What a Lady Requires

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  Emma eyed her with a healthy dose of suspicion. Miss Marshall never had anything nice to say to her, when she condescended to speak at all.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Emma kept her tone as neutral as possible.

  Miss Marshall held herself as regally as any queen. “I thought I’d come to see this place for myself.”

  “You came to see the townhouse?”

  “When I learned you were staying at such a fashionable address, I could scarcely believe it.”

  “I’ve lived here for over a year,” Emma pointed out carefully, although Miss Marshall had to know that. The facts didn’t matter, though, as long as she could get her digs in.

  From her throne, she waved away the comment before making a show of inspecting the sitting room. “And in surprisingly good taste, if several years out of style. Egyptian motifs went out with Napoleon, you know.”

  Ah, so here it was. She was planning on blasting Emma’s sense of style. The verbal darts might even sting, if Emma cared for such things and if she weren’t already distracted. How odd, though, that Miss Marshall had dismissed a ready-made audience to deliver her salvos. “I’m afraid I’ve better things to do than toss away good money on décor.”

  From the top of her patrician nose, Miss Marshall sniffed. “How very like you cits.”

  “I wasn’t aware you were acquainted with a great many cits.”

  “Of course I am not. The very idea.” Miss Marshall folded her hands precisely in her lap. “Given the circumstances of your marriage, I suppose your husband would prefer you to pay off his debts.”

  “I already have.” At least those someone like Miss Marshall would consider important—the so-called debts of honor. Yes, and she’d have collected those attitudes from her family. As the niece of the powerful Earl of Redditch, Emily Marshall’s relations would expect her to make a brilliant match. In fact, it was rather surprising such an event had not already come to pass, but perhaps that had something to do with the scandal Aunt Augusta had hinted at.

  “Well, thank heavens for that. Your husband is far too handsome to deprive society of his presence for so tedious a reason as debtor’s prison. A great many ladies will no doubt wish to thank you.” Miss Marshall spoke with a light enough tone, but the ghost of a smirk played about her lips. She wanted Emma to ask for clarification.

  Emma refused to play the game. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Surely Miss Marshall wouldn’t overstay her expected quarter hour. Someone so important must have better places to be.

  “How is marriage treating you?”

  “Perfectly fine.”

  “Really?” Miss Marshall arched a pale blond brow. “And here I was certain you were one to prize intelligent conversation.”

  Clearly, I don’t hold this one to be of much value. Emma chewed on her reply. She must rise above Miss Marshall’s barbs. “I do.”

  Miss Marshall shrugged. “Ladies don’t seek Mr. Battencliffe’s company for his witticisms, in any case. According to what I’ve heard, he is quite knowledgeable when it comes to certain aspects of the conjugal relationship.”

  “I am afraid I don’t have any basis for comparison.” Not that an unmarried lady ought to have any, either. And given Aunt Augusta’s hints at what had befallen the Marshall cousin, Miss Marshall would make doubly certain her reputation was spotless.

  The knowing smile playing about Miss Marshall’s lips dropped away, as if she’d removed a mask. No, she hadn’t liked Emma’s implication, not one bit. “I certainly hope you’re not entertaining any bourgeois notions of fidelity—not from a man like Battencliffe.”

  “Not that it is any of your affair—”

  “Oh, spare me the protests. I’ve heard the most interesting tidbit about your husband, but no doubt he’s already told you, since it involves his financial position.”

  Emma’s hands turned to blocks of ice. No, she should not encourage this conversation, but she had to ask. If Battencliffe’s finances were part of the question, she needed to hear whatever Emily Marshall had come to say. No matter how ugly. “What have you heard?”

  “You mean he hasn’t told you the story? You do know how he got into this mess in the first place.”

  “He’s said he has no head for business.” A vague enough statement, one Emma had never thought to question. Plenty of people lost their heads when it came to figures and finances.

  “Oh, it goes much further than that. Viscount Lindenhurst set out to ruin him. In fact, he nearly succeeded. That is how Battencliffe lost most of his personal fortune to begin with. And I hear…” Miss Marshall leaned forward and dropped her voice to a gleeful whisper. Without doubt it was the tone she reserved for the most delightful on-dits. “I hear it was over the first Lady Lindenhurst. If I were you, I’d ask what went on between those two while Lord Lindenhurst was in Belgium. His heir was born shamefully soon after Lord Lindenhurst’s return from the war. Perhaps too soon…”

  The declaration hit Emma as hard as a sudden slap and just as shocking. The teacup in her lap jittered dangerously, and with a shaking hand, she set it aside.

  “No, it isn’t true.” She had no idea why she felt the need to defend her husband, not any more than she knew why the news upset her. But it did.

  “Why don’t you ask about it, then? Or are you afraid he’ll lie?”

  “If you’ve nothing better to do—”

  “Oh, I most certainly do. I’ve more calls to pay. One hears the most delicious gossip, you know.” With a shake of her skirts, Miss Marshall stood. “I can see myself out.”

  Emma waited until she heard the front door close before she allowed herself to react. Then she shot out of her seat and stalked to the window. In the street below, a footman was handing Miss Marshall up into a well-appointed carriage.

