by Mia Marlowe
“Ted and the professor are still working out their translation of the hieroglyphs. You’ll learn more at the house party, though it promises to be dull. They’ve been preparing ‘a paper’ on it,” Devon said gruffly. “I seem to recall someone put your name on the guest list, but for the life of me, I’m not sure why.”
Northrop’s wicked smile stretched across his face. “Ah, yes, I was invited for a ‘fortnight of frivolity at Devonwood Park.’ If you didn’t see to it I received an invitation, I wonder who did.” His gaze shot to his dance card and then back to Louisa. “And now I believe I’ve a lady to collect for the waltz, if you’ll excuse me.”
He gave them a mocking bow and headed straight for Devon’s sister.
Devon took a step forward, but Kingsley stopped him with a hand to his forearm. “Don’t object. It only encourages him.”
“You’re right,” Devon acknowledged. When Louisa rapped Northrop with her fan before she allowed him to escort her to the dance floor, he felt marginally better. Northrop must have said something inappropriate and his sister was smart enough not to countenance any nonsense. “The best way to make certain Northrop ever does anything has always been to tell him he can’t, or better still, he mustn’t.”
Would Lionel Norris react to a rap with a fan like a bull to a red flag? Devon wished for the millionth time that his father was still alive. Seeing Louisa safely wed was a heavy responsibility.
“Ow!” Northrop said, rubbing the spot on his shoulder where Louisa’s fan had stung him. “There’s no need for violence.”
“That was a mere love tap to remind you not to overstep the bounds of propriety, Lord Northrop.” Louisa laughed musically. “If you wish to see real violence, perhaps I should pull your hair as you used to pull mine when I was child.”
“For that infraction I’ll apologize all day,” Northrop said as he led Louisa onto the dance floor. “I was an ass when I was younger.”
“Only then?” She arched a knowing brow at him.
He snorted. Usually, he avoided clever women, but when they looked like Devon’s sister, he couldn’t help being drawn in. The gown she wore was cut low enough to bare the rounded tops of her breasts. Her skin was milk-white and was probably softer than fine satin. He wondered about the color of her nipples. Would they be pale pink or peachy or—
Louisa rapped his shoulder smartly again.
“Ow! What was that for?” he demanded in a furious whisper without breaking their dance hold.
“Because of the way you’re looking at me.”
Surely she couldn’t divine his thoughts. If so, the girl was both more dangerous and more interesting than he’d first supposed. “And how was I looking at you?”
“As if my face was a foot lower than it is.”
Northrop smiled. “My dear Louisa, if you don’t wish a man to admire your bosom, you ought not display it to such advantage.”
She lifted her palm from its position on his shoulder to deliver another ringing blow, but he caught her wrist this time. “Pummeling one’s admirers is not the done thing, you know.”
“You were ogling, not admiring.”
“Semantics. And rest assured I have the utmost admiration for you. All of you,” Northrop said. When the tension went out of her wrist, he replaced her hand on his shoulder and continued to twirl around the room with her. “Now, I’ll concede I bring out the worst in you. Because of that, I’ll not hold your assault on my person against you, if you’ll concede that a man cannot be held accountable for his thoughts provided he hasn’t acted upon them.”
She sniffed and studiously looked away from him. After a few more turns around the room, her gaze drifted back to his face.
“What sort of actions?” she asked.
He choked back his surprise. “That, my dear, is a trick question. If I answer truthfully, your fan is bound to attack me once again.”
“I promise not to hit you,” she said with an expressive roll of her eyes. “Now what sort of actions?”
“To be honest, then, I was contemplating how I might remove enough of your clothing to determine the color of your nipples.”
Her eyes flared in surprise, but she kept her word not to give him a rap of reproof. “Why should the color of my . . . Why does that matter to you?”
“In truth, the answer to that burning question is not as important to me as the method of discovery.”
“And how did you think you could accomplish that?”
