Dear Deceiver

by Mary Nichols

  ‘I will have. I have discovered there is a legacy…’

  ‘Then I am very glad for you. When do you go?’

  ‘On the morning stage.’

  ‘So soon!’ Lucy cried. ‘Oh, Emma I wish you would not.’

  Although Lucy spent the remainder of the evening trying to change Emma’s mind, Emma remained adamant. Now the die had been cast, she must find the strength to turn her back on what had been in many ways a happy period of her life; though her heart was heavy at leaving Dominic, she knew it was for the best and was determined to try and look forward to the future.

  She found herself wondering if she and Teddy would ever have embarked on the voyage to England if they had known about the jewels in the tiger. But she could not regret it. She had learned to love England, even in winter, and she had also learned to love a man. It was a love that was doomed from the start, but she was the richer for it. When she was back in India, hot and sticky, she would remember this year and the man who possessed her heart and she would be thankful for the experience.

  Her conviction that she was right was confirmed when Mrs Standon came to her room that night, as she was undressing.

  ‘I never get up before half past nine of a morning and do not intend to start now,’ she said, sitting on the end of Emma’s bed. ‘So I shall say goodbye to you tonight. I shall miss you, you know.’

  ‘And I shall miss you. I have been very happy here.’

  ‘And a little miserable too, I’ll wager…’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I am not blind, my dear. I have seen the looks, the blushes, the secret tears. Dominic is not free, nor likely to be. You are very wise to leave, though I wish it could have been otherwise.’

  ‘I did not think anyone knew.’

  ‘I am not so old I do not remember what it is like to be in love. I loved your father and I lost him.’

  ‘My father?’ she queried.

  ‘Yes, your father. Edward Mountforest.’ She smiled at Emma’s look of astonishment. ‘Did you think I did not know who you were?’

  ‘When did you realise it?’

  ‘I knew from the beginning. Emily Morton is a good friend of mine. She wrote to me.’

  ‘Oh, will you ever forgive me for deceiving you?’

  ‘Of course, child.’

  ‘When did you meet my father?’

  ‘The Mountforests, the Cosgroves and the Besthorpes, all came from East Anglia; we grew up knowing each other and if it had not been for James Mountforest and that business over Arthur Boreham we would have been married…’

  ‘Do you know what happened?’ Emma put in eagerly. ‘Were you there?’

  ‘I did not witness what happened, but your father told me about it afterwards. I believe I was the only one he did tell.’

  ‘Please tell me the true story, Mrs Standon. It would help so much to know what really took place.’

  ‘Edward idolised James when they were children,’ Mrs Standon began, her voice taking on the soft quality of remembrance. ‘James was of a somewhat wild disposition and always in scrapes for one thing or another. Edward, being the younger, followed where he led and often took the blame when their escapades were uncovered. He did not seem to mind, perhaps because his mother usually interceded on his behalf and the punishment was never very severe.

  ‘James would give him presents or money for keeping silent. I remember he gave him a shotgun once and it transpired that Edward was a good shot, which I suppose was why he decided on the army as a career. When his mother died, he lost his champion and life was never as pleasant for him again.

  ‘James went to Cambridge University and when he came back a suitable aristocratic wife was found for him, the daughter of the Earl of Lincoln, no less. It was a very prestigious match. It was about that time that Edward and I realised our attachment to each other was more than childhood friendship…’ She paused to push a wisp of grey hair back under her cap. ‘Ah well, no use going over spilt milk…’

  ‘Then what?’ Emma gently prompted.

  ‘One day Edward and James, Arthur Boreham and William Cosgrove spent a day at Newmarket races, where James won a great deal of money. They went off to celebrate and everyone became more than a little bosky. It was then that a bet was made over who was the better marksman…’

  ‘That would have been Papa, wouldn’t it?’ Emma put in.

