gentleman. A gentleman who might have graced any proper drawing room.
But at the sight of the stranger Emma felt her heart slam to a halt and her knees threaten to buckle.
This was no gentleman.
This was the Devilish Dandy.
“No . . . oh, no,” she whispered.
Nine
For a dreadful moment Emma feared that her knees might give way and she would crumple to the floor.
Heavens above, why had her father followed her to Kent?
Hadn’t she made it grimly clear when he had returned to London that she had no desire to see him?
She had ignored his every message. She had avoided visiting Sarah when she feared he might be in her home. She had even halted her regular trips to Hatcher’s with the knowledge he might attempt to seek her out there.
Why the blazes could he not leave her in peace?
Unaware of the undercurrents in the air, the vicar stepped forward and cleared his throat in a self-important fashion.
“My lord, how fortunate you are here. I have brought my guest, Mr. Winchell, to introduce him to your lovely aunt.”
Unimpressed, Lord Hartshore gave a faint shrug. “I fear there has been a trifling incident below stairs that has demanded Lady Hartshore’s attention.”
The vicar’s face paled to a pasty hue at the thought of Mrs. Borelli collecting her knives from the kitchen, but determined to impress his guest, he managed a weak smile.
“Ah ... indeed. Well, no matter. I would be pleased to make you known to Mr. Winchell. Mr. Winchell, this is the esteemed Lord Hartshore.”
Emma clenched her hands as her father stepped forward. She did not fear he was about to expose her. He would not have arrived in Kent under the guise of the mysterious Mr. Winchell if he wanted others to know his true identity. There was, however, always the possibility that Lord Hartshore might recognize him as the notorious Solomon Cresswell. From there it was only a short leap to realize she was related to the jewel thief.
The mere thought was enough to make her heart freeze in horror.
Thankfully there was nothing more than mild curiosity as Lord Hartshore gave a faint bow.
“Mr. Winchell.”
“My lord.”
“And this is Lady Hartshore’s companion, Miss . . . er ...” The vicar gave his cravat an uncomfortable tug as he struggled to recall Emma’s name.
Emma paid him no heed as her father moved to take her lifeless hand in his own.
“Cresswell,” he completed for the vicar.
Emma’s shaky knees abruptly stiffened at the manner Solomon was regarding her with such tender concern.
She was not fooled for a moment.
He obviously wanted something from her.
The question was . . . what?
At her side she felt Lord Hartshore shift in surprise. “You are acquainted?”
The Devilish Dandy smiled with elegant ease. “I have the pleasure of being an old acquaintance of Emma’s father.”
Emma thinned her lips in displeasure. How easily the lies tripped from his tongue. She firmly withdrew her hand from his grasp.
“What are you doing here?”
Undeterred by her pointed lack of warmth, Solomon stroked the smooth ebony cane.
“The bishop requested that I visit the neighborhood, and, as you know, I have always preferred being in the country,” he promptly explained, blithely ignoring the fact that he had never encountered a bishop in his scandalous life and that he had always adamantly professed a rousing distaste for the country. “What a pleasant surprise to discover such an old friend already in residence.”
“A surprise, indeed,” Lord Hartshore abruptly intruded, clearly beginning to sense there was something odd in the tension between her and Mr. Winchell. “I believe that you have just come from London?”
Solomon allowed the faintest glint to enter his eye at the gentleman’s sharp question.
“In a rather roundabout route. I have recently visited the estate of Lord Chance, not far from here. He is currently in residence with his mother and fiancée.”
Emma caught her breath. When she had left London, Sarah had not mentioned she would be traveling to the countryseat of her soon-to-be-husband, Lord Chance. Somehow the thought that her sister was so close provided a measure of comfort.
“They are well?” she asked before she could halt the question.
Her father gave a teasing grimace. “Quite well and so disgustingly happy, they are unbearable to be around. Even Lady Chance appears to be delighted with the upcoming nuptials.”
Emma could not have been more pleased. There had been no doubt that Lord Chance was completely besotted with Sarah. And who could possibly blame him? She was beautiful, kind, and utterly giving of herself. But Lady Chance had been far less keen to allow the daughter of the Devilish Dandy into her family.
