The Reunion

by Sara Portman

“Lies, all of it. If any of that tripe ever reaches her ears…”

  The implied violence of his incomplete thought had Emma softening her tone. “You can’t protect her from it.”

  “Like hell, I can’t.”

  Emma smiled. Satisfied she had her answer, she straightened her shoulders. “Good,” she clipped. “Then I may count on you to be in attendance at Charlotte’s come out and at more than your normal number of events for the remainder of the season? If we are to put the strongest foot forward on her behalf, we’ll require a show of solidarity.”

  Hugh grunted. “Greystoke. Preposterous.”

  Emma wasn’t fooled by his noncommittal response. “I’ve come to care about Charlotte a great deal. I’m sure she is greatly comforted to know she can rely upon your friendship through this daunting experience.”

  “She does not require friends who are intent on steering her into marriages to ancient men.”

  Once again ignoring his comment, she reached out to place a hand on his arm and smiled warmly up at him. “Just as I have come to consider you a friend.”

  He raised a questioning brow. “A friend, Your Grace? Are you sure it’s wise to become friends with an insufferable oaf such as me?”

  Emma laughed. He was teasing her with her own words, but this time he meant it kindly. He loved Charlotte and so she could love him, particularly if he would protect Charlotte with the ferocity she’d glimpsed that afternoon. Charlotte was not in need of suitors. She, at least, would have a love match. He had her blessing, did he understand that? There was no way for her to explain while he was not ready to admit his feelings, but she would have liked to be able to tell him.

  “Yes,” she said, with her hand still on his arm, “I think I shall be very glad of your friendship.”

  * * *

  Emma spoke little as Liese arranged her hair for the evening’s event. Her mind, however, was not quiet as she stared at the elaborate jade-and-pearl evening gown she would don when her hair was finished. The event was not only Charlotte’s debut. It was Emma’s debut as well—her first society appearance as Duchess of Worley.

  Most importantly, though, it was the fulfillment of her bargain. Her marriage was built upon this night. All that her husband had asked of her would be measured by the conduct of one girl and the reactions of a hundred others. Yet the question that occupied her mind was not one of success or failure.

  Was she satisfied with the bargain she had struck?

  She looked at her dress again. It was without doubt the most extravagant garment she’d ever owned. She had not married John for fine dresses or any of the other trappings of life as a duchess. She had bargained for her mother’s garden and a boy’s life, and she had received those things, but she was not satisfied. She now wanted something entirely different for her side of the trade. Even mercenary dealings allowed for renegotiations, did they not? She had already given more to the bargain that she had ever intended. Could she ask for more in return?

  There was a knock on her chamber door and, with a fleeting and futile hope that her husband had come, she sent Liese to answer it. Liese went quickly to the door, spoke a moment, and returned, her eyes wide with concern.

  “It seems you’re needed, Your Grace. There’s a man downstairs to see you.”

  A man. Not a guest. A man. Carriages bearing their arriving guests were expected to begin appearing any moment, but if this man were a guest, the staff would have known what to do.

  “Were you given a name, Liese?”

  “Pritchard, Your Grace.”

  Pritchard? “Where is my husband? Inform him of the visitor at once.”

  “His Grace is not in. That’s why I’m to send you. The gentleman asked for the duke first.”

  Emma’s chin fell. She briefly closed her eyes and allowed herself one slow, deep breath. She could hear Lucy’s voice in her mind, urging her to be practical. If she intended to ask for more from her husband, then she must be all that he expected of her as well. Tonight she would prove her mettle. Charlotte’s success would be her success and then, just perhaps, she could recapture her husband’s attention.

  She opened her eyes and instructed Liese calmly. “Tell them to put Pritchard in His Grace’s study. I will speak with him there. Also, if my uncle or Mr. Brydges have arrived, they should be informed as well and join us in the study.” She exhaled. “Then hurry back, as I’ll require your assistance to get into this dress as quickly as possible.”

