It was apparent to every member of the ton that the handsome Marquess of Hartwell was falling horridly in love with Lady Emma Wren. Whispers followed the pair through every society activity. Thomas was normally a reserved man even in the throes of his passion for Caroline. But there was an unmistakable spring in his step when he was with Emma. The joyful note in his voice was a departure from his cordial tones. Some debutantes had even whispered that there was a ready smile reserved only for his future bride. The matrons sniffed at any mention of love. The debutantes swooned. Nathaniel found the whole matter sickening.
He was no stranger to love, having fallen victim to Cupid's wily arrow. The only difference being he was not happily engaged to his love. There were no objections to the entanglement, but...
“Lord Hedgeton, why are you so alone?” The merry voice boomed through the empty box, stirring Nathaniel from his reverie. Ever thick as thieves, Helena and Lettice appeared in the doorway, arm-in-arm.
“Good evening, Lady Helena, Miss Lettice, at last I have some company!”
“Where is everyone? It’s unlike Emma to skip the theatre,” Lettice wondered aloud.
“Perhaps she wished to avoid the odious Lady Carradine. She has made quite the negative impact upon the ton. Not that it matters. Even the ire of all the matrons would do little to impede her position,” Helena added, wrinkling her nose.
“Lord Carradine isn’t a bad chap, he just inherited an earldom and somehow Lady Carradine found him just in time. Quite the elevation for her. I would say her attitude is the result of ill-breeding, but her family is quite respectable.”
“Oh yes! Lord Hartwell and you encountered her on the Continent. We heard from Emma because she interrupted them at Almack’s the other night.”
“How absolutely divine! The spurned would-be lover is out to sabotage the Marquess’ engagement. That would make a wonderful play!” Lettice exclaimed as she clapped her hands together in excitement.
“Dear Lettice, it is dreadful, not divine. Poor Emma. I do wonder, though, why everyone is gone.”
“It is too late to call on them, so I suppose we will have to wait until the morning to hear the reason of their absence.” Nathaniel watched the two ladies as they agreed with his statement. He was sure Helena was considering ways to circumvent the rules of society and visit at such an advanced hour. There was not a reason to do so unless some terrible event had transpired.
The redhead noticed the earl’s attention. Her eyes flickered momentarily to his gaze before settling happily on the lush carpet. She felt her cheeks begin to burn and hated that she blushed so easily. How she longed for Emma’s complexion that rarely showed her own embarrassment unless one was familiar with her contours of her face.
Lettice raised an eyebrow, eyes darting between the two. The pair quite infuriated her even with her obsession with all matters of romance. It mainly dealt with her relegation to being a makeshift chaperone to their torrid love. They danced around each other’s feelings, neither being willing to confess first.
She, too, knew that dread emotion. That man with the beautiful vision for the world. She loved him deeply. He was too involved in his glorious work to pay a mere girl like her any mind. There was also the matter that he was in trade. A marriage to such a man would be impossible. And so, Lettice would pine until she breathed her last breath. Surely, they would be joined together in heaven. Is that not what she had been taught all these years?
According to society, Nathaniel should be the one to crumble first and approach her father to ask for Helena’s hand in marriage. No such event had transpired. Lettice admonished them both daily, begging Nathaniel to seek out her father and insisting to Helena that she should flirt with others to incur his jealousy. She staunchly refused and so Lettice was subjected to this torture nearly every day.
“I promised Lady Worthing that I would pay her a visit during the intermission, and I cannot break a promise. Please excuse me.” With a half-hearted curtsy and a dramatic eye roll, Lettice departed. She left two embarrassed lovers in her wake.
“I do believe Lettice has grown tired of us,” Helena said softly.
“As I have grown tired of Hartwell and Emma and their moony eyes.”
“Oh yes, they are worse, by far. We are charming in our avoidance.” She heaved a sigh and looked directly at Nathaniel. “My father is keen on betrothing me to Lord Percy Worthing.”