Emma knew that Sarah must be deeply relieved to have her approval before the wedding.
“I am pleased to hear so,” she murmured.
“As am I,” Solomon agreed before turning toward the gentleman regarding him in a suspicious fashion. “My lord, although I have been here a brief time, I have heard a great deal of you. The tenants are very proud to speak of the kind and generous earl.”
Lord Hartshore’s expression did not soften despite the obvious attempt at flattery.
“I consider them more friend than tenant,” he said in firm tones.
Solomon gave an admiring nod of his head. “A worthy sentiment.”
The vicar pressed himself forward, determined to share his own views on the subject.
“Yes, indeed, although it would not do to encourage those of lesser birth to imagine themselves as equals with their betters,” he declared in stern tones. “They can be so encroaching, do you not think, Mr. Winchell?”
A decided frost fell upon the Devilish Dandy’s thin features as he turned to regard his current host.
“I think we are all God’s creatures, Mr. Allensway,” he said with a slow emphasis. “And I do not recall that when God requested that we love our neighbors, he specified only those of noble birth.”
Although obtuse to the true spirit of charity, Mr. Allensway possessed enough self-preservation to realize he had not pleased the gentleman he believed to hold his future in his hands.
“No, of course not. I merely meant that I would not wish to see discontent among the lower classes.”
The Devilish Dandy was not about to let him off so easily. “Discontent comes from empty bellies and lack of hope, not from the hand of kindness. I trust your charitable efforts have taught you as much?”
The vicar paled, no doubt realizing that kind and charitable were two words that would never be applied to him.
“Yes, of course.”
An awkward silence fell before Lord Hartshore was smoothly stepping into the breach.
“Will you be staying long, Mr. Winchell?”
“That rather depends.” Solomon returned his gaze to Emma’s pale face. “I have a certain duty to perform before returning to London.”
So, she was right, Emma seethed. He did want something from her. Although she could not imagine what it could be. She had no money and nothing of value beyond. . . of course! Her emerald pendant.
“You make it sound quite mysterious,” Lord Hartshore was saying as Emma glared at her father.
Solomon shrugged. “More delicate than mysterious, my lord.”
Lor
d Hartshore gave a grunt, clearly dissatisfied by the evasive response.
“And it is your first visit to Kent?”
“I was here some years ago. Indeed, I once stayed for several weeks not far from here.”
“Then perhaps you will encounter more than one old acquaintance among the neighbors.”
Solomon smiled, although his expression was one of disbelief.
“Perhaps.”
Emma shuddered at the mere thought. Good heavens, she could not bear another round of finger-pointing and cold shoulders. Of seeing the horror in Lord Hartshore’s golden eyes.
Pressing a hand to her erratic heart, Emma realized that she had to be alone. She had to think of what she was to do. More important, she had to regain her composure before she revealed just how distressed she was by the arrival of Mr. Winchell.
“I must see to Lady Hartshore,” she muttered, beginning to back toward the door.
Predictably, her father was not about to allow her to escape so easily.
“Miss Cresswell, I hope you will consent to a brief visit tomorrow? We have much to discuss.”
Emma’s hand instinctively clasped the emerald pendant. She did not want to hear what it was her father wished to discuss. She just wanted him to disappear as swiftly as he had appeared.
“My duties keep me very occupied.”
His smile never wavered. “I am certain that Lady Hartshore would not begrudge an old acquaintance a few moments.”
Vividly aware of Lord Hartshore’s probing gaze and the gathering frown upon the vicar’s brow, Emma had little choice but to agree.
“Very well. Now you must excuse me.”
Refusing to allow another opportunity to be halted, Emma whirled on her heel and fled the room.
Blast the Devilish Dandy.
Would she never be free of him?
* * *
Cedric watched Emma’s abrupt departure with a growing sense of unease. Something was troubling her. Something connected with Mr. Winchell.
And he intended to discover precisely what it was.
“I will return in a moment,” he promised with a hasty bow, uncaring that it was hardly polite to leave the guests on their own.
Swiftly following in her wake, Cedric caught sight of her as she disappeared into the library. Within moments he had joined her in the book-lined room and firmly shut the door behind her.
When You Wish Page 28