The key hung on a long chain around her neck. She fished it out of her bodice, opened the case, and deposited the jewelry.
“See, all hidden and locked away now.” She turned to Cassandra, and caught her friend studying her with speculative interest.
“You display such strength and inspire such confidence that it is easy to ignore the daunting task you have set for yourself, Emma. It is good news that Obediah will still call the auctions, since you surely cannot. However, while Mr. Nightingale was not essential, your father’s passing made him more necessary than he was in the past.”
“I think that you exaggerate his significance, much as he did.”
“Emma, there were ladies who viewed the consignments only to have an excuse to view him, and to be flattered and amused by a handsome man of passable breeding.”
“I hope that you mean flattery in the normal sense this time.”
“Let us just say that you can no more take his place than you can Obediah’s at the rostrum. Despite his inappropriate proposal, you should have convinced him to stay on.”
“I could not allow him to stay.”
“Then you must hire another handsome young man of passable breeding to take his place,” Cassandra said. “Let us go below and compose an advertisement to hire a new manager.”
A half hour later Emma rose from the writing table in the library and carried her first version of an advertisement to Cassandra. “I do not want a public announcement that Fairbourne’s is seeking inquiries, so I can only describe the requirements, not name the establishment or even its trade. However, this should do, don’t you think?”
Cassandra read it. “It will do perfectly, if you have a situation available for a vicar.”
Emma snatched it out of Cassandra’s hand. “I think I did a fine job of it.”
“You are not seeking just anyone for just any ordinary position, Emma. You must make this sound more appealing, so the sort of man who can do better will still find it interesting.” She rose, took the advertisement back, and went to the writing table. She sat, tossed her long, black curls over her shoulders, and dipped the pen. “First, we must remove this word industrious. It sounds like hard labor.”
“I only thought—”
“I know what you thought. A solid day’s work for the money of the hire.” Cassandra drew a line through the offending word. “Also, sober-minded must go. So must self-effacing. No man worth knowing ever thinks of himself as self-effacing.” She tsked her tongue. “It is a good thing that I am here to advise you, Emma. Left on your own, you would have ended up with a very dull but dutiful man, and that will never do.”
Emma thought it would do fine. “I am of two minds about mentioning the knowledge of art. It should be there, but I want nothing in it to have people wondering if the advertisement is Fairbourne’s.”
“Why not?”
Because she did not want a certain earl to become aware of her plans, was why not. She did not explain that because even Cassandra did not know that Southwaite had that partnership. Both the earl and Papa had kept that very quiet, probably because, as she pointedly reminded Southwaite yesterday, it did smell of trade.
Emma did not know how she was going to manage the earl if he became aware of her intentions, but possibly his desire for discretion would aid her. It would be best not to ruin what might be an advantage.
“If it is known it is Fairbourne’s, all sorts will show up at the door, cluttering the premises for weeks,” she said. “Nor do I want our competition to have cause to use our current lack of a manager against us.”
“We can remove the reference to art. You will only learn if a prospect truly knows anything when you engage him in conversation on the topic.” Cassandra scratched one more long line with the pen. “Now, we must make it clear this is no ordinary situation. Young men suited for a haberdasher’s shop need not apply.” Cassandra tapped the feather against her chin, then scribbled.
Emma looked over her shoulder. “Pleasurable employment?”
“This man will attend your preview parties and mix with the ton. He will drink brandy with gentlemen and become an intimate friend with wellborn ladies. If he—”
“You have no proof that there will be, or ever has been, intimacy,” Emma said crossly.
“He will become a confidant of ladies, if you prefer that word. My point is that you should make it clear that the situation has its pleasures if you want to attract the best that can be had.”
“I begin to wonder why I would even pay this person. He should pay me, considering the opportunities that await him.”
Cassandra laughed at that, then continued writing.
“There.” She set down the pen. “What do you think?”
Emma read through the sheet that now held numerous deletions and additions. She could not deny that the resulting requirements described a replacement for Mr. Nightingale very well, mostly because they described Mr. Nightingale himself.
“I will give you the name of a solicitor who will act as go-between. He will ensure that obviously inappropriate prospects do not darken your door,” Cassandra said.
“I think you will have to be with me when I speak with any man that he does send to me. Perhaps Mr. Riggles should be there too.”
“I do not believe that he will contribute anything positive. We don’t intend to lie about the situation, Emma, but I fear Mr. Riggles will not communicate the tone that we will want.”
“Are you saying that he may not agree when I describe Fairbourne’s future with boundless optimism?”
“He may also demur when we imply that a life of ever-growing prestige and wealth awaits.”
Emma pictured Obediah at the interviews. Cassandra was correct. He did not dissemble well and would not contribute much that was positive. “I will have the advertisement printed early next week. Shall we agree to meet here a week hence, to discover who sees himself in this description?”
“A fair number shall, I think,” Cassandra said. “I just hope that one of them suits you and also has the style that is needed.”
“Suits Fairbourne’s, you mean.”
Cassandra absently wound a finger through one of her long raven curls. “Of course, that was what I meant. Absolutely.”
