Dysart sighed. “This Higgins chap has just come into a fortune. He’s like to spend it on somethin’. But what somethin’? Gamblin’, drinkin’, or whores?”
“About the same as any other gentlemen.”
“So all three in great heaps.”
“Yes, possibly. I couldn’t say which. Crawley knows him better.”
Dysart straightened. “Who’s Crawley?”
“An acquaintance. He introduced me to Higgins and brought me into the scheme.”
“And where’s he gone off to?”
“Nowhere. I saw him yesterday when he told me Higgins had swindled us.”
Dysart cocked his head. “Crawley told ye?”
“Yes—you don’t think he’s involved, do you?”
“I think what I think. Where’s this Crawley live? I wants t’ talk to him.”
“I can give you his direction, but I’m not sure what good it’ll do. He’s lost his part in this scheme, too.”
“So he says, but he can also tell me more about Higgins.” Dysart pushed himself off his desk. “Now there’s just the matter of my—what do ye nobs call it? Right. My retainer.”
—
The Pendleton ball was alive with color. Unmarried hopefuls in pale shades, their eager mamas in darker tones, offset by gentlemen in evening black. To Emma, the scene looked like an ever-changing kaleidoscope of vaguely blurry patterns, since Aunt Augusta insisted she leave her spectacles at home.
Little did her aunt know Emma had spirited the offending eyewear in her reticule. She’d never get away with donning the things, but the act was a small bit of rebellion nonetheless. How ridiculous that fashion insisted a young lady be robbed of her eyesight in order to attract a husband. Clad in their social uniform, they all looked the same from this vantage.
“Pray, do not squint so,” Aunt Augusta admonished out the side of her mouth as she nodded at an acquaintance. Not that Emma could see which acquaintance.
“It isn’t as if I need to impress anyone tonight.” None of the gentlemen, at any rate. With the matter of her marriage settled, Emma would have been just as content to remain at home.
“Do you want the ladies saying Mr. Battencliffe agreed to marry you for your dowry alone?”
“They will say that no matter if I squint or not.” They’d say that and worse. “What’s more, it’s the truth.”
Emma snapped open her fan and made a show of waving it in front of her face in hopes that would discourage Aunt Augusta from pursuing the current thread of conversation.
“Still, we wouldn’t want to give the impression shortsightedness runs in the family.” Aunt Augusta craned her neck to see past the towering ostrich plumes on some dowager’s headdress. “Now that you’re settled, we can hope Uriana makes a match.”
Emma scanned the dancers for a smudge of sea-foam green, but the patterns of the reel shifted too quickly. It was early in the year for a proper crush. The true Season wouldn’t begin until the weather became more clement in April.
Shepherded by her aunt, Emma continued her turn about the edge of the ballroom, smiling and nodding blindly at anything resembling a face, until the music ended on a flourish. She suppressed a groan. Uriana threaded through the guests on the arm of Lord Allerdale. Following in their wake came a few other young people, among them Miss Emily Marshall—heaven forbid Emma even think of her as anything else. Miss Marshall would not hesitate to voice a polite yet embarrassing reminder that they were not on a first name basis.
“You’ll never believe who I saw dancing together.” Uriana flapped her fan in front of her face, aglow from the vigorous set. “Lord Chuddleigh and Lady Wexford.”
In spite of herself, Emma glanced toward the center of the room, not that she could see well enough to distinguish such a sight. “You mean he’s run through the current crop of young misses?”
“Until a few new ones make their bow.”
One of Miss Marshall’s friends giggled. “Do you know he pinched my bottom the first time he asked me to dance? I mysteriously found myself otherwise engaged on every occasion after that.”
“Lord knows he’d have a hard time missing Lady Wexford’s bottom.” This from Uriana’s latest dance partner. The statement drew a scowl from Aunt Augusta, but she didn’t dare censure someone who wasn’t under her direct control, especially not the heir to a marquessate.
In a gesture of practiced casualness, Miss Marshall drew a finger through a loose blond curl. “You always did have cheek to spare.”