“He is a, ahem, fine choice for a husband,” Nathaniel managed. He avoided her glare. “Interesting chap. I am sure you would get on well.” That was a bloody lie. Percy Worthing was a scoundrel.
“Is that so? I shall tell him to accept then.” Helena turned on her heel, stalking from the box with not so much as a glance back.
Lord Hedgeton did not seem concerned. She was certainly bluffing, wasn’t she? Even those girls newly out were aware of Lord Worthing's proclivities. She would not dare...right?
Lettice had not yet traveled far when a man blocked her path. He was in the dusty garb of a servant. His calloused, dirt-streaked hands were clenched around a crumpled note. He shoved it towards the blonde. She backed away with a squeal, catching a whiff of his musty odor.
She abhorred the poor. They could only be made acceptable if they were noblemen in disguise. At least then there would be no dirt beneath fingernails. She only liked well-bred Englishmen. The influx of foreigners distressed her to no end. Why could they not go back to their homes? The English were heavily colonizing these places in hopes of civilizing them. She believed they were beyond help, having been so far from the Lord. But, her love was helping them find their way to heaven. Someone people found fault with his methods. They were right fools.
~
“It is freezing,” Emma muttered, shortly after they stepped outside. Her feet were already damp from the steadily falling snow. Despite her discomfort, she had to admit the scenery was very grand. Snow fell quietly against the pristine facades of Mayfair. With the dim glow of the lamplight obscuring most business on the street, she hoped Thomas would steal another kiss. She was awfully selfish to be even considering such matters after the evening’s events.
Love made one stupid, she decided. She could not be counted upon to conduct herself in a sane manner. Thomas was far too glorious for her to behold and keep her wits sharp. Her heart soared high in the sky in his presence.
“I do wish I could control the weather, dear Emma, but I cannot. I promise this shall not take long,” the Marquess assured her, tucking her hand closer to the warmth of his body.
“I must say, Thomas, I am very surprised you did not choose to end our engagement,” she said. Her voice was flecked with mingling confusion and delight.
“It was a simple decision. I care for you deeply. To that end, I have grown accustomed to picturing you as my wife. I find that no one else will suffice.”
Caring is not loving, she reminded herself. But it was better than feeling only responsibility. Her silly heart thumped wildly at his words, willing him to speak more.
“In fact, I have discussed with your father and we have bandied about the possibility of getting married sooner. Lord Sheridan thought it best considering recent events.”
“What do you mean exactly? My mother is African, what does that matter?
“Surely you jest?” Thomas asked, stopping in his tracks. Was she so naive to think that no one would blink an eye at a duchess with mixed blood?
“There are rumours that Queen Emma has black ancestry and no one cares one whit. Why should I be any different?” Having been presented to the queen, Emma was quite certain of the claims. Her features were not European in the least. It pleased her greatly to have a kindred soul in the queen.
“She is the Queen of England, for one. Those rumours are simply rumours that the royal family can squash with little effort. There is some definitive proof that you are mixed. The accounts of Captain Wren's soldiers, for one.”
“Again. What is so wrong with that?” Her tone was bordering on indignant.
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“Because most of England views Africans as inferior beings. They are still kept as slaves. The slave trade was abolished in Great Britain and too many do not like this loss of income. To many, having any drop of African blood makes you a savage as well. Yes, you were raised in a gentleman’s household and are to marry me. The rage and disgust will be palpable. Do not be surprised if you lose many acquaintances.”
“The few friends I do have will not cut me,” Emma announced. She was not confident of this statement. She threw her shoulders back. “If they do, I have no need of them anyway.”
“Your flippancy is admirable.” He pressed a cold kiss to her temple. “You are to be my responsibility, Emmy. We will hasten our nuptials to offset any backlash. I will not let any harm come to you.”
She felt low. Responsibility. That dreaded word. Six syllables dripping with practical matters like accounts and tenants. It made her little more than another item on his daily list to check off.