Chapter 4
Darius swung off his horse in front of the house on Compton Street near Soho Square and approached the door. He did not relish the day’s mission, but it should not be put off any longer. It was time to explain to Emma Fairbourne the reasons why her father’s auction house had to be sold.
Not all of the reasons, of course. He saw no advantage in itemizing his suspicions about Maurice Fairbourne, suspicions that had crystallized during his visit to the coastline in Kent the last week. While there, he had visited the place from which Maurice had fallen during that evening stroll. Upon examining both the location and its prospects, he had concluded it was only a matter of time before rumors about that accident, and why Fairbourne was on that path, found their way to London.
There was no proof of anything untoward. If the auction house were sold or closed, there most likely never would be. The reputations of both Maurice Fairbourne and his business would probably remain unblemished, as would that of anyone associated with it. Like the Earl of Southwaite.
Memories of his last meeting with Miss Fairbourne made him pause at the door. He would make sure she did not distract him this time. However, he doubted that being forceful in his manner would serve his purpose well either. Firm and consistent, but gentle, might work best, much like dealing with a spirited horse. Even so, he expected resistance from her. A lot of it. A battle loomed.
He might feel better prepared if he had not endured some ridiculous dreams about that last meeting with her, dreams in which things ended very differently than they had a week ago in that storage room. As a result some very arresting images of Miss Fairbourne naked and in total surrender to him had stuck in his mind, and even now wanted to intrude.
That he was plagued by er
otic night fantasies could be attributed to his recent abstinence, in turn due to realizing that his last mistress’s sly manner of angling for expensive gifts had ceased being adorable.
That Miss Fairbourne played a starring role in the new fantasies had no explanation at all, however.
She was not the kind of woman that a man took for a mistress, even if he wanted to. Although not a girl, she was neither a widow nor the object of scandal, so hardly fair game. As the daughter of a merchant, she most likely had very conservative ideas about sexual congress and would expect it to be paired with matrimony.
She did not fit his idea of a mistress in other ways either. Sweet and accommodating, she was not. There was no evidence that she possessed the requisite sophistication for such affairs, either. Such dalliances demanded an acquired level of emotional superficiality in order to be fun, pleasurable, and intense, but also not entangling, and ultimately finite.
No, Miss Fairbourne obviously would not do, for numerous reasons.
He acknowledged with some chagrin that he had examined most of those reasons, from far too many angles and perspectives, and for all the wrong purposes. Fortunately, he would be free of such pointless rationalizations within the hour.
While he emerged from his reflections regarding Miss Fairbourne, a young blood, no more than twenty-two years in age, trotted his horse down the street, dismounted, and tied his gelding right next to Darius’s own. He strode up the stone stairs, brushing his embroidered brown frock coat with his hands. He paused with his foot on the top step, and bent to rub at a scuff on the toe of his high boot.
He gave Darius a quick but incisive inspection, then flashed a cocky smile. Reaching around Darius he gave the knocker three sharp raps.
Displeased by this intrusion on his call, and wondering who the devil this fellow was, Darius waited, feeling the face hovering at his shoulder.
Maitland, the Fairbournes’ butler, did not open the door. Rather Obediah Riggles, the auctioneer, did the duty.
Obediah appeared just as surprised to see Darius as Darius was to see him.
“Has Maitland gone?” Darius asked quietly after Obediah had taken his hat and card. The young blood busied himself primping the hair around his face, making sure the artful wisps of his Brutus fell just so.
“No, sir. Miss Fairbourne asked me to man the gate, just for today. I’m to turn away unsuitable sorts.”
Presumably there were adventurers and even thieves aware that Miss Fairbourne was now a woman alone. Unsuitable sorts might well find excuses to impose on her, and it was unlikely she could identify who had been an associate of her father, seeking to offer condolences, and who had not been.
“I was told to bring visitors to the drawing room, sir,” Obediah said, angling his head for a private word. “I think it might be better to escort you to the morning room instead. I will tell Miss Fairbourne that you are there.”
“If she is receiving in the drawing room, take me there, Riggles. I will not have special accommodations made due to my station. I insist that you present my card exactly as you do the others. I can ask for a private word after her other callers leave.”
Obediah vacillated. The young blood cleared his throat impatiently.
“The drawing room?” Darius prompted.
Bearing the salver with two cards, the auctioneer led the way up the stairs. He opened the doors to the drawing room and stood aside.
Darius entered into a most peculiar scene. Miss Fairbourne had not come down yet. She had a great many callers waiting, however. Ten young men lounged around the chamber.
The callers gave the newcomers critical examinations, then went back to doing nothing. Darius turned to ask Obediah the meaning of this masculine collection, but the doors had closed and Obediah had returned to his post.
Darius positioned himself in front of the fireplace and took stock of his company. All of them were of similar cut—young, fashionable, and handsome. Miss Fairbourne was an heiress now, and perhaps these were suitors, lining up to court her.