“But not as much as Lady Wexford.” Lord Allerdale tossed her a grin before turning to Emma. “Ah, Miss Jennings.” He leaned over her gloved hand. “A pleasant evening, is it not?”
Emma smiled and nodded while inwardly hoping an invitation to dance wasn’t imminent. With or without her spectacles, she could not guarantee the safety of her partner’s feet.
A footman bearing a tray of drinks pushed past. Lord Allerdale commandeered two glasses of a suspect yellowish liquid. Lemonade, no doubt, flavored with orgeat. He offered one to Emma.
She bowed her head politely. “No, thank you.”
In her place, Miss Marshall reached for the proffered glass. The white of her ball gown nearly matched her pale skin and blond hair. “I suppose this isn’t up to your standards.”
“You mean it isn’t French enough,” put in the giggly friend.
“What could you possibly mean by that?” Emma knew quite well it wouldn’t be anything good, but how far would Miss Marshall go in front of a young man she might well wish to impress?
Miss Marshall raised her glass in a mock toast and took a sip of her lemonade. “My papa says a proper Englishman drinks port.”
Proper Englishmen often drank swill while offering watered-down versions to their women, but Emma could hardly point that out. “What of Madeira?”
“I suppose that would pass, but why anyone would wish to encourage the enemy…”
“Enemy?” Allerdale nearly spit out his drink. “Good Lord, the war’s been over for nearly seven years. Surely we can enjoy French wine.”
Emma eyed her. “And naturally your modiste isn’t French.”
Miss Marshall sniffed. “That’s not the same thing, as Madame Godefroy no longer lives there.”
And if Madame Godefroy’s accent was authentic—if her name, in fact, wasn’t actually Godfrey—Emma would down that glass of lemonade in one draught and ask for another.
Uriana leaned close so she could speak behind the cover of her fan. “You could have taken the lemonade and pretended to like it.”
Emma could have and thus avoided a few unpleasant comments, but she was weary of pretending with these people. No matter how hard she tried, someone found fault somewhere.
She drifted away from the giggling females, taking the occasional step until she’d placed some distance between herself and the others. Once she was far enough removed, she turned and headed for the corridor. Perhaps she’d have better luck in the card room. Not that she wished to wager, but she could observe, and at the same time hope for some serious conversation.
A group of gentlemen had gathered in the corridor, deep in conversation. If Emma could make out someone she knew, she might insinuate herself into the group. At other soirees, a handful of ton gentlemen had appreciated her wine recommendations. In exchange, she’d heard about the occasional financial scheme, information she’d used to Papa’s benefit.
A surreptitious squint and Lord Highgate with his scarred face, along with the Marquess of Enfield materialized out of the mist. Older, titled landowners, all of them. Yes. Here she might learn something to her advantage, or at least to her intended’s.
Sparks hovered on the outskirts. Excellent. On Emma’s approach, he nodded, but she cut off a greeting. “Don’t interrupt the conversation for niceties,” she said quietly. “I’m sure I’ll find the discussion fascinating.”
“That you shall. I know I always do, even if I don’t understand the half of it.” Sparks leaned closer to whispe
r behind his hand. “But I’d wager you will. Something about an investment opportunity in Leeds or Manchester or someplace up north.”
“How interesting. Who is backing?”
Sparks shrugged. “I’ve no idea. Perhaps you’ll explain it to me later.”
An unaccountable blush ran up her cheeks. Besides her father, so many men were all too willing to write off her intelligence over such a small thing as her gender. “Why, thank you.”
“Your papa speaks very highly of you, you know. He has every confidence you can make something of my brother.”
She dipped her head in acknowledgment. “I don’t know what to say.” And she didn’t. A discomfiting sensation prickled through her at the reminder of her upcoming nuptials. Part of her wished she were marrying Sparks. She might have managed a comfortable friendship with him, if nothing else. He carried nothing in his nature that roused feelings of contrariness. Unlike his brother.