“Of course, this makes perfect sense,” Emma agreed, mood dropping. “Well, if that is all, I should like to return home. It is far too cold for leisurely strolls.” She turned to change their course back to her home.
“Wait, just a moment,” Thomas ordered. “I have upset you.” He moved in front of her. “What did I say?”
“You will find me to be such a ninny,” she wavered. Those narrowed eyes bearing down on her gave her strength. “I do not like to be thought of as a responsibility. It is so droll. I want to be more than that.”
Thomas watched the way her big golden-brown eyes appraised him with the look of a cornered animal. His hands caressed her shoulders. Emma rose to the balls of her feet, tilting her head back. He kissed her tenderly. Maybe the kiss would convey what he found difficult to put into words.
Emma's lips moved against his with yearning intensity. It was very different from the handful of kisses they had shared. He felt the fear she did not show and the uncertainty of those she considered friends. Emma would always have him. He would always provide for her. He pulled away, moving his lips to place a kiss on her icy nose.
“You are much more than a responsibility. I cannot fathom how much at this moment. I know, however, that these feelings of mine will on grown with time...as will yours.”
“I do not believe you are aware to the depth of my affections. It would certainly frighten you. If my feelings grow anymore, I fear my heart will burst.” It felt close to such an event at the present moment. That tenderness simmering in his eyes would undo her on this very street.
“Frighten? I doubt that.” He kissed her again. But with far more urgency. Emma, again, found herself pleasantly warm. Who needed a cloak when there were kisses? Or arms to wrap around you and hold you close? It was no wonder that ladies liked to take interludes out on balconies. Kissing was far more fun that Almack's or musicales.
Emma was the first to break the kiss. “You really should escort me home, Thomas. The hour is late and soon there will be carriages filling the streets. Should you like to be caught kissing me on a street corner?”
“You make many valid points that I am tempted to ignore completely.” There were numerous places he would like to be caught kissing her. Getting caught was imperative in his plans because he was far too interested in what lay beneath her muslins and silks.
Thomas moved an inch away from her for propriety's sake. Propriety be damned! He would lead his fiancée home and give her a second kiss. Then, he would return to Kellaway House where he would fall asleep in his cold bed. In a matter of weeks, his pretty bride with her curls and curves would grace it with her presence. He would dream of that tonight. As he often did.
Chapter Six
Sir William Rollings, an old friend of Lord Hartwell's, had been assigned to the case of the missing Lady Wren. There was not much information to be had. Her staff knew nothing. She left no convenient personal papers that left any cryptic clues.
To his supreme surprise, Thomas called upon him in his office, pleading for his assistance in a matter of a delicate nature. The Marquess’ famed grey eyes avoided his questioning gaze.
“You see Rollings, my fiancée’s aunt, Lady Lucille Wren, was visiting to help her with her wedding trousseau. I happened upon her the day she arrived at her new lodgings and asked for her help in a surprise for Lady Emma. However, a few days before it was to happen, she disappeared.”
“I see. Now from these earlier interviews, you told the police that only you were aware of Lady Wren's arrival in London. Is that true?” He asked, peeking up from the papers on his desk. Thomas blinked in surprise at the implications behind that question.
“Yes, this is true. She expressed desire to delay her official arrival as long as possible. Lady Wren was not fond of London society, having left it many years ago.”
“That was due to issues with a man, Lord Rupert Lowell. She was compromised and then refused to marry him?”
“That seems quite right,” Thomas agreed.
“Odd, but I too would avoid the prying eyes of the ton if I was returning after so many years,” Rollings agreed. He scribbled some notes down. “Now, Hartwell, what is this business about Lady Emma Wren being a half-breed? I believe that warrants some discussion.” He laughed at his friend's expression. Thomas found no humour in this matter. He especially did not like the use of the word half-breed.
“You are shocked that I know this? Lord Sheridan decided it prudent to reveal this information to me as well as the notes his family received. It is all very surprising. Lady Emma seems far too well-bred to be a mulatto.” He had not meant to say that last part aloud. Thomas’ eyes hardened into steel.