  ‘Yes, but Edward told me he never had the gun in his hand. They set up a target and loaded two pistols. James shot first and then Arthur Boreham, but before anyone else could take a turn, they began quarrelling over which shot had hit the centre because both seemed to have gone through the same hole.’

  ‘That was good shooting.’

  ‘Either that or one of the shots was so far off the mark, it didn’t register, which was what James maintained had happened to Arthur’s. The dispute became very heated and James, who had reloaded for a second attempt, aimed the gun at Arthur. I am sure he would never have fired it, but Edward was afraid he would and tried to knock his brother’s arm to deflect the shot. James was furious and pushed him to the ground. The trouble was he had already cocked the gun and it went off. Arthur fell.

  ‘They fetched a doctor and tried to save him but he died a couple of hours later in a bedroom of the local inn. There was a terrible scandal. Arthur was the only son and heir of an earl and his parents were inflamed and out for blood. In their eyes it was not an accident but murder and because they had an enormous amount of influence, it looked as if the culprit would stand trial.’

  ‘But that was James, not Papa.’

  ‘True. Edward told me they had a very uncomfortable interview with their father. James said that if Edward had not tried to take the gun from him it would not have gone off. Edward told his father that when the pistol was fired, he was sprawled on the ground, but old Lord Mountforest would not listen.

  ‘He said whoever was to blame, he did not intend that the family name should be besmirched and James’s advantageous marriage put in jeopardy. Edward was told it was his duty to protect his brother and take the blame. His father bought him a commission and arranged for him to go to India.’

  ‘I know the rest,’ Emma said. ‘He was sent an allowance only so long as he stayed away. Mr Chapman, his banker, told me that but he did not say why.’

  ‘It was a gross injustice.’

  ‘Could you not have said anything?’

  ‘I tried, but I had not witnessed what had happened and I was told I was biased towards Edward and naturally he would try and make himself look innocent in my eyes.’

  ‘But you did believe Papa was telling the truth?’

  ‘Of course I did. William Cosgrove confirmed it to me just before he died, but that was only five years ago, much too late to do anything about it.’ She smiled. ‘So you see, there is still no proof.’

  ‘It must have been dreadful for you as well as Papa.’

  ‘One gets over broken love affairs, my dear. After Edward was sent away, I married the man my parents chose for me and moved to Yorkshire. We did well enough.’ She paused, watching Emma’s pensive face. ‘And so did your papa by all accounts.’

  ‘Yes, he loved my mother. She died when I was eight.’

  ‘Now you must rebuild your life as we had to do. It will not be easy, but you are strong enough to do it.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me,’ Emma murmured, deeply moved by the story.

  ‘You had a right to know. But, Emma, I do hope you can dissuade your brother from doing anything so foolish as to try and make a noddicock of Viscount Mountforest.’

  ‘We have already decided that would be wrong. The only thing I regret is that Teddy will never inherit the title.’

  ‘Never is a long time, Emma, and his lordship is still hale and hearty. Anything can happen before the time comes for him to wind up his accounts.’

  ‘I wish…’

  ‘No good wishing, child, no good having regrets.’

  Emma glanced down at the floo
r and saw the mutilated tiger which she had not yet put in her trunk. ‘Mrs Standon, would you like the tiger rug? I would like you to have it to remind you of me…’ she paused. ‘…and of my father. It needs repairing, but I can easily do that before I go.’

  ‘Oh, child, how very generous of you! I should like to have it very much.’

  And so it was that the tigerskin was left at Cavenham House when Emma left the following day.

  As soon as Emma had disappeared down the drive, Mrs Standon ordered out the coach and set off to see James Mountforest. If she had married Edward as she wanted to, Teddy might have been her child and there would have been no question about who was the heir when it became apparent that James would never have a son. James Mountforest owed her a favour for her years of silence.

