Emmeline

by Jennifer Moore

  Chatsworth flashed the familiar white-toothed smile the gossip columnists reproduced so faithfully in their cartoons. “You are the intelligent one.” He urged his horse forward at a run.

  Arthur followed.

  Ten minutes later, with their horses happily munching oats in the stables, the men walked up the stone steps to the manor house.

  Before they reached the door, it opened, and Mr. William Griffin came out personally to greet them. “Is this what it takes to bring you both back here? A house party?” He gave a dramatic sigh and shook his head as if annoyed by the entire thing, but underneath the expression, Arthur knew his friend was pleased.

  Chatsworth put an arm around Griff’s shoulders. “What better way to celebrate one year of marriage to the lovely Mrs. Griffin than to entertain, accommodate, and feed a houseful of unwanted guests?” He grinned.

  “Unwanted?” Griff said, all the former teasing gone from his expression. “You could not be more wrong, sir.” He clapped each man on the shoulder. “I’m so pleased you both consented to attend. Rothschild is already here. And the young ladies arrived just this morning.”

  “Young ladies?” Chatsworth said. He pulled away and pressed his hand to his chest, pretending the news caught him by surprise.

  “Yes, and before you ask, Miss Joanna Presley is among them.” Griff gave his friend a teasing smirk, then turned to include Arthur in the conversation. “Of course, my wife would be bereft without her. And two others have come as well: Miss Emmeline Newton, the honorable daughter of the late Baron Newton. She is a friend of Miss Presley’s.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever met Miss Newton,” Chatsworth said. “Apparently, your cousin has been keeping her friend to herself.”

  “I’ve not met her either.” Arthur shrugged. He remembered the Baron Newton had died a few years earlier—from the same fever that had killed Margaret. If he wasn’t mistaken, the title had been taken up by a distant cousin, one who was regularly absent for important votes and who had gambled away a significant portion of his estate. Arthur had heard rumors the house had been lost to debtors, but what had become of the baroness and young Miss Newton, he hadn’t heard.

  “And Miss Blanche Stewart is here as well,” Griff said.

  Chatsworth nodded. “I have made her acquaintance a few times. Strikes me as a pleasant young woman.”

  Arthur thought the young lady’s presence another surprising choice. “I didn’t realize Mrs. Newton was well acquainted with Miss Stewart.”

  “Miss Stewart’s mother is a dear friend of my wife’s mother,” Griff explained. “As Chatworth pointed out, she’s . . . pleasant. Reminds me quite a bit of Margaret, truth be told.” His voice lowered at the last sentence, as if saying it quietly would make it easier for Arthur to hear.

  The pair looked toward him, and Arthur again felt uncomfortable at the attention. He cleared his throat and glanced pointedly at the door. “Are you going to invite us in, or has Mrs. Griffin deemed us too ill-mannered for her home?”

  “Never,” Griff said, the smirk returning. “The pair of you are as dear to me as any brothers, and my wife is fully aware that marrying me meant enduring your company as well.” He stepped to the side, motioning with a sweep of his hand for the gentlemen to enter.

  As Arthur passed, Griff walked inside with him. “You’ll never be unwelcome at Griffin Park, Mather. Especially not when your steward sends ahead three cases of my favorite brandy.”

  They came into the grand front hall, and a maid took their hats, gloves, and riding crops. Directly ahead, a large staircase rose to a landing from which it branched, each side curving around to the east and west wings of the upper floor. Arthur remembered the first time he’d stepped across the threshold as a twelve-year-old boy on school holiday. The house even smelled the same. A comfortable feeling settled over him, as it always did, a welcoming feeling that he strove to instill in his own guests.