  * * *

  John cursed as he felt the carriage come to a stop yet again. He and his men had spent an entire wasted day tracking Pritchard, only to have him evade them again. He had remained steadfast in his determination to search for the man until the last possible moment at which he must return home. John was barely arriving back at the town house in time to don his evening finery and appear at his family’s side to greet their guests.

  He rapped on the carriage. “What is the hold up?” he called.

  “Can’t get through,” his coachman called back. “There’s a line o’ carriages in front of the house, takin’ up the square.”

  John moved to the small window and peeked out. “Take me around to the mews,” he called. He would have to enter the house through the kitchen. He couldn’t very well arrive along with the guests.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Emma walked into her husband’s study to find an unfamiliar man lounging comfortably in one of the high-backed chairs in the center of the room.

  “Mr. Pritchard, I presume.”

  He started and jumped to his feet. His balance faltered, but he regained it. He grinned. “A pleasure, Your Grace.”

  Her smile was tight. It was most certainly not a pleasure. She studied him, finally able to satisfy her curiosity of the man. He was young. Tall. He was also dirty and most decidedly drunk. Hopefully not so much that he was incapable of being persuaded.

  “From the looks of it, I’d say I’ve come at an inconvenient time,” he said, though his smirk implied he was rather pleased with the timing.

  “As you are well aware, we have guests arriving, Mr. Pritchard. Perhaps you should address your purpose quickly, so that I may see to them.”

  He placed his hand dramatically upon his heart. “I’ve already spoken my purpose to your husband, Your Grace. I’m told he’s not available, but I’m content to wait here until he returns.”

  “I’m well aware of your prior discussion with my husband and see no reason to delay. He has already communicated to you that Charlotte has no interest in your proposal and kindly declines.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, Your Grace, as I am afraid for Charlotte’s reputation. With all these guests arriving, it would be an awful time for a rumor to take hold. Some rumors may be very difficult to disprove.”

  Intoxicated or not, Mr. Pritchard was proving sharper of wit than she had first assessed. Still, she was unconcerned about his rumor. She was only concerned about his presence.

  “Nevertheless, Mr. Pritchard, Charlotte has decided to decline your kind offer and we must ask that you accept her decision as final.”

  His eyes hardened. “I don’t think that’s a very wise decision.”

  Emma had not really expected him to be reasonable. She stepped forward and smiled sweetly. “We are both people who simply seek an opportunity, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Pritchard? I’ve known Charlotte only a short while, but I find I feel rather protective of her and would not take kindly to the spreading of damaging rumors. You, on the other hand, have traveled a long way. You have another long and costly voyage to return home. Perhaps what we have now is an opportunity, Mr. Pritchard, for each of us to have what we want.”

  Emma untied a small bag of gold pieces from her waist and held it in her hand, testing the weight so Mr. Pritchard could see. “How do you suppose we find a compromise?”

  He eyed the bag and grinned.

  The door to the study flung open.

  “What in blasted hell is going on in here?”

 
Ah, the cavalry. Her husband, dressed in his evening finery, stalked into the room, followed closely by Mr. Brydges and Lord Ridgely.

  Mr. Pritchard’s grin faltered. His eyes darted to the pouch of coins and back to the three men who glared menacingly at him.

  Emma ignored the shift in her pulse that her husband’s entrance caused. She was certain she still had Mr. Pritchard’s attention with her previous offer.

  “There is no cause for alarm,” she announced loudly to the latecomers, her eyes still narrowed at the American. “Mr. Pritchard and I were having a discussion, but I believe we see eye to eye, do we not, Mr. Pritchard?” She juggled the coins in her hand.

  He stared at it and nodded slowly. “I believe we do.”

  She turned to the men and smiled sweetly. “So you see, everything is taken care of. Mr. Pritchard was just taking his leave.” She held the pouch out as she spoke and he snatched it quickly.