  Chapter Ten

  Dominic arrived home feeling a great deal more cheerful; the brig was safely in dock after a voyage which Captain Greenaway described as hell. There had been one storm after another with waves as high as houses, he told him. They had been blown so far south the sea froze on the rigging as it washed over the ship. The men had had no hot food for days because they dare not light the fire in the galley and in the end there was nothing to cook anyway. They had lost the mainmast and the sails were shredded.

  ‘As if that wasn’t enough,’ he had said, ‘when the storms abated we became becalmed in a fog so thick and silent, I swear we could hear the fish swimming below us. It gave us an opportunity to do what repairs we could and mend the sails, but our biggest problem was food and water. God knows how we survived. When the fog cleared and we were able to pinpoint our position, we set new sails on the remaining mast and thus limped home.’

  ‘And thank God for your deliverance.’

  He had stayed long enough to see the cargo being unloaded and to speak to the crew, promising them a bonus for their good work, and then hurried home. It was Emma he longed to see, to thank her for her prayers, to watch her slow smile…

  He knew he should not have been thinking of her, that his mind should have been on the good news he was now able to convey to Sophie, that the brig and its cargo had come safely to port and she could have the alterations to the house, the new carriage, all the fripperies she wanted.

  Instead his mind was intent on finding Emma and telling her the good news, telling her also that he knew her real identity, that he did not blame her for her deception, but that he wished she had told him everything from the first. His euphoria evaporated when he hurried into the house and discovered Lucy alone, sitting disconsolately in the morning-room looking out across the terrace, her hands idle in her lap.

  ‘Where is Emma?’ he asked, after the briefest of greetings.

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘Gone? Gone where?’

  Lucy shrugged. ‘She said she had family business to conduct in London. She left this morning.’

  Emma had gone to the capital and he had come from there; they might even have passed on the road. The irony of it struck him like a blow. ‘What business?’

  ‘That’s what I asked her but Aunt Aggie said I was not to quiz her, so I didn’t.’

  ‘Where in London? Has she found a new post?’

  ‘I don’t know. She said there had been a legacy, but I think that was just a hum. It’s my belief she was too unhappy to stay.’

  He lifted his tails and sat down on the window-seat beside her, suddenly deflated. ‘Unhappy? Why so?’

  She twisted round to look at him. ‘I should not have thought it necessary to tell you.’

  ‘Surely not because of that business over Brutus?’

  ‘No. Oh, Dominic, are you blind? Don’t you know she loves you and you are breaking her heart marrying someone else?’

  ‘Did she tell you this?’

  ‘Of course not, but I could tell.’ She sighed. ‘When you are in love yourself, you understand the signs.’

  ‘Is that so?’ he asked, amused.

  ‘Yes, it is. You know, too many people are made unhappy because of the strict rules of society. There is too much store set on titles and wealth and suitability and not enough on the character of the people concerned. Love is not made to order, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ he said softly.

  ‘Now the Silken Maid is in, I suppose, she will turn about and go back for more cargo?’

  ‘When the repairs are completed, but they may take some time. But what has that to do with Emma?’

  ‘Nothing. I was thinking of Fergus—Captain O’Connor.’

  ‘Oh, I see. You have not changed your mind about him then?’

  ‘No, nor will I.’

  ‘Can you not be patient just a little longer?’

  ‘I am trying, but without Emma it will be so difficult. She was so good at diverting me and now I have no one.’

  ‘There is Aunt Agatha. Where is she, by the way?’

  ‘She went out in the carriage ages ago, I don’t know where. But I think she means to return to Yorkshire as soon as you are married. Then there will only be Sophie.’

  ‘Sophie,’ he said, and stood up. ‘Has she been over?’

  ‘No, not since the trouble over Brutus.’ She paused. ‘Dominic, you do not believe Emma did that to Brutus, do you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ He smiled wearily. ‘But, Lucy, you cannot call off a wedding because of a horse.’

  ‘No, more’s the pity.’

  He turned from her before she could read the telltale signs in his face too. ‘I must go over and tell her the good news. I suppose she is still staying with the Cosgroves.’