  “Mrs. Griffin sent your trunks to your usual rooms in the west wing,” Griff said. “You might prefer to wash up before—”

  “Chatsworth! Mather!” Lewis Rothschild strode out of the drawing room, his walking stick tapping on the tiled floor and his voice booming through the high-ceilinged hall. He wore a perfectly tailored coat and a rumpled waistcoat. Though the man’s style was, as usual, impeccable, his hair was deliberately mussed—he managed to always look as if he’d not given a thought to his appearance, carrying himself with a devil-may-care attitude. “Isn’t this just the thing? The four of us again at Griffin Park?” His grin was rather wider than normal, and Arthur suspected he must have already sampled the brandy. “But Griff has improved the experience tremendously”—he pointed with his walking stick toward the drawing room—“with the addition of young ladies.”

  The others glanced in the direction he indicated.

  “That Miss Newton.” Rothschild spoke in a lowered voice. “She’s a spirited one. Not your type, Mather, but as for myself, I do enjoy a challenge.”

  Arthur glanced toward the drawing room doorway again, hoping his friend’s voice hadn’t carried. Rothschild’s meaning was obvious, and Arthur was hardly surprised. He held a great fondness for his friend, but he didn’t particularly approve of Rothschild’s reputation. Though the man was a gentleman, he did not always act so, especially where pretty ladies were concerned. A flirt if there ever was one. And for reasons Arthur still couldn’t fathom, ladies found him irresistible. And apparently, he’d already set his mind to winning Miss Newton’s affection.

  Arthur couldn’t help hoping the young woman was not easily swayed by pretty words.

  Mrs. Griffin rose from her chair when the men entered the drawing room and came to greet them. “Welcome, welcome. Lord Mather, Lord Chatsworth. I am so delighted you arrived safely.” Her smile was bright, showing the fetching dimples Arthur’s friend so admired.

  Arthur and Chatsworth exchanged greetings with their hostess.

  Rothschild lifted a glass of brandy from the mantel and took a sip.

  Griff stood beside his wife.

  As Arthur glanced around the familiar room, he could see subtle differences since the last time he’d visited. The curtains were sheer instead of heavy, and some of the furniture was arranged differently. It appeared the new mistress of the house favored pastel colors and landscape paintings.

  “Come,” Mrs. Griffin said. “Allow me to make introductions.” She motioned toward the other women, who had risen to their feet.

  The group crossed the room, and Arthur turned his attention to the ladies. He recognized Miss Blanche Stewart and, of course, his cousin Joanna Presley, but it took a moment before he remembered why the other woman looked familiar.

  Her gaze met his, and a scowl tightened her eyes.

  Seeing it was like a blow to his gut. He stumbled, realizing with a jolt exactly where he’d seen Miss Newton. She was the very woman who’d argued with him in St. James’s Park.

  What had Rothschild said? Spirited? The word didn’t even come close to what Arthur had seen of the young lady. And he could think of much more accurate words to describe her: rude, impudent, cheeky, insulting . . .

  He looked to Joanna, wondering why his cousin hadn’t mentioned this happenstance, but she didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, she joined Rothschild near the hearth and struck up a conversation with him.

  Her action was an answer in itself. Traitor. She knew he wouldn’t have come if he’d been made aware of that guest.

  “And if I may, Miss Newton, this is Lord Mather,” Mrs. Griffin’s words broke through his thoughts.

  Arthur inclined his head. “How do you do?” He said the words automatically.

  “My lord.” Miss Newton smiled but only with her lips. She bent her knees in a curtsy, somehow making the motion sharp.

  She turned away almost immediately to join Rothschild and Joanna.

  Mrs. Griffin appare
ntly didn’t notice the woman’s rudeness, seeming much more interested in making certain Arthur was introduced to Miss Stewart and encouraging their conversation.

  “Miss Stewart, why don’t you tell Lord Mather about your cats?” Mrs. Griffin prompted.

  The young lady gave a soft smile, and her eyes lit up. “I do have some extremely special cats, your lordship. Clementine is a white angora, and she is a dear. She just loves to chase a rolling ball. And Mr. Ruffles is a Blue cat from France.”

