by Mary Nichols
‘Very well, but only if you come too. You will be able to persuade him when I cannot; he always listened to you. Tell him I want to marry Fergus before he goes to India. I want to go with him, to see all the places you have told me of, the palaces and temples and the bazaars and the countryside.’
The thought of seeing Dominic again, of watching his slow smile, of hearing his gentle voice, even if it was reproving her, was something Emma longed for with every breath she took. But if there was any chance that his marriage to Sophie might yet go ahead, she would be torturing herself for nothing.
Even if he did not marry Sophie, it did not mean he would turn to her. She had deceived him, told untruths, pretended to be other than what she was; it was enough to turn any man against her. Her feelings of guilt rose in her like bile and she felt the heat of it spreading up from the pit of her stomach into her face. She brushed a hand over her forehead. ‘I can’t do that, Lucy. I cannot go back, you must know that.’
‘Then I will not go either.’
‘Lucy!’ Fergus exclaimed.
‘I mean it.’
‘Oh, Lucy, that is too cruel,’ Emma said. ‘Your brother does not deserve such treatment from you.’
‘Then you must speak for us. I am determined on it, Emma, otherwise it is Gretna Green.’
Emma hesitated. If Lucy carried out her threat she would ruin her reputation and Dominic’s too, as well as Captain O’Connor’s chance to make good. She could not let that happen. She could be cool and calm, couldn’t she? She could speak only of Lucy and never let him know how much she longed for him. Business-like, that is what she would be.
She would see him again. Her heart sang at the prospect, though she knew deep inside her, that her despair would be all the deeper after the encounter.
‘Where is he now?’
‘I left him, not an hour since,’ Fergus said. ‘I believe he was going home to Bedford Row.’
‘And expecting to find Lucy there, no doubt,’ Emma said, a little tartly.
‘Yes, for we were to return to Cavenham today,’ Lucy told her, reaching out to put a hand on her arm, a smile of cajolement on her face.
‘Then I suppose I must go now, before he begins to wonder what has become of you,’ Emma said. ‘But you must come with me, Lucy, and Captain O’Connor must return to his lodgings until everything is sorted out. We must ensure there is no hint of scandal. Is that agreed?’
‘Yes,’ said Fergus firmly. ‘If we can bring this about without resorting to Gretna Green, then I, for one, shall be thankful. It would not have made a good start to married life, though I was prepared to do it for Lucy’s sake.’
‘Then if you will excuse me, I will write a note to tell my brother what has happened,’ Emma said. ‘Then we can leave at once.’
As soon as Emma had left the room, Lucy turned to Fergus. ‘I knew it! I knew she would go. Am I not the clever one?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Dominic needs her and she needs him but they are both too proud to admit it. I had to do something. And I was sure she would go for my sake when she would not dream of going for her own.’
‘But you surely did not know she would be at the inn?’
‘No, but one must seize one’s opportunities, isn’t that what you always say? As soon as she begged me to go back to Dominic, I realised how I could bring them together.’ She giggled and reached up to kiss his cheek. ‘Besides, if anyone can persuade my brother to let us marry and go to India together, it is Emma.’
Dominic paced the drawing room from window to door and back again. His bag was packed and the carriage had been ordered for noon. It was already one o’clock and Lucy was nowhere to be found. Drat the girl! She knew he wanted to be back at Cavenham tonight. He could not believe she had any shopping of importance to do. After all, he had already spent a fortune on clothes and fripperies for her come-out and she would not need anything new for Yorkshire.
He knew she did not want to go with their aunt, but there was no help for it; he was going away himself and she could not be left in the house with no one but servants to look after her.
When he told Sophie and Bertie he was leaving he had meant it. He needed to come to terms with what had happened but he could not do that at Cavenham, nor even in London, where the tattlers would make life insupportable, both for himself and Sophie. He wanted to spare her that.
