Rowan ground his teeth together. The last thing he wanted was to face the man he’d betrayed, but he had no choice if he wanted to bring his wife to heel. He strode about the periphery of the room, caring little whom he jostled on the way. His entire being was focused on Emma.
—
“I hear you’ve lands in Cornwall.” Emma could barely believe she was conversing with Viscount Lindenhurst, but Cecelia had insisted on introducing them. He’d scarcely flinched upon learning her name.
“My wife might be the better person to tell you about them.” He referred to Cecelia with an easy affection that sparked an unsettling twinge deep in Emma’s belly. Could it be jealousy? Not of Cecelia, per se, but of what she’d achieved in her marriage with Lindenhurst. “She’s recently redecorated most of the rooms, so I barely recognize the place.”
“Honestly, I’d enjoy hearing what you have to say.” Emma smiled up at him, hoping she didn’t appear too much the coquette. The smallest hint about what it took to run an estate might be beneficial, and if she could cultivate this acquaintance, they might reach the stage where she could ask pointed questions. “What use do you make of your lands?”
With a laugh, Cecelia waved her fan. “Surely you can’t wish to hear about estate management.”
“Most ladies find the details so tedious,” Lindenhurst agreed.
“I can assure you I wouldn’t. I know quite a bit about drawing advantageous profit from wine imports. I can recommend any number of vineyards in France that produce consistent quality, but when it comes to eking one’s living out of the land itself, you’ve quite lost me. Unless you grow grapes, but I don’t imagine you do.”
“Grapes?” Lindenhurst’s lips flattened, but the expression did little to mar his looks. The man was every bit as handsome as her husband, if dark where Battencliffe was golden. “I know of no one who does.”
“The Romans attempted it when they conquered Britain,” Emma said, “but they soon learned our climate is too harsh to produce a proper wine grape.”
Cecelia laughed. “Sheep, on the other hand, are plentiful.”
Ah, here was an interesting lead. “And do you raise sheep?”
Before Lindenhurst had a chance to reply, a merciless set of fingers wrapped about Emma’s upper arm. “I hate to break up this little party, but I believe it’s high time we went home.”
Emma gasped, and a wave of heat crashed over her. Not the pleasant sort, either. No, this was outright embarrassment in the face of such rudeness. She glanced up at her husband and swallowed a second gasp. She’d never seen such an odd expression on his face. From across the room, no doubt, he appeared to be smiling. Closer to, however, she could see the tension in his jawline, his lips fixed in a grimace that was closer to an unvoiced embodiment of pain than anything.
“What are you doing?” she replied, rapid and low.
“I’ve just told you.” He spit the words, his jaw barely moving. “I’m ordering you home.”
“You’re causing a scene.”
Indeed, the latest set couldn’t have chosen a better moment on which to end. The ballroom about them became suddenly very quiet. Too quiet. The weight of hundreds of pairs of eyes bore her down. Somewhere among the crowd, Emma was sure, Emily Marshall was holding back a broad grin.
“Is everything all right?” Good Lord, Lindenhurst. Tension laced every syllable of his pronouncement. It sent a shiver up Emma’s spine, a shiver that boded no good at all for her husband. The pair were eyeing each other like two starving dogs, circling about a prime piece of meat.
“Yes,” Emma hastened to reply. It had better be. “I’d best go.”
“Only if you’re certain,” Lindenhurst persisted.
“I can deal with this. I hold the purse strings.” Hang it if that embarrassed Battencliffe in front of the entire assembly. He’d just done as much to her.
Lindenhurst cast another hard look in Battencliffe’s direction before relenting. Emma shook her arm in hopes her husband would take the hint, but he merely tightened his grip. When they turned, she found everything was as she’d feared. The entire room was darting glances in their direction. Here and there, ladies were already leaning their heads together behind the cover of their fans. Emily Marshall wore an open smirk.
“So much for your plan to make everyone believe we’re in love,” Emma couldn’t resist muttering. The comment met with obstinate silence as Battencliffe steered her toward the door.
Then: “I do not care. I’ve a serious matter to discuss with you, and trust me, you do not wish me to do so in front of the entire ballroom.”
Despite being the center of attention, she nearly halted in her tracks. “If this is because I dared talk to Viscount Lindenhurst—”
He tossed his mask aside. “We will talk about it in the carriage.”
And so she waited in stony silence—his and hers—while a footman fetched their wraps and their conveyance trundled up to the entrance. Once the steps were lowered, Battencliffe held out a hand to help her in. She nearly refused him, but there was no need to put on any more of a display. She plunked herself down in the farthest corner, arms crossed, fingers drumming. Nothing about the impending conversation was going to be pretty, but she wanted it over.
The carriage jolted forward. They would make slow enough progress through the streets of Mayfair, but progress nonetheless. In a few weeks, once the Season proper started, the main thoroughfares would be completely clogged with carriages making the rounds of parties.
“So you were fully aware of whom you were addressing,” he said at last from his spot beside her. He crossed one leg over the other, and she recognized the posture. He was trying just as hard to avoid touching her.