  John stepped toward him. “If he intends to take his leave, we shall make certain of it.”

  Emma walked to him, steeling herself against the feelings his proximity elicited. “As our guests are arriving, perhaps Mr. Brydges should see him out.”

  Mr. Brydges stepped forward. “That I would be happy to do,” he said with decided unhappiness.

  John reached out to halt his friend. “My two men are probably still in the mews. Have them take Pritchard to the harbor and detain him until morning.”

  John turned at the outcry from Mr. Pritchard. “Consider yourself fortunate, Pritchard. You have been given a gift. Take it. Take those coins and return to Boston on the first available ship. If you have further contact with my family, or come anywhere near us again, we will not be so kind.”

  John faced the door and held his arm for Emma to take. She stepped forward and, with one final glare for the American, left the room on her husband’s arm.

  Chapter Forty

  Worley House glowed with what must have been a thousand candles. John couldn’t begin to imagine where so many came from. Everything caught the light: golden urns, silver candelabra, gilt-framed paintings, bejeweled ladies, and glassy-eyed gentleman. Smiles and laughter reigned as the duke and duchess greeted their guests and graciously received well wishes for their nuptials. Lady Charlotte, by their side, was the recipient of effusive compliments on her appearance, most specifically her striking gown.

  It was all very necessary, but by the time the last guest arrived, John had exchanged enough polite greetings to last the remainder of his life. He was hot already, as the number of people and candles had considerably increased the temperature in the room. He was also exhausted from the strain of standing for nearly an hour next to his wife in her ravishing gown, all the while reminding himself that he needed to take firm rein of his wits and not sink into the quicksand of besotted idiocy.

  She smiled, laughed, and exchanged compliments with seemingly no awareness at all of the effect she was having on his sanity. How had she found the exact shade of green that at once made her eyes glow with golden light and her lips appear as honeyed apricots waiting to be tasted? Though he’d glared pointedly at more than one gentleman who’d cast a greedy glance toward the duchess’s ample décolletage, only he truly understood the treasures offered there and the way she responded when he lavished attention to her sweet, creamy breasts.

  Lord, he needed air.

  “I’ll return in a moment,” he said.

  “Don’t be too long,” Emma told him, with a distracted smile in his general direction. “We have to open the dances.” She quickly returned to her conversation with Charlotte and two other ladies who had been calling regularly at the house that week—Ladies Blythe and Marcus, or something.

  John had woven himself approximately halfway through the throng in his ballroom when he changed his mind regarding his destination and, instead of the outside air, sought a generous pour of scotch in the quiet of his study.

  What sort of man required fortification to dance with his own wife?

  * * *

  The opening set was miserable. Why matrons were so scandalized by the waltz, he would never again understand. The traditional dances were so much more torturous for a wanting partner. Stepping tantalizingly close, only to be required to step away—yet unable to look away. John was aware of so many eyes and so many restrictions when he longed to simply take his wife in his arms and sink all of himself into all of her—her mouth, her bosom, her sex. Every single place on her body tempted him. It drove a man nearly to the brink, this teasing dance.

  He was contemplating another scotch after the dance. The matter was decided when Brydges caught him by the arm.

  “I must speak with you privately.”

  Brydges’s grave expression alarmed him. Brydges was never grave.

  “That room is full of vicious liars,” he shouted the instant the heavy oak door was shut behind him.

  “Explain.”

  “No one has spent a single moment since they’ve arrived talking about any subject other than your sister.”

  “What are they saying?” John asked, feeling the anger rising already. There should be talk about Charlotte—it was her debut, after all—but not the sort of talk that would have Brydges so riled.

  “What are they not saying! There is not a decent person here!” Brydges shouted. He pointed an accusing finger toward the closed oak door. “There are at least fifty men out there who should be called out for the vicious slander they’ve repeated.”

  John’s jaw set. “You repeat it. To me.”