  He left her, musing on the way people fell in love without rhyme or reason. Lucy was right—too many people were made unhappy because of social convention and she should not be made to suffer because of it. It was too late for him, but he could do something about Fergus O’Connor. If he could not be happy himself, he could make sure his sister was.

  He fetched Cavenham Prince from the stable and set out for Newmarket, glad that he would not now have to part with him.

  It was a misty afternoon and he wore a long cape over his riding coat with his hat pulled well down over his brow. The weather did not bother him; he was content with whatever was sent, the spring with its daffodils and burgeoning shoots, the summer’s haymaking and harvest, autumn with its rosy hips and falling leaves, even winter when the fires in the house were ablaze with logs and outside the frost made patterns on the window panes. It was all to be seen and enjoyed at Cavenham, but how much better it would be with the woman he loved beside him.

  He sighed. Dwelling on what might have been only made him more miserable and he must stop himself doing it. But he hoped Emma was not running into more trouble. She might not find a position as congenial as the one she had with Lucy and she had gone without a reference. Why hadn’t she waited until he came back? Was she afraid he might persuade her to stay? She was, he decided, infinitely wiser than he was. A clean cut was much better than a ragged wound which would never heal properly. As for the scar, that would always be there, hidden in his heart. Dear Emma, he thought, be happy.

  By the time he rode into the Cosgrove stableyard it was growing dusk. There was no one about so he dismounted and looped Prince’s reins over a rail, noticing that a lamp burned in the office beside the stables and Bertie was undoubtedly at work there. He would tell him the good news about the Silken Maid before going into the house to see Sophie.

  They did not hear him coming, did not even hear the gentle tap at the door, so engrossed were they with each other. He had been standing in the doorway for several seconds looking down on them before Sophie caught sight of him over Bertie’s shoulder. Her eyes opened wide and then she laughed in an embarrassed fashion and pushed her lover off her. ‘Bertie, we have company.’

  Bertie scrambled to his feet. Sophie stood up and smoothed down the skirt of her gown. Dominic turned on his heel and went outside, where he stood beside Cavenham Prince and looked up at the swirling clouds, waiting for his anger to abate. Anger and despe
rate misery.

  He heard Bertie come out of the building behind him but he did not turn round. ‘I suppose you want to call me out?’

  ‘No.’ He was perfectly calm now. ‘You have done me a favour. I shall, of course, go away for a time. When I come back I hope Sophie will have decided we should not suit, after all. That is the way it is done, is it not?’

  There could be no wedding. He would have to take the blame, of course, be branded a mountebank and shunned by society, but that was preferable to going through with a marriage that would make them both miserable.

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’ Sophie’s voice came to him from the doorway. ‘Don’t you want to know why?’

  ‘The why does not trouble me,’ he said, without turning round. ‘Only my own blindness.’

  And picking up the reins he vaulted onto Prince’s back and galloped out of the yard.

  Emma soon discovered it was not easy to sell gems if you had no documents to prove they belonged to you, particularly if they were outstandingly fine ones. Honest jewellers refused to deal with her and she knew dishonest ones would fleece her. With a bag full of precious stones and very little money between them, they had been obliged to look for lodgings which were respectable without being expensive and they had taken two bedrooms and a sitting room in a lodging house off Oxford Street.

  Having dined frugally off pork chops, potatoes and cabbage, they were sitting round the small coal fire which smoked abominably, discussing their next move. What they needed was a go-between, someone whom they could trust and who was trusted by the diamond merchants. She knew no one except Dominic and she could not ask him to act for them. She had made a clean break and for her own peace of mind, she must stick to it.

  There was Captain Greenaway, of course, and he was in town while the Silken Maid was being repaired. He was used to selling his cargo, including jewels; he might help them. The disadvantage of approaching him was that he might tell Dominic he had seen them.

  ‘What if he does?’ Teddy said. ‘We have nothing to hide.’