After finding Sophie with Bertie he had galloped home in a blind rage at her betrayal, but long before he reached Cavenham his thoughts had turned to Emma. Now, at last, he could declare himself, could tell her openly of his love, ask her to wait until the fuss of the broken engagement died down. It was the last twist of the knife, the final irony, that she had disappeared. He had hunted for her all over London but could find no clue as to her whereabouts.
Why had she left in the first place? Was the story of the sudden legacy as much a fiction as her name and that reference from Emma Mountforest? She had deceived him, but it made no difference; he would have fallen in love with her whatever she called herself.
On the other hand, if she had come to him in the beginning, as Emma Mountforest, he would never have taken her on as Lucy’s companion, would he? It would have been unthinkable. Then he would not have learned to love her for what she was, caring, mischievous, independent, proud and wholly delightful. The past year would have been completely different; he would have married Sophie.
Or would he? Bertie would probably still have cuckolded him, still made him look and feel a fool. Sophie had asked him if he wanted to know why and he had said no. Despite himself he had wondered why, not only why, but how long it had been going on. And, more to the point, whether he really cared.
Sophie had come to Cavenham the next day, trying to excuse herself. ‘I just wanted to make you jealous, Dominic, dear,’ she had said, pacing the library in muddy riding boots. ‘It meant nothing. I was upset. You were being such a pinch-commons over a new carriage and the alterations to the house and I am not used to having to economise. It isn’t as if I didn’t have a good dowry; you could have paid for everything with that after we were married.’
As if he relished the idea of being an apron-squire! As if that was all there was to it! He had told her so, but she had laughed and said better men than he had been dependent on their wives and thought nothing of it. He had no cause to be top-lofty when he spent all his time and money buying and selling cargo like some common haberdasher. Then to his horror, she had said she would forgive him if he mended his ways. Not a word about her own lapse, which in his eyes was far more serious, not a hint of repentance.
He had stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. How could he have ever thought those hard grey eyes were beautiful, or that those red lips were anything but mean? He had eulogised over her fine qualities when he had first met her and basked in the favour when she deigned to smile at him. Callow, callow youth that he had been!
He didn’t want her forgiveness, he wanted his freedom. The only way he was going to obtain it was to go away and let the world think what they liked. He could leave the estate in the capable hands of his steward for a few months, which would give Bertie and Sophie time to marry if they wanted to and let the gossip die down. So he had told her.
He had told her father too, in a most unpleasant interview at Mountforest Hall, whence he had gone, out of courtesy, to explain his intention. His lordship had just come in from a hunt and received him in the gunroom, which was cold and unfurnished except for a table and cupboards for the guns.
The Viscount’s temper, always volatile, was at its most fiery because he had been thrown from his horse and the fox had escaped. He let himself go on that subject for several minutes before allowing Dominic to speak and then had subjected him to a recital of his grievances at the arrival of an upstart who claimed to be heir to the Viscountcy.
Dominic had been accused of raking up old scandals, harbouring a traitor, nurturing a viper, and other equally florid metaphors. His lordship
had worked himself up into a froth over it, saying that his daughter was being denied her birthright; unless she was married quickly and her dowry handed over, it might be lost. And what did the Marquis of Cavenham think about that?
‘Then you know about Teddy, my lord?’
‘Yes, thanks to that old bat, Agatha Standon.’
‘Aunt Agatha? What has she to do with it?’
‘Nothing, but she seems to think she has a right to come here and threaten me just because she once set her cap at my brother.’ He had smiled at Dominic’s look of surprise. ‘You didn’t know that, I see. Well, it’s neither here nor there now. All in the past.’
Dominic had been temporarily diverted from his problem with Sophie. ‘What did she say?’
‘She said she had a duty to protect Edward’s offspring and to see he had justice.’
‘You are prepared to recognise him, then?’