“By seducing you into accompanying me to a private place, of course,” he leaned down and whispered into her ear. “Then I’d kiss you into a condition of acquiescence and peel away the layers from your bodice till you were reduced to a natural state.”
He still didn’t know the color of her nipples but the rest of her flushed a becomingly rosy hue.
“Seems like a good deal of trouble just to determine what color . . .” Her whisper faded as she struggled to complete her thought.
“Oh, that wouldn’t be the end of the matter.” Northrop tugged her closer to him so he wouldn’t be overheard. “You see, that small part of a woman’s body is very sensitive to touch. I’d tease and stroke and—well, there are a number of other things I’d do that might shock you now, but I promise you’d experience delight such as you’ve never known. And with no danger to your purity,” he added, remembering Devon’s promise to make meddling with his sister a two ball offense.
She lowered her gaze to his chest, considering his words. “There’s no way to slip away from the crowd here,” she said softly. “Will you be attending the house party at Devonwood Park?”
“I assure you, milady, my acceptance will be returned tomorrow,” Northrop said, wondering if his breeches would hold the strain. He’d ached just thinking about diddling her breasts. Now that she’d all but promised to allow it, he was near to bursting. “After your sweet words of hope, nothing will keep me from it.”
CHAPTER 17
“Northrop must be behaving himself. Louisa has stopped giving him raps with her fan, but I’m afraid Northrop has always been a contrarian,” Kingsley said. “Back to that statue . . . I’ve sent your lady mother my intention to attend the house party, but I wonder if you ought to rethink having it at all.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, for one thing, I know you don’t credit such things,” Kingsley said, watching the dancers with the same sharp-eyed attentiveness a hawk gives a clutch of field mice, “but I’ve heard from reliable sources that a number of those Egyptian gewgaws are . . .”
“Are what?”
“No, forget it. You’ll think me a fool.”
“Never. Among the three of us, Northrop has that title sewed up without contest,” Devon said. “Now what have you heard?”
“Well, from what I gather, Egyptian artifacts often come with curses attached.” Kingsley narrowed his eyes at him. “By Jove, you’re not laughing.”
If Kingsley had seen Devon’s vision, he wouldn’t laugh either. The image of the wicker basket and the asp rose sharp and fresh in his mind. A vague sense of dread settled over him. A curse, eh? He could well believe it.
“With any luck, we’ll be rid of the thing soon,” Devon said.
“Oh?” Kingsley sipped his punch. “Then you do believe there’s something to the whole curse business.”
“No.” Even if he did, it wasn’t something he was prepared to admit. “But I do believe in business. Dr. Farnsworth may be learned, but he has no means of support that I’ve been able to discover.” Devon had tasked his man of affairs with making discreet inquiries about Farnsworth the day he and Emmaline had arrived. So far, Mr. Bollinger couldn’t find much information about the professor or the small college in the Catskills of New York from which he was purportedly on sabbatical. “I think the good professor could be persuaded to part with the statue for the right price.”
“Indeed?” Kingsley eyed his dance card, then the room. “Hang it all, I’m paired with Lady Bentley and there she is over by th
e longcase clock in the corner, scouring the room for me. My toes will never be the same. Morituri te salutamus.” He gave a fist to the chest salute and stalked toward his dance partner with the same grim determination as a gladiator entering the Roman Circus.
Devon glanced at his own card and smiled. Emmaline was seated by herself near an arched door. She considered it surreptitiously as if contemplating making her escape. He wasn’t about to let that happen. He walked around the perimeter of the room and bowed when he stopped before her.
“Shall I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Farnsworth?”
She blinked up at him, her cheeks blooming with color. He’d never observed her blushing with anyone else and the realization pleased him enormously.
“You’re not my scheduled partner. I’m supposed to waltz with a Viscount Edmondstone. Do you know him?”
Devon suppressed a grin. “I do. Very well, in fact.”
“Do you see him?” she asked.