  It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Emily Marshall was simply being a vicious shrew. From Emma’s first foray into polite society, Miss Marshall and her cronies had viewed Emma as an interloper, one to be put in her place.

  And that place was not a fashionable townhouse in Mayfair. It wasn’t in the ballrooms of the ton. If Miss Marshall could create discord in Emma’s marriage, Emma might retire to the country, as happened with any number of wives whose marriages had run sour. No more inconvenient merchant’s daughter to contend with.

  Despite the advantage to which she’d been born, Miss Marshall was just as desperate as Aunt Augusta to establish her position in society. Heaven forbid that she ever be lower than an outsider like Emma.

  In a sense, Miss Marshall was Emma’s direct rival, though not for a specific suitor. No. The battle was all about rank.

  But this sudden insight into Miss Marshall’s character didn’t make her venom any easier to stomach.

  “I won’t allow her to run me out,” Emma vowed.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

  Emma turned to find Mary hovering near the tea cart. She hadn’t even heard the maid come in. “Nothing. You may remove the refreshments and inform Grundy I will receive no more callers today.”

  Mary bobbed a curtsey. “Very good.”

  “Tell him I wish no one admitted, unless it’s a runner bearing a letter for me.”

  Emma needed to find a place away from the servants to puzzle out this situation unobserved. She wandered into the passageway, and all the while doubt intruded on her denials. She couldn’t set aside Henrietta and Cecelia’s hints of something gone wrong between her husband and his old friend. For that matter, she couldn’t set aside her own husband’s reaction to the knowledge she’d spoken with the new Lady Lindenhurst. If there was any truth to Miss Marshall’s insinuations, that would certainly explain the underlying animosity.

  Oh, good Lord, what to do? She couldn’t confront Battencliffe, as he’d gone out yet again. After yesterday, she’d begun to hold out hope that this marriage might turn into something more than a battleground.

  He stayed by you while you were ailing. He wished to flirt with you. He wants to take
you places. He made love to you last night. Yes, those were points in his favor against a potentially deep, deep deficit. And he was the only person who could tell her what really happened, since Lady Lindenhurst was no longer of this world.

  Lady Lindenhurst, who, according to what Emma had read in the journal, loved her husband. Goodness, could she have left a clue behind in those pages?

  Emma ascended the stairs to her chambers. The journal lay in its hiding spot in the writing desk, untouched since the last time she’d consulted it. She thumbed past the first entries, skimming until she reached a date a few days after Lydia’s wedding. There, an account stopped her cold.

  It is done. I have married Lindenhurst, and in doing so, I fear I have made a grievous error. My husband informs me of his intent to purchase a commission and do his part in the battle against Napoleon. My mother would have me commend him for his patriotic spirit and his desire to serve his country.

  I had expected to spend the weeks following our wedding getting to know each other more intimately, the possibility of conceiving an heir. Now I only think of the long months I must spend alone, of the uncertainty of the future. Perhaps I should have taken Mr. Battencliffe’s suit more seriously.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hours later, Emma slammed the journal shut. She could not stomach another line. As it was, the last sentence she’d read remained etched in her memory—permanently, she suspected.

  Mr. Battencliffe has become a great comfort to me in my despair. But for his calming presence, when it comes time to peruse the casualty lists, I think I should go mad.

  Great comfort, indeed. In the wine cellar, Emma had become intimately acquainted with Battencliffe’s preferred means of comfort. So there it was—ample proof of Miss Marshall’s insinuations, and not just that final line, but throughout the journal’s pages.

  Once she’d read a few more recent entries, Emma had turned back to the beginning to be certain. No, she hadn’t been mistaken. Upon her marriage, Lydia Lindenhurst’s tone had changed, gradually at first, but the longer her husband’s absence stretched, the more clearly Lydia’s resentment leaked into her words.

  I am too young to play the widow and mourn. I have not even fully experienced the joys of marriage and motherhood. Am I now to set those hopes aside unfulfilled?

  Or perhaps she’d never been as assured in her choice of husband as she initially appeared.

  I can confide here. I can open my heart and bare it as I cannot elsewhere. I have discovered a hiding place where I can be sure no one will discover these writings.

  Whatever else Lydia had intended, those words told Emma one hard fact. Lydia had written the truth in these pages as she had perceived it, at least in later entries. If she was sorting through her feelings for her eyes alone, she’d no reason to lie.

  Emma removed her spectacles and scrubbed the sand from her eyes. The candle she’d lit as dusk fell had burned low. What to do? Could she pretend she’d never learned a word of this? It might be better, in the end, for she could do nothing about the fact of her marriage. She was well and truly shackled to Battencliffe for the rest of her days.

  And now she’d known peace with the man. He’d done his utmost to warm her down in that cellar, sacrificing his topcoat to her need, and he’d stayed by her bed the entire time she was ill. Heaven help her, she even preferred his horrid excuse for humor to arguing with him, but now she was considering breaking their unspoken truce.

  Her problem was his demand for complete faithfulness. Not that she was considering breaking any of her marriage vows. No, it was the fact he’d voiced the requirement in the first place. As if she were out to lure some unsuspecting gentleman into her bed. Just for that, she ought to confront the hypocrite.