“I recognized the name, yes. And you know I’m acquainted with his wife—who introduced us, by the way.”
“What the devil did you think to gain by speaking to him?” He spoke quietly enough, but every last word dripped with tension
“I could hardly cut a viscount, could I?” Did she really have to spell it out for him? Her social position hardly allowed for her to disrespect those higher up the ladder. “If you must know, I was sounding him out about his properties.”
“Explain.” An order, as terse as any given in the military.
She tore off her mask. Ridiculous thing. There was no longer any need to play games. “We’ve been through this. It would be useful to interview a few estate holders, see how they extract the most profit from their properties. I was merely asking what use he makes of his lands. If he proved amenable, I might have laid the groundwork for discussing specifics.”
“Why him?” He leaned forward, insistent, threatening. “What makes you think he’d do anything to help me?”
“He was perfectly polite, knowing all along who I was.”
The corners of Battencliffe’s lips turned down. “You know quite well I don’t want you talking to him.”
“Why?” Despite his posturing, she couldn’t risk prodding. “Will he tell me something unsavory about you that I don’t already know?”
“Tell me about Crawley.” Another order, strained through gritted teeth.
Emma shook her head to clear it. She couldn’t have heard right. “What in heaven’s name? Why?”
“I want to know about your relationship.”
Her jaw dropped. He’d just made it sound like…“I have none.” Or nothing worth mentioning. “My cousin believes she holds a tendre for the man. Otherwise, we’re no more than passing acquaintances.”
“Is that so?” He angled himself on the seat until he was facing her as dead-on as he could. His knees crowded her. “You carry on a correspondence with men you deem passing acquaintances?”
It was far worse than that, but she could hardly admit as much. Especially when he was seething. She could feel the anger radiating from him, like waves of heat in the summer sun. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” That much, at least, was true.
“Do not lie to me.” He spat the
words, low and fast. “Don’t ever lie to me. I have evidence of the entire sordid affair.”
Heavens, must he couch it in those terms? “Evidence? What could you possibly have?”
“You are aware of my pitiable financial state. I told you how I was taken in. I hired a Bow Street Runner to see if he could track down the man who made off with the investments. Only it wasn’t who I thought. It was Crawley. Dysart traced everything back to him. Not only that, he traced Crawley to you.”
He paused for breath, but there was nothing at all reassuring about that tiny silence. “Tell me, was that your plan? Were you out to line Crawley’s nest with not only my blunt but yours as well?”
“I have not been corresponding with Crawley.” Although if the rest of his accusations were accurate, it explained why Crawley had been so oddly persistent in pursuing private talks with her recently. “I do not know how to make it any clearer than that. Your Bow Street Runner was wrong on that score.”
Unless Crawley was using the name Hendricks as a cover. But what reason did he have to do that when they were acquainted somewhat? He could have approached her on any number of occasions. He already had.
Before Rowan could reply, the carriage shuddered to a halt in front of the townhouse. A softer jolt passed through the cab as the steps were let down. The door swung to the side, and Battencliffe propelled himself through the opening as if someone had lit a fire under his backside. Emma remained where she was, even when her husband held out a hand to help her alight.
“Come, now. We can continue this in private.”
Emma crossed her arms. She’d have no more of his orders. “I have need of the carriage yet tonight.”
He stuck his head back inside, glaring. “What are you doing? We’re not through with this discussion.”
“Oh, yes, we are. Do you really think so little of me?”
He climbed back inside. The carriage swayed under his weight as he thumped onto the seat. “I’d really prefer to have this talk without a ready audience.”
“So would I, but we don’t always get everything we want.”
“A fire would come in handy, not to mention a drink.” Every word carried a hardened edge. Even his expression solidified. He was perhaps attempting a carefully neutral approach, but inside, he wasn’t finished seething. Emma could sense as much.
“If you stick to the topic, we can have this over with. Do you know what the worst of it is? You’re not even angry with me. You’re angry with someone who is no longer here to bear the brunt. But it’s not fair of you to unleash your emotions on me. I’ve done nothing.”
“But Crawley—”
“Hendricks,” she corrected.
He gaped for a moment. “Who?”
“Hendricks is the name of my correspondent.” She strived for the cool, polite tone Miss Conklin had always associated with a proper set-down. “I’ve been advising him, all of it strictly business. You’re welcome to read the letters. They’re in the writing desk in my apartments.”
He loomed closer, pressing her back into the squabs. “So you admit— After I told you not to…”
She forced herself to return his stare. Now was not the time to let him intimidate her. “Read the letters and you will see there was nothing untoward.” Beyond the small matter of that last message, even if the threat was fairly nebulous. “Good heavens, I was innocent until our encounter in the wine cellar. How in heaven’s name do you imagine I was carrying on with all these men?”
Lips pressed into a firm line, he retreated an inch at most.
She had him now. This was nothing more than a difficult negotiation, but she sensed she’d won. Why, then, did she not feel the keen thrill of victory? “You need to decide what you want out of this marriage. Is it just the money or something more?”