  “The most vicious is that Charlotte your mistress from wherever you’ve been the past four years, and you’re so brazen, you’ve got her living in the same house as your wife by claiming she’s your sister.” Brydges looked back at him with brows arched in expectation, as though daring him not to be offended by that one.

  No dare was necessary..

  “And?” John asked.

  “Every ridiculous story imaginable,” Brydges spat. “Gypsies, kitchen maids, opium eaters, troupes of traveling players. Some stories claim she is a stranger who has duped you into believing she is your long-lost sister, because your mother and father are not alive to dispute it.”

  John breathed deeply. He waited for the rage to fully consume him, expecting it to settle into his limbs and send him charging into action. He waited. Then he felt something entirely unexpected. Defeat. He could not call out fifty men. He could not disprove fifty lies, when he had no truth to share that would not be equally damaging to Charlotte’s reputation.

  “We have failed her,” he said, tipping the decanter to fill two glasses with amber liquid. “I have failed her.” John lifted both glasses and held one out to Brydges.

  His friend only stared at it. “Are you daft? Failed her? You are done, then? Not two hours into your sister’s debut and you are finished? You would toss her to the wolves and let them have their way?”

  He glared at Brydges. “I will not let them have their way. I will not force her to remain among the jackals. I intend to remove her immediately.”

  “Ridiculous. Do something, man. That is your sister!”

  “What is your brilliant plan, Brydges? One against fifty at dawn? Should we use pistols or swords? Are you to be my second?” He nearly laughed at the futility of it. He had failed Charlotte. His noble intentions were nothing more than a lone, tattered sail in the maelstrom of his father’s obsessive hatred.

  “You can’t let them ruin her. Every single one of those stories is pure shite. I won’t stand by while you let them spread these lies.”

  “I don’t intend to allow her to be ruined. This night is a loss. We shall have to evaluate our next steps carefully, but I won’t force her to stand in a room full of idiots who have decided to judge and shun her.” John slammed his own glass on the desk, causing a splash of undrunk spirits to slosh onto his hand. He shook it, glared one last time at Brydges, and marched out of the room.

  * * *

  John found Emma watching the dance with her
aunt. “My apologies, Lady Ridgely,” he said tightly, “but I must claim my wife for a moment.”

  The lady nodded. “Certainly.” She smiled pleasantly as John led his wife away to a secluded corner.

  “I’ve just spoken with Brydges. This night is a disaster. It is worse than I thought possible.”

  Earnest concern filled her gaze. “What is it?” she asked.

  “There are rumors circulating everywhere—horrendous, damaging rumors.”

  He would have sworn she smiled. Smiled?

  “I don’t know about that,” she said.

  “Of course you are not hearing the rumors,” he pointed out. “No one would be so careless as to repeat them to you or me or Charlotte, but nearly everyone else is talking openly. I’ve had a full account from Brydges.”

  She lay a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry for my lack of clarity. I knew about the rumors. I meant the damage. Charlotte will have to dance every set to satisfy the requests she’s received. The musicians have been instructed to only play dances for which she has learned the steps, and she has performed beautifully.”

  “Not damaging?” he ground out, conscious of their lack of privacy. “Think of her reputation. Brydges even heard a rumor about her being a kitchen maid. How the devil would anyone know that? We took care of Pritchard.”

  “For the time being,” Emma said. “He may pop up again after today. I needed to make certain his threats wouldn’t matter.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Emma smiled brightly at two ladies who passed and gave a slight nod. John only scowled at them. They were likely as caught up as everyone else in all the gossiping.

  “I am saying,” Emma said after the ladies had passed, “I have resolved the matter. If anyone hears Mr. Pritchard’s version of Charlotte’s past, it will not be a new revelation. It will instead be just another bit of woefully out-of-date and disappointing gossip.”

  John gaped at his wife. He could have her committed. What had she done? “Do you mean to tell me that you have started the rumor that Charlotte was a kitchen maid?”

  “Certainly not.”