  Arthur smiled and nodded as she continued on. After only a moment of small talk with the woman, he saw what Griff had meant. The young lady was extremely like his late wife—aside from her obsession with cats. Arthur had an uneasy feeling that Miss Stewart’s resemblance, both in appearance and temperament to Margaret’s, was the reason Mrs. Griffin had invited her. He was certain Mrs. Griffin intended a romantic relationship to develop. She must think three-and-a-half years to be enough time to mourn. But did they really believe he needed a new wife exactly like the first?

  Arthur felt betrayed, assaulted on all fronts. But he was also trapped. He tugged at his cravat, wishing the blasted thing weren’t so tight, and considered his options. He couldn’t leave, of course, and risk offending his friends—especially Mrs. Griffin.

  And on the other front, could he really endure weeks with Miss Newton when one encounter with her months earlier still infuriated him?

  Avoiding either of the women at such a small gathering would be impossible.

  Arthur’s head ached, and instead of considering any longer, he went to the side table, let out a heavy sigh, and poured himself a glass of Griff’s favorite brandy.

  Chapter 4

  Emmeline took a bite of toast and turned the ironed page of the broadsheet. Griffin Park’s breakfast room was sunny and bright, its walls painted yellow, with sheer curtains and fresh flowers. Her mother would adore this room when she arrived in a few weeks.

  Men’s voices sounded from outside the room, and she darted a glance toward the door on the other side, wondering if she could make it out before they entered. She’d managed to avoid speaking to Lord Mather at dinner the evening before, as well as in the drawing room afterward, but didn’t think she could continue coming up with reasons to leave when he joined a conversation. Not without being extremely rude. Best to steer clear of him altogether. But before she could even rise, the four gentlemen stepped through the doorway. Their conversation cut off immediately when they saw her.

  Emmeline rose and gave a curtsy.

  “Good morning, Miss Newton.” Mr. Griffin smiled widely, his eyes crinkling. “I hope you had a pleasant night.”

  “I did. Thank you.”

  The other gentlemen greeted her as well and then went to the side table, where the breakfast selections were laid out.

  Mr. Griffin remained standing on the other side of the table, across from Emmeline, and set a hand on the back of a chair. “And your accommodations are suitable?”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Mather looking into the mirror over the hearth. He appeared to be having trouble with his cravat.

  “Everything has been just splendid, sir.”

  “Excellent. I’m very glad to hear it,” Mr. Griffin said. “And have you plans this morning? You’ve risen quite early.”

  “I hoped to explore the gardens for a bit. Mrs. Griffin has plans for us to visit a haberdashery later, so I thought to do it early.” She glanced at the other men. “And I think you said last night that the four of you intend to go hunting?”

  “Indeed, we do,” Mr. Griffin said, grinning. “These chaps and I have been shooting birds in Griffin Park’s hedgerows for nearly twenty years. ’Twould be a shame to stop now.” He gave a cheerful nod and moved to join his friends.

  Mr. Rothschild came around the table with a plate and sat next to Emmeline. A footman brought him coffee. “What are you reading, Miss Newton?” He leaned closer to examine the news story over her shoulder.

  “A fascinating turn of events on the Malay Peninsula,” she said, tapping the article.

  “Oh?” He spread butter over a piece of toast.

  “Sir Stamford Raffles and Major General William Farquhar are attempting to establish a British trading colony,” Emmeline explained, pleased that Mr. Rothschild appeared interested. “Since the sultan of the region will not allow it, they are appealing to the sultan’s elder brother, promising to recognize him as the ruler of the new colony.” She turned back to the previous page. “This is where it becomes interesting. You see, the tradition of the Malay people will only allow a person who was at the dying sultan’s side to inherit power. And the older brother, who should have been the sultan by rights of his birth, was away getting married when his father died.” She turned the page around, giving Mr. Rothschild a better view of the sultan’s portrait. “What do you think of that? An amazing story, wouldn’t you say?”

  Mr. Rothschild yawned. “Rather a complicated one for so early in the morning.” He skewered a piece of sausage and popped it into his mouth. “Does the paper have any satirical cartoons?”

  Emmeline furrowed her brows, unable to believe the man could have no curiosity in regards to something so compelling. She had misjudged his interest completely. Embarrassed, she slid the newspaper back toward herself to keep reading.