He pictured the earnest entreaties that would be made as each one pressed his case in turn. Considering his own experiences with Miss Fairbourne, these young men would likely get their ears burned. He was rather sorry that he would miss the show.
He strode to a divan and sat beside a polished blond swain wearing a striped red and blue waistcoat of considerable cost but questionable taste. The fellow smiled an acknowledgment but scrutinized Darius at the same time.
“A bit old, aren’t you?” he said.
“Ancient,” Darius replied dryly. Thirty-three probably did look old to a pup barely out of university, he supposed. It had to him when he was that age.
His new companion thought the response droll, but seemed to realize the question had not gone down well. “My apologies, sir. I only meant that I think she is looking for someone younger. Perhaps not, though, and your maturity will put us all to a disadvantage.” He angled his body, the better to chat. “John Laughton, at your service.”
Darius believed that etiquette existed for good reasons, but he prided himself on not being a stickler. Therefore he introduced himself in turn. “Southwaite.”
Laughton frowned, perplexed. “Oh? Ohhhh.” He glanced around the chamber. “You are not here—that is, it goes without saying you are not competition.” He laughed. “I confess that is a relief to me.”
Darius was about to reassure him that he certainly was not competition, when a door opened at the end of the drawing room and a woman emerged from the connecting library.
It was not Miss Fairbourne. Rather Lady Cassandra Vernham, the notorious sister of the Earl of Barrowmore, immediately garnered the attention of every man in the chamber.
A tumble of black curls fell around her face and neck from beneath a white lacy cap perched high on her crown. The palest green diaphanous cloth flowed around her body from where a white ribbon bound it high under her admirable breasts. Her large red mouth pursed and appeared shockingly erotic while she opened a journal book and peered at its page.
“Mr. Laughton.”
Laughton sprang to his feet, smoothed his coat, and walked forward. He followed Cassandra into the library and the door closed.
Laughton had left behind a newspaper. Darius noticed that the page showing had been marked. He picked it up and read the advertisement that been worthy of John Laughton’s attention.
Wanted: For a very special and most pleasurable employment, a handsome young man of amiable disposition and notable wit, with excellent manners, advanced education, and unquestionable discretion. Must possess a fashionable appearance, a strong physique, an enjoyment of female company, and undisputed charm. Inquire at the chambers of Mr. Weatherby, on Green Street.
It was a peculiar and somewhat startling notice. Someone clearly sought something other than a footman or secretary.
Darius looked at the very amiable and fashionable young men lounging in the drawing room. Presumably they had all been sent here when they visited Mr. Weatherby.
Evidently there was much more to Miss Fairbourne than he had surmised. Her judgment left much to be desired, however. What was the woman thinking? Maurice must be turning over in his grave.
He strode from the drawing room, to go and find Riggles. Out on the landing a sound made him pause in his tracks. Clear as could be, he heard two women speaking around the corner.
“He is definitely the best of the lot so far, and we should ensure he will pass muster, Emma.”
“We can do that while he remains dressed.”
“I only asked him to remove his coats so his physique would be visible. Much is obscured by coats, and strong shoulders can become quite narrow once a man is in his shirtsleeves and nothing more.”
“He will be wearing coats all the time, so that does not signify.”
Silence then. Long enough that Darius assumed the ladies had returned to the library.
“Emma, I fear that you do not comprehend the practicalities,” Cassandra Vernham sp
oke again. “Do you really think that men forever remain in their coats when they charm and flatter to the extent you expect?”
Darius turned on his heel and returned to the drawing room. Standing at the door, he eyed the young men waiting to impress Miss Fairbourne with just how charming they could be.
“I say that you hire Mr. Laughton, and we send the others away,” Cassandra said. “He was the best so far.”
“He was, wasn’t he? That is not the same as saying he was superior, of course. I had no idea that so many conceited, self-absorbed, but somewhat stupid young men lived in London. I never guessed that my advertisement would be so successful when it came to the quantity of applicants, but so disappointing on the matter of quality.”
Most of the ones Emma had thus far met looked the part she needed played. It was when they opened their mouths that she knew they would not do. They appeared incapable of talking about anything except themselves, no matter how much she and Cassandra prompted them.
They had shown a disconcerting tendency to flirt too. She supposed that men finding themselves facing female interrogators might conclude flirting would help. Mr. Laughton had at least been more subtle about that, and had known a thing or two about art as well. The others had not revealed familiarity with even the most famous old masters.
“I wish I could blame their youth or their class, Emma. I regret to say that most men of the ton are no more impressive. Less so, perhaps, since so many younger sons lack any purpose. And people wonder why I am in no rush to marry.” Cassandra folded her arms. “So, will Mr. Laughton do?”
Emma weighed the decision. “I will give him credit that he even removed his coats with a certain aplomb, and hid his embarrassment well.”
“That was because he was not embarrassed. He found it amusing.”
So had Cassandra. That left only one person in the library suffering embarrassment. Her.
Mr. Laughton had not even found the request odd. Perhaps potential employers demanded disrobing with regularity, to assess whether a prospect was in good health.
The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne Page 4