He made a great show of looking around the room. “No. I cannot see Viscount Edmondstone, but I suspect he’ll be along shortly. Until such time, I’ll keep you company.”
“I do not require a keeper, milord.”
“Perhaps not, but gentlemen are expected to look after ladies at a gathering such as this.”
Without waiting for permission, he sat down beside her, curbing the impulse to take her hand. He ached to touch her, but knew it was out of the question unless they were dancing. Still, it was almost enough that his thigh rested close to hers, despite the layers of her skirts and petticoats separating them.
After the Sending in the hansom, he didn’t trust himself to have actual contact with her. While he welcomed more of that particular vision, he didn’t want anyone else to catch him entranced.
“We wouldn’t want folk to consider you a wallflower, would we?” he said.
“Wallflower might be the kindest word circulating about me this night.”
She laced her fingers on her lap, gripping tight enough that Griffin imagined her knuckles were white beneath her silk gloves. How ironic that being close to her gave him rest from the worst part of his gift, while it was obvious she was agitated by his presence.
“If I had wagered, I would have bet you are not the sort who cares what others say.”
“I don’t.” She straightened her spine. “But I do care what they say about Theodore.”
He arched a brow in question.
“They say you’ll cut him off if he marries me.”
“Who is they, if I may ask?”
She didn’t answer, but her eyes followed Lady Bentley and poor Kingsley around the room for a bit.
“Ah, that they. No matter,” Devon said. He’d been on the receiving end of Lady Bentley’s acerbic tongue more than once. “When an inveterate gossip does not know something for a fact, she liberally spreads icing on a rumor and offers it up instead. People are always ready to partake of her dainty dish until they find themselves the main course at one of her feasts. Pay her no mind.”
Her chin quivered. “She doesn’t bother me.”
“How charmingly you lie, Miss Farnsworth.”
She rewarded him with a glare.
“Smile,” Devon advised. “This is your first outing in London society. You must be seen to be enjoying yourself. Our Theodore certainly is.”
Ted waltzed by with Lady Cressida in his arms. Ballroom etiquette required a dancing couple to merely smile in silence, but those two were obviously enjoying a whispered conversation as they dipped and twirled around the room.
“He’s a fine dancer,” she said. “But he won’t be able to do much of it if his allowance is cut off and he’s forced into trade of some sort. Of course, as an American, I see no shame in working for a living, but I know it’s different for the English.”
“Let me set your mind at ease on that point. Nothing Theodore does will make him less my brother. Less my responsibility,” Devon said. “If and when he marries, he and I will discuss what his needs might be and what duties he’ll be willing to assume in connection with the estate so his allowance may be increased in order to meet them.”
“That’s . . . very generous of you, milord.”
“I sense I’ve surprised you.”
“You have,” she said. “I owe you an apology. I suspected your disapproval of me would lead you to punish Theodore.”
Disapproval was the least of what Devon felt for her.
“Not at all. I rather like the fact that you are in my debt, Miss Farnsworth.” He smiled at her smugly. He couldn’t help himself. “For two things, actually.”
“In your debt?” Her brows knitted in a frown. “How do you mean?”
“First, by promising I won’t cut Teddy off, I’ve made sure my brother will be able to support you in the manner you wish,” Devon said, “should you accept his suit, of course.”
She conceded the point with a curt nod. “And secondly?”
The Strauss tune ended with a flourish. Devon rose to his feet. “I’m not only the Earl of Devonwood. One of my lesser titles is Viscount Edmondstone.” He bowed over her gloved hand. “You owe me a waltz, Emmaline. And I always collect my debts.”
Her mouth dropped open, but before she could speak, Lady Whitmore bustled up, her round face florid. “Miss Farnsworth, come quickly. It’s your father. He collapsed in the card room. I’ll fetch Mr. Theodore.”
“There’s no need to interrupt my brother,” Devon cut in. “He’s been gone from London for many months and is enjoying renewing his acquaintances. I’ll see to Miss Farnsworth and her father.”