  The other gentlemen had taken seats on the opposite side of the table.

  “It is quite amazing,” Mr. Griffin said. “I am always intrigued by foreign traditions, especially those that seem so primitive.”

  “Yes.” Emmeline smiled, glad to see that at least someone was able to have a mentally stimulating conversation this early in the morning. “And what is your opinion on the matter, Mr. Griffin? Are Raffles and Farquhar’s actions ethical?”

  He chewed a bite of toast and swallowed before answering. “I believe any action done in the interest of expanding the empire is the best action.”

  “Keeps the Dutch from monopolizing trade in the region,” Lord Chatsworth said.

  Lord Mather set down his coffee cup. “And what is your opinion on the matter, Miss Newton?” He fixed her with a steady gaze. “I’ve no doubt you have one.”

  She wondered if the others could hear the sarcasm in his voice. “I am still considering where I stand on the issue. I would like to understand the reasoning of it all better, as well as the future implications,” she said, wanting him to know she used logic and not simply feminine intuition to make decisions.

  “A wise approach,” Mr. Griffin said, nodding and giving a pleased smile. “To all matters.”

  “If anyone can explain foreign policy and trade in the Far East, it’s Mather,” Lord Chatsworth said, pointing with his fork toward his friend. “I’d wager the man understands more about Britain’s dealings abroad than any man in Parliament. Understands more about nearly everything than the rest of us.”

  Emmeline turned her gaze to Lord Mather. “And what do you think about this upheaval of the local government for Britain’s financial gain, my lord?” she asked. She knew full well that as a Tory, a royalist, and a capitalist, he would defend the expansion of the empire as well, and she also knew full well that in spite of her earlier statement of still developing an opinion, she would very likely completely disagree with him.

  Lord Mather set his knife and fork on his plate and considered for a moment before answering. “I know neither man went into it without consulting with myself, other members of the House of Lords, or the local ambassadors to the region. Lord Raffles conducted months of research into the matter, and neither man entered into the agreement lightly, and certainly not with the intention to take advantage of the local traditions.” He spoke in a measured voice, one that was used to explaining complicated politics—and one that was used to masking truths with careful words, she thought.

  “But that’s exactly what they did,” Emmeline said. “They exploited t
he customs of the Malay people to get to the natural resources of the land.”

  “Not to benefit themselves but the empire,” Lord Mather said. “As Chats­worth explained, the Dutch control the trade in that region.”

  She was annoyed by his calmness when the injustice of it all made her clench her hands in her lap. Why did no one ask the Malay people what they wanted? She forced her voice to be steady. “But that is by design, is it not? Once the war ended, Britain returned Malacca to Dutch rule.”

  “That is true.” Lord Mather nodded. He held up a finger as if he were a teacher making an important point. “But rather than allow any one country to become too powerful, Britain’s trading station will keep the economics of the region in check.”

  Mr. Rothschild groaned and held up his hands as if the conversation were too much for him to handle. “I hardly think a young lady needs to worry herself with such matters,” he said, resting his wrist on the arm of her chair. “Wouldn’t you rather speak of something more pleasant, Miss Newton?” He pushed the newspaper away, across the table, and turned more fully toward her. “Perhaps we can talk about the duke’s ball. And if I might be so bold, I should like to take this opportunity to claim your hand for the first dance.”

  Emmeline blinked, the man’s words and the abrupt change of topic leaving her utterly speechless. Her initial reaction was anger. How dare he speak to her as if she were a child? But the anger abated quickly, leaving her hollow. The familiar feeling of a man returning her to her place—the place he deemed suitable—burned inside her stomach. Her ears went hot. She was frustrated at not being taken seriously, and she felt ashamed that she had assumed it might be different in this company. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t argue about political matters at the house party, and yet, here she was, less than a day after arriving, doing just that. Somehow, Lord Mather brought out the most contrary side in her. And while Mr. Rothschild did not argue, Emmeline would have preferred that to his speaking down to her as if she were a simpleminded debutante.