  Only one small problem there. He’d gone out. Again. Simply left her in the early afternoon to the tender mercies of her callers, and she’d never heard him come back. But for the few days during her illness, he spent more time at that blasted club of his than he did anywhere—or so he claimed.

  A shiver of doubt crept up the back of her neck. He could stray. In fact, it was a given that he would, eventually. That was the way of the upper echelons of society—arranged marriages, where both partners ended up taking their pleasures elsewhere once their duty to the succession was fulfilled. Completely acceptable, as long as all parties were discreet. But for him to begin so soon…

  No, she didn’t know for certain. She needed solid proof. All she had were a whirl of nagging questions and a journal that confirmed her husband did not take anyone’s marriage vows seriously.

  Perhaps one of the servants knew something. At any rate, she still needed to reprimand the butler over the missing wine. Not good. Not good at all. Emma prided herself on her attention to detail. She could not afford to let her standards slip.

  With a sigh, she pushed her chair back from the writing desk and stood. Taking up the candle, she made her way into the passage and down the stairs to the main floor. The house was dark and quiet. Blast, was it so late the servants had gone to bed?

  But no, someone was up. A line of yellow flickered beneath the door to the study. What on earth? Who could be in there at this time of night? Certainly not Battencliffe. A cold shiver raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Lady Pettifer still hadn’t replied to her query. Could Hendricks have sneaked into the house to make good on his implied threat?

  But he couldn’t know he was caught.

  She strode the length of the passage and yanked open the door while gathering a lungful of air. If she screamed loudly enough, she might well raise the roof. The sight on the other side of the threshold stole her breath, and her cry burst out as a surprised oof.

  Her husband lay slumped across the desk, facedown in an open ledger, snoring softly. An open pot of ink stood by his cheek, and a quill sat just beyond his relaxed fingers.

  She closed her eyes and shook her head, but the scene did not change. “Good heavens,” she muttered.

  Battencliffe did not so much as twitch an eyelid.

  She rolled her lips into her mouth. What should she make of this situation? At least he’s come home, a tiny voice at the back of her head reminded her.

  But what was he doing here? Tinkering with the books? And what if his professed ignorance of accounts had all been an act? Not to mention all the tenderness he’d demonstrated over the past few days? No, she wouldn’t let herself think about that. Not when she ought to wake him and confront him—over his presence here and Lydia—before he shook off the cobwebs of sleep.

  “Not without proof,” she reminded herself, even though the last time she’d thought those words, she’d lived to regret them.

  She padded to the desk and eased the ledger from under his cheek. Not a single blot or smudge marred the entries. By the light of the candle flickering on one corner of the desk, she scanned the columns, comparing them to the mental image she held in her memory. Nothing looked out of place. Her fingers skipping down the page proved the ink dry.

  He hadn’t had time to change anything. But if that was his aim, how on earth had he managed to fall asleep over an activity that would only have taken him a few moments to perform?

  She had no choice but to ask. Reaching out, she prodded his shoulder. With a jerk, he raised his head, blinking slowly the same way his brother did out of habit.

  “Good Lord, I seem to have drifted off.” His gaze shifted to the ledger in Emma’s hands. “No shock there, I suppose.”

  “What are you doing down here? It’s the middle of the night.”

  He glanced away. It was hard to tell in the low light, but his cheeks may have colored. Certainly his expression changed. He looked for all the world like a little boy caught in the gardens snipping roses for the neighbor’s daughter. And wasn’t that an odd image, especially given what she’d just learned? But she couldn’t shake her mind free of the notion of a lost child.

  “This is the last place I’d expect to find you,” she prompted. “And over the books, no l
ess.”

  He nodded at the ledger. “Believe it or not, I thought I could make heads or tails of all those numbers.”

  For some reason, she wanted to see his easy grin spread across his face. If he smiled, it would be easier to believe he was making light. Teasing, as was his wont. Perhaps even lying.

  But he remained dead serious. “I thought if I tried hard enough, went over everything enough times, it would all finally manage to sink in. It hasn’t.”

  “What?” She shouldn’t let him distract her from her purpose, but the bleakness in his voice prevented her from forging ahead. “Why now when you’ve resisted my every attempt at teaching you?”

  He lifted one shoulder in what he doubtless meant to be a dismissive gesture. “Perhaps I decided that if I can understand this, I might come to understand you, eventually.”

  “Oh.” This was not at all going the way she’d planned. Instead of a confrontation, he was giving her a confession. And when he spoke so plainly and honestly, the last thing she wanted to do was provoke him. Rather, she wanted him to go on speaking to her in just this way—without seduction or charm or artifice. Open honesty was the most she could ever ask of him, and through some miracle, he was giving it to her.

  “So now you see me as I am. A failure.”

  “Failure…” Lord help her, she nearly tagged a ridiculous onto her response. Some sense of his complete and utter belief in what he was saying stopped her. Instinct told her scorn was the opposite of a helpful reaction at the moment, no matter that she felt failure to be rather exaggerated.