‘Got no choice. She said she knew what had happened and she’d squeak beef if I did not. But that don’t mean I’m prepared to embrace the fellow, not yet, I ain’t. I’m not going to stick my spoon in the wall for an age yet. Besides, if Lady Mountforest were to wind up her accounts first, I might remarry and get me an heir. Nothing’s certain.’
‘No, sir, we can none of us predict the future, but I am glad you acknowledge the boy is your present heir.’
‘That don’t mean you are let off marrying my daughter, Besthorpe. I’m not having another scandal in the family.’
‘But, my lord, we have both realised we should not suit. Sophie prefers Cosgrove to me and who am I to argue with that?’
‘He’s got no title.’
‘No, but you have influence at court, my lord, I am sure you can get him one. For services to racing, something of that sort.’
‘Hmph. Could be done, I suppose. Not a marquis though. Set her heart on being a marchioness, you know.’
‘Not if it made her miserable, surely?’
‘Can’t see why she should be miserable. She has a good portion and you ain’t pinched in the pocket. Did well out of the Indian trade, I hear.’
‘That is one of the items she has listed against me, sir.’ He had smiled. ‘Along with a stubborn pride and a determination to be my own master. We should fight like turkey cocks.’
‘Dammit, man, are you reneging?’
‘No, that is for Sophie to do, but I wish you would be so good as to persuade her that it is for the best. I am sure she already believes that; she only needs your concurrence to send me on my way.’
‘It wouldn’t have anything to do with another lady, would it? Someone my daughter refers to as a little brown mouse?’
‘No, my lord. Miss Woodhill…’
‘You mean Miss Mountforest, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I gave her the name she adopted out of consideration for you. Miss Mountforest has left. I do not know where she is.’
His lordship had given a cackling laugh at that. ‘Hoisted on your own petard, ain’t you? You’ve lost them both and come home by weeping cross.’
There had been no answer to that and he had taken his leave.
To prove his independence he had sunk most of the profits from the last voyage of the Silken Maid into a second brig which he had named Lucilla. It was while he was inspecting the progress of this that he had made up his mind to sail on her. A spell in India in a different climate, a different culture, with new scenery and new people might help to mitigate the hurt.
When they returned he would consent to Lucy marrying Fergus O’Connor, if she was still determined on it. As for his own affairs, there was nothing he could do, but bear up and make the best of it without the woman he loved. But it was going to be damnably difficult.
He stopped his pacing and turned towards the door as he heard footsteps in the hall. The next minute Lucy came into the room.
‘Where have you been, Lucilla?’ His low spirits made him speak sharply. ‘You know we were to be away by noon. It is already gone one and you have not yet eaten.’
She was smiling, apparently unaffected by his scold. ‘Yes, I have, but that is by the bye. We have a visitor.’
‘Visitor! Lucy, you know we are in haste to be away…’ He stopped suddenly, his mouth half-open, as Emma appeared in the doorway.
She stood there enveloped in a green velvet cloak with a fur lined hood which framed her face. He would have said she was an apparition, if she had not looked so rosily substantial, with her cheeks pink from the cold air and her eyes bright as emeralds. ’emma!’
She smiled to cover her nervousness. ‘Good afternoon, my lord.’
’emma! What are you doing here?’
‘I am sorry to intrude, my lord,’ she said, determined to address him formally. ‘I would not have done so, had not Lucy persuaded me.’ She swung round as a soft click of the door told her that Lucy had left them alone together. ‘Lucy, come back,’ she called after her, but her friend was already out of earshot.
‘Why don’t you take off your cloak and sit down, Emma?’ he suggested, indicating a chair by the fire. ‘We cannot talk comfortably with you standing in the doorway as if you were going to take flight at any moment.’
Emma turned back to Dominic and took a deep breath, reminding herself of her resolve to be cool and businesslike. ‘No, thank you, my lord. I would rather stand. And this will not take long.’
‘Why are you angry with me?’
‘I am not angry,’ she said, realising she had taken refuge in acerbity. ‘But I am surprised at you and disappointed, too.’