Rollings cleared his throat to cover the slight. “I do think Captain Wren’s death merits some investigation. I have since contacted those who conducted the investigation and I expect to receive them shortly.”
“Excellent,” he replied. Thomas played with the brim of his top hat. “Now, as for this matter of Lady Emma, I trust that Sheridan has already ensured your silence on the matter for now. Considering all the latent anger, I am sure many of the ton would not take kindly to her marrying into a noble family.” He did not mention the church at the root of all the violence. He did not have to point to the aggressors in the undercurrent of anger in London.
“You are correct on that account.” Rolling agreed. There was a slight sneer on his lips. It disappeared instantly, his face once again smooth. “It will certainly be brutal, so yes I have promised to maintain silence unless it so impedes my ability to investigate on this case.”
“When I last saw Lady Wren, she seemed rather piqued, but did not divulge any details.”
“I have some of her personal papers: notes and the like. There is little of note in them. I have hopes she will turn up soon.” Rolling stated. He rarely failed. Thomas asked for his assistance due to his discretion. “Let us hope it is before your wedding. Ah! That reminds me, Hartwell. Why was Lady Wren coming to help her niece with her wedding preparations? Why would her own mother not help?”
Thomas raised his shoulders, clearly uninformed. “I could truly not say. Lady Emma simply mentioned she was otherwise engaged. Whatever discontent there was between them has seemingly disappeared.”
“Women,” Rolling said simply. As if that simple word summed up all the confusing actions of the fairer sex.
“I have an appointment to attend, Rollings. Do not hesitate to call upon me with any further news.”
“Of course, old chap. I received an invitation from Lady Carradine for a ball next week. Will you be attending?”
Lord Hartwell chuckled, finding humour in the simple question. Most of the ton had forgiven Lady Carradine for any indiscretion after she announced her plans for a Bal Masque. It was the way of high society. If one could throw a marvelous ball with the opportunities for indecent activities, the ton would instantly approve. Though not too enthusiastically, of course, that was just bad ton. It would be wise to leave the excess of emotion to the French. They did excel with
that.
Even Emma, holding such staunch dislike for the lady, could not wait for the evening. Though it could be that she had never been to a masquerade before. Nonetheless, she enthusiastically pressed her mother to accept the invitation. Then she turned her efforts on Thomas, happily overseeing his reply in a true wifely fashion.
“I shall be escorting Lady Emma that night.” Thomas watched William as he spoke.
“You still plan on marrying her? I know you are honourable, but this seems excessive considering the circumstances of her birth.”
“I already consider Lady Emma to be my wife.” Thomas tipped his hat and was gone.
Sir Rollings heaved a weary sigh. This was a twisted business. He accepted this case purely due to his past with Hartwell. He was a good man and it certainly did not hurt to have friends in high places.
William could not help his personal feelings from slipping into the investigation. He frankly thought his friend marrying a girl of Emma's ancestry was disgusting. At least she was raised in a good English family. There was that saving grace. The savagery would always be in her bones. It was a well-known fact that Mulatto women were sexually promiscuous, reveling in dangerous sex acts that made good English ladies faint.
He worried for the state of Hartwell's soul. The man was obviously smitten with the witch. There was little he could do. Rollings grimaced at the thought of that vile girl. She was the assumed daughter of a peer, so she was safe from most things. But not from his enmity. It was disgusting. She was an abomination. The races should not mix. God did not want it that way. That is why they were enslaved.
William, despite his personal feelings, did not wish to discuss them. It had little to do with the case. Even if a trollop bewitched his friend, it was not his place. Yes, his children would be cursed, but he would have to take that up with God.
“What a shame,” he murmured.
Hatchard's Bookshop was a refuge for many of London's elite. Here they could browse the many shelves packed full of leather-bound books. Some found delight in the sensational novels of Mrs. Radcliffe or in the poetry of Lord Byron. Whatever one was seeking, it could be found at Hatchard's.
Colors of a Lady Page 8