Still no answer, so she swallowed and pressed on. This phase of the negotiation was turning out to be more difficult than expected. “When you’ve worked out what you want, we can further discuss it. I’ll send someone after my things in the morning.”
His entire body jerked as if she’d just struck him. “Your things? Where are you going? Where will I find you?”
“Cheapside.” Her throat tightened alarmingly. She could get through this. She had to. “Back where I come from. Back where I belong. But don’t come after me until you’ve decided which man you’re going to be.”
He shook his head. “What are you on about?”
“I want the husband who looked after me when I was ill. Who held me in his lap and fed me soup. Who ignored his own comfort so I might keep warm. Who thinks up the most awful puns imaginable to make me laugh. I l—” She choked, but thank goodness. She’d nearly admitted a weakness. “I could fall in love with him.”
Battencliffe slumped back against the seat and raked a hand through his hair. “I’m no good at this. No one’s showed me how to be married.”
Ah, excuses. Thank heaven for that, as well, and the irritation that overwhelmed any more tender emotion that might soften her voice. “No good, no good. That’s always your justification. It’s about time you started making an effort. This person I’m seeing right now, I want nothing to do with him. This person is simply ugly.”
—
Ugly. Now, there was a word no woman had ever applied to Rowan Battencliffe, but an hour later, it still echoed through his mind. He swallowed the last of his brandy, letting the drink burn a path to his gut. He needed the fortification before he crossed the threshold into Emma’s apartments and faced those letters. Faced the fact that he might have misjudged her, and in the most god-awful manner possible.
To the devil with it.
He tossed the glass aside, and yanked open the connecting door. In the light of a single flickering candle, the bedchamber lay under a blanket of silence. On the bed, the coverlet was turned back, awaiting the mistress of the house. Much as it had looked the night he’d sullied it with Lydia.
Bloody, bloody hell. Emma had consigned him to purgatory. She could easily have sent him back to his brother’s, but no. She’d had to leave him this house, and she’d had to send him back to this room.
You’re angry with someone who is no longer here.
Damn her discernment. It was as if the blasted spectacles she usually wore permitted her a view directly into his soul. Yet again, she was right, and she’d sent him to face that ghost, no matter that she’d used the excuse of the letters in her writing desk.
He took the candle from the nightstand and strode across the floor to the familiar piece. It sat in the same spot as it had over seven years ago. His fingers brushed the costly marquetry. He still retained a vague recollection of pushing Lydia up against it. Not that she’d protested. No, she’d been an active participant in their sin.
He thrust those memories, vague as any shadow, back into the compartment in his brain where he kept them locked. He needed to throw away that key. Revisiting that night served no purpose.
Reaching for the handle, he raised the tambour top. Folded sheets of paper stood in neat ranks in one of the pigeonholes, but they did not command the same attention as a book bound in red leather. The gold inlay stuck out in raised relief, the letters twinkling in the low light.
Lydia Lindenhurst. The name struck him a harder blow than any salvo his wife had tossed in his direction tonight.
A journal—that much was clear—something he should never touch. But then he should never have touched Lydia. He reached toward the pigeonhole and took up the pages, neat and orderly, all classified by date, the first dated three months ago and more. He scanned for a signature. Hendricks, just as Emma had said.
Not Crawley.
Alongside each missive lay a copy of what Emma must have sent to this Hendricks fellow. Rowan pored through one letter after the other, but if there was any hint of scandalous behavior going on, it was well hidden among the lines of investment advice. If you’re looking to import, spend extra for luxury goods. The rich will always have the means to pay a high price, and yo
ur return will come in all the faster.
Yes, and didn’t that just sound like Emma?
But somewhere along the way Hendricks had slipped up and lost a great deal. The tone of his recent notes became more and more desperate as he tried to recoup his loss.
Just like Rowan.
It was all innocent, then, and he needed to put the papers back. But somehow, as he withdrew his hand, it landed on cool leather binding. Lydia’s journal, which might hold the record of a night he’d been too besotted with drink to recall.
Damn Emma. She had to know the journal was here. Perhaps she’d even read parts of it herself. She’d known—she’d faced the worst of him already, alone. And clearly, clearly, she needed for him to face that in himself. Because if he could get past this one event, he might finally figure out what he wanted.
So he set the candle down, grit his teeth, and settled himself into a spindly chair more suited to hold a lady than his bulk. Bracing himself, he opened the cover and began to read.
Chapter Twenty-two
The sky was lightening by the time Rowan closed the journal. His eyes itched, and his head felt like it was stuffed to bursting, rather like when he attempted to understand Emma’s account books.
No, he wouldn’t think of her. After Lydia, he’d considered himself a failure. Now, since he’d run Emma off, he truly knew the meaning of the word. Ironically enough, he’d run her off for nothing.
Hopefully it wasn’t too late, though he’d have to work harder than a London docks-man to make those amends. At least he could try to right things with Lind, at least as much as they could be righted.
He fumbled in the writing desk until he found ink, a quill, and paper. Lind wouldn’t answer a summons from him, but Sanford would. And perhaps by some miracle, Sanford could convince Lind to listen.
What a Lady Requires Page 21