‘Why?’ He had always prided himself on his coolness under stress, his ability to hide his feelings, but now he found he could not keep the hurt from his voice. ‘If anyone should be disappointed, surely it should be me? You were the one practising deceit, not me. I have been open with you, befriended you when I thought you needed a friend and you repaid me with lies…’
‘I know, my lord, and I am deeply ashamed of that, but that is not why I am here now.’
‘Oh, then why are you here?’ Now he was the one who sounded angry when all he wanted was to take her into his arms and tell her how much he loved her, that there would never be anyone else for him and he would brave scandal, ridicule and condemnation rather than let her go.
‘Because of Lucy. Because you have been so wrapped up in your own affairs, you were oblivious to what was going on under your own nose.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ He was astonished at her forthrightness. He should not have been; she had never been afraid to speak her mind, even as a servant.
‘I am sorry to be so blunt, my lord, but did you not realise how unhappy your sister was?’
‘Unhappy? I know she did not want to go to Yorkshire but she has to go somewhere…’
‘Why? She has a home with you.’
‘Without a female companion that is not possible, and you left her, remember?’
‘Why do you keep bringing me into it? I left for very good reasons and you could have engaged another companion.’
‘What! And go through all that again! Besides, Lucy would have no other.’
‘I did not know that.’ Emma realised she was losing the advantage, and struggled to regain it. ‘But no doubt she thought it unnecessary when she wanted so much to be married.’
‘And so she may. When we come back.’
‘We? You are going away?’ Her dismay showed in her lovely green eyes and his spirits lifted suddenly.
‘Yes, with Captain O’Connor to India. You described it so vividly and with such strong affection, I thought I would go and see for myself. And it would be an advantage to know where my cargoes come from and the hazards of the voyage. I sail on Lucilla for Calcutta in two weeks’ time.’
She was astonished. Only the night before she and Teddy had decided to return there. The European population of Calcutta was a close-knit community and everyone, sooner or later, met everyone else. They would have been bound to come across each other. Teddy, who had gone this very morning to
book their passages, might very well have taken berths on Lucilla. Fate, she decided, had a cruel sense of irony.
She hid her hands in the folds of her cloak in case they gave away her agitation. ‘Captain O’Connor said nothing of that.’
‘From that I conclude that you have seen him recently?’
‘Yes. I met him at the Golden Cross this morning. And Lucy, too.’
‘Lucy! What was she doing there?’
‘I believe she was eloping, my lord.’
‘Good Lord! You must be mistaken.’
‘No, I am not mistaken. You know of her attachment…’
He smiled suddenly, remembering how he had mistakenly thought it was Emma who had set her cap at the Captain, and she had allowed him to think it. ‘Yes, for Captain O’Connor, but he would not elope with her. He is to be Master of Lucilla. I made him the offer this very morning.’
‘So he told us, but that was not until after Lucy had persuaded him to elope with her. She means to keep him to his promise if you do not allow them to marry. She has her mind fixed on going to India with him. And you know, my lord, how stubborn she can be.’
He smiled and made her heart turn over. ‘So stubborn that you felt obliged to step into the lion’s den on her behalf.’
‘It was that or see her ruined, my lord.’
‘And that was your only reason for coming here today?’
‘Yes, what other reason could I have?’
‘None, I suppose.’ He paused. ‘Unless it was to beg my pardon for deceiving me about who you were, for running away, for making me…’ He stopped suddenly. ‘Never mind about that.’
‘Oh, but I do mind, my lord. I never meant to hurt anyone, please believe me. I do most humbly beg your pardon. You see, we thought we were penniless and our father—’
‘Was Edward Mountforest.’
‘You know?’
‘Yes. Aunt Agatha told me.’ He paused, searching her face, trying to make her look at him, to make her see the longing in his eyes, the love and passion he had never been able to express and hardly dare express, even now. But he could not let her go, not until he had heard from her own lips that she did not love him. ‘What I do not know, is why.’