But she really needed to stop musing and lend an ear to the conversation if she wanted to discover anything useful. The discussion revolved around mills, as she might have surmised the moment Sparks mentioned Leeds, but what really made her ears prick was mention of a cheaper method of transport between Liverpool and Manchester.
“A railway.” Lord Anstruther made a dismissive gesture. “I tell you, it will never work. And why should we put good money into steel and steam when we’ve got perfectly good canals already in place?”
A railway would deliver raw materials faster. It would lead to increased production. But Emma didn’t get a chance to voice her objection.
“So here’s where you’ve been hiding yourself,” a newcomer interrupted. “Very effective, but I’m on to you.”
Emma looked to her left. “Mr. Crawley. You nearly gave me a fright.”
“Your pardon. I was hoping for a dance, nothing more.”
“Do forgive me, but I’m certain my cousin would be delighted to dance with you.” Emma cast about for a sighting of the sea-foam green smudge, but none was in the offing. Her cousin was most likely still in the ballroom, in any case.
“Dash it, and I was hoping for the opportunity for an uninterrupted conversation with you.”
Good heavens, this could not be happening. Or rather, it could. A great many who claimed the title gentleman had tried to get her alone. Compromising her would be an easy avenue to a fortune, but most of her would-be suitors went about the business rather more subtly.
She graced him with her frostiest smile. “I’m certain we have nothing to discuss of such a private nature that you cannot do so before others.”
“If you’d only consent to dance with me, you might hear something to your advantage.”
“I believe the lady is otherwise engaged.” That voice. The last time she’d heard it, an overabundance of spirits had slurred it. Not so tonight. Tonight, it was low and hard as granite.
Mr. Crawley retreated a pace. “Battencliffe,” he said cautiously. “I didn’t expect you to attend tonight’s entertainment.”
“I thought it best to put in an appearance.” Battencliffe stepped into her field of vision at last, his body forming a wall between her and the others. A perfectly tailored evening coat of black superfine highlighted the line of his shoulders and offset his golden good looks. “I owe my intended a waltz, at any rate.”
“Intended.”
“Yes. Only yesterday, Miss Jennings accepted my offer.” He turned to her, his lips easing into a brief smile, as if he truly were pleased to see her. But it was only an act. Some other, hotter emotion blazed behind his eyes. “Miss Jennings. I do hope you got my flowers.”
“Y-yes. How thoughtful of you.” She’d meant to chastise him for the extravagance at the earliest possible opportunity, but she could hardly do so in front of their current audience. More than that, she no longer wished to. Not when she’d rarely been on the receiving end of such masculine flattery. Just what sort of power did this man wield that he could make her want to set all practicality aside?
And then there was his demeanor to consider. His entire bearing, from the set of his jaw to the tension around his shoulders, proclaimed his possessiveness. To her utter shock and confusion, that realization did not arouse outrage, and it should have. This man, by his very presence, awakened something inside her—something uniquely feminine that she’d never known existed, that made her long for the innate skills the other ladies seemed to command without thought. But Miss Conklin had always bemoaned her inability to instill in Emma the proper coy smile and flirtatious sway to her shoulders.
He bent over her hand, long fingers capturing her wrist, and rather than kissing the air above her glove, he pressed his lips directly to the fine kidskin. The action, along with his proprietary expression, turned her knees to jelly.
Sliding his grip to her hand, he turned to face Crawley. “If you’ll excuse us.”
She waited until they’d claimed a spot on the dance floor before addressing her betrothed. “I ought to warn you, I’m not much for dancing.”
“Just smile and follow my lead.” He stared at a point past her, his expression pleasant, as though he wanted to be nowhere else but holding Emma Jennings in a near-embrace. “Waltzing is like everything else in society—a display.”
He kept her at a perfectly respectable distance, yet the hold somehow felt intimate, as if she were pressed up against the length of his body. Before she could reply, she had to find her voice. “Like the one you put on for Mr. Crawley just now?”
His fingers tightened on her waist for a moment, the touch all too fleeting. “That was naught but a reminder. One you’d best keep in mind, as well.”