Devon followed Lady Whitmore to the room reserved for whist and pique tables with Emmaline barely restraining herself from breaking into a run. Her father was propped in an overstuffed chair, his head hanging forward. Tiny droplets of red splotched the white lawn of his shirt front. He lifted his head at their approach, his eyes over-bright.
He started to speak, but was overcome by a new round of coughing.
“Bring my equipage around to the rear of the property,” Devon ordered one of the ubiquitous footmen, who bowed and stepped lively to obey. “There’s no need to disrupt your occasion further, Lady Whitmore. Pray tell my lady mother I will send the brougham back for the rest of our party so they may return home when it suits them. Also, I believe I saw Dr. Trowbridge earlier. If you could quietly ask him to accompany us back to Devonwood House forthwith, I would deem it a kindness.”
“Really, there’s no need. I’m perfectly recovered.” Dr. Farnsworth braced his hands on the arms of the chair and tried to stand, but it was beyond his feeble strength.
Emmaline’s breath hissed over her teeth in distress. Devon bent down and scooped her father up in his arms.
He weighed far less than Devon expected, his body already wasted by consumption. It was no great effort to bear him through the Whitmore back parlor and kitchen and out to the alley where their carriage waited.
Dr. Trowbridge joined them shortly, carrying his black leather bag. He couldn’t begin his examination of Farnsworth in the jostling carriage. In fact, the professor’s eyes closed and he slipped into the light sleep common to sufferers of chronic illness. The doctor quizzed Emmaline on the particulars of her father’s condition—its onset, past treatments, whether there had been periods of seeming remission or if he’d experienced a steady decline.
White-lipped, she answered the doctor’s questions with a steady voice.
“Of course, I can’t be sure until I give him a thorough examination,” Dr. Trowbridge said, “but it appears to me your father is afflicted with tuberculosis.”
When Devon took her hand and pressed it between his, she didn’t pull away.
CHAPTER 18
There were no servants in residence, so the dark windows of Devonwood House peered onto the street like empty eyes. The town house seemed like a being whose spirit had flown. It was such a morbid thought, Emmaline’s throat ached and tears pressed at the back of her eyes.
St
op that, she ordered herself sternly. She followed Devon as he carried her father up the three flights of stairs to the Blue Suite. Monty wouldn’t be helped by a show of weepiness. She swiped her eyes.
“Turn up the gas sconce in the hall,” Devon said quietly.
“Of course.” Why hadn’t she thought of that? Instead she’d indulged in maudlin thoughts while she let him carry Monty in the dark. She skittered around Devon and hurried up to the next landing. She stretched to reach the knob that cranked up the amount of gas feeding into the fixture.
When yellowish light flooded the hall, the butler Baxter emerged from the shadows, brandishing what appeared to be a chair leg above his clumsily bandaged head. Emma drew back in shock.
“Oh, your pardon, miss,” he said as he lowered his unlikely weapon. “I thought the burglar might have returned with a few of his friends. Lord Devonwood, I am most relieved to see you. Oh, dear, has Dr. Farnsworth taken ill?”
Emmaline noticed Baxter was upset enough to set aside his stiff use of “one” for himself and spoke to them almost normally.
“Yes, he’s ill. Dr. Trowbridge is behind us, so don’t bash him on the head with that chair leg, Baxter,” Devon said. The butler dropped the offending leg as quickly as if it were afire.
Emmaline heard the doctor’s labored breathing on the landing below as he hauled his impressive girth up the three stories. “Did you say there was a burglary, Mr. Baxter?”
“In Dr. Farnsworth’s room, in fact,” the butler said, straightening to his usual ramrod posture and wrapping himself in his accustomed dignity. “When one returned from one’s evening off, one interrupted the brigand in the middle of his theft. The professor’s room is quite ransacked, milord. We’ll have to move Dr. Farnsworth into the Green Room for the time being until the rest of the staff returns and we can set things to rights tomorrow.”