Before she could demand an explanation for that cryptic remark, he sailed into a turn, guiding her expertly between the other couples. She nearly stumbled over her feet in an attempt to keep up. Gritting her teeth beneath her smile, she forced herself to concentrate on the rhythm.
One, two, three. One, two, three.
Once again, those fingers burned like brands against her waist. “Let yourself go. Don’t think where to put your feet. Just dance.”
How enticing he made that sound. Never in her life had Emma been tempted to act like one of the empty-headed young ladies who seemed to abound at these balls, but that appeared to be just what he was proposing. And somehow, amid all the circling and changes of directions, she felt as if she was halfway to a place where she didn’t need to think.
Where she only had to feel, his arms her sole anchor. Where she only had to sense. With every sweeping change of direction, her head felt as if it were floating a little bit more. Somehow his body communicated with hers, each tiny contraction of his muscles a signal to her to follow.
Oh, yes, he was truly leading her now. She could only pray the end of the journey wouldn’t find her lost in some form of perdition.
Chapter Six
The wedding came upon Emma all too soon. One day, it seemed, her aunt was badgering her about a trousseau, and the next Emma was standing in the drawing room reciting vows in front of a parson. The ceremony passed in a whirl, not unlike the waltz she had shared with Battencliffe. How little time was required to attach her life irrevocably to another.
She stared at the champagne in her hand, alive with bubbles. Papa had insisted on celebrating her nuptials with the best. Fueled by the drink, his laughter echoed throughout the sitting room as he chatted with her new husband and brother-in-law.
Emma imagined she knew just what those bubbles felt like in their wild swirl, buffeting one another, careening this way and that. Since the Pendleton ball, the light-headed feeling she’d experienced in her then-betrothed’s arms had remained her constant companion. It still was—and she hadn’t taken so much as a sip. Not even when Papa toasted to her future with Mr. Battencliffe.
Uriana eased over to Emma’s side. Her cousin cast a wild glance over her shoulder before leaning in. “Mama says he’ll hurt you dreadfully tonight,” she whispered, jerking her head in Battencliffe’s direction
.
“How thoughtful of her to point that out.” How thoughtful to ensure her daughter would carry the tale to Emma—as if Emma’s personal misgivings weren’t sufficient to set her stomach on edge.
Uriana tsked. “You know what Miss Conklin used to say about sarcasm.”
Emma fought an urge to roll her eyes—which was just as unladylike and liable to lead to more reminders of the rules. She was quite happy to obey rules, as long as they made sense. Unfortunately, none of Miss Conklin’s dictates obeyed anything resembling logic.
Before Emma could come up with an adequate response, Uriana leaned close, her brown eyes large in her face. “You’ll tell me, won’t you?”
“Tell you what, exactly?” Although Miss Conklin had never given any explicit proviso on the matter, Emma was sure the topic under discussion was just as forbidden to well-bred young ladies as sarcasm.
“If he’s a gentleman.” Uriana’s voice held a note of urgency, as if her entire worldview hinged on this single point. “He’s so handsome. He just has to be a gentleman about…about…well, you know.”
Uriana was blushing now, and soon Emma would be, too, though for an entirely different reason. Her cousin’s naiveté was so exaggerated Emma felt embarrassed. Her more devilish side prodded at her to play the green little miss and claim she didn’t know. Pure curiosity, of course, to see in what terms Uriana would describe what happened between a husband and wife behind closed doors.
But she tamped that part of her nature down so as not to prolong the discussion. The less she thought about the upcoming wedding night, the better. “Do you remember that maid Aunt Augusta had to dismiss?”
Uriana’s brow puckered. “Mary?”
Not that her reply indicated knowledge—Aunt Augusta couldn’t be bothered to learn the maids’ real names. They were all Mary.
“She told me it was a great deal of fun.” Another glance at the figure her husband cut in his wedding clothes—the deep blue superfine of his topcoat set off his golden looks to perfection—inspired a new thought. “I’m not at all certain I want him to be a perfect gentleman.”
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