Mr. Keane continued, “You’d have no time for dalliances if you were gainfully occupied, Charles. I know your mama would be only too happy to have you out from under her feet. She finds the children wearying enough as it is, what with Willie’s bad cough and her own weak nerves. And may I advise you not to rely on your Aunt Letitia’s legacy—she’s apt to change her mind at the drop of a hat.”
“Shall I run away to sea, then?” Charles retorted. “Or join the army? Would that satisfy you—that your eldest son should be maimed or killed just because he enjoyed female company and was a distraction to his mother?”
Mr. Keane took a sharp breath. Emma’s captor moved not a muscle. He clearly meant for them to remain hidden for the duration of this painful argument.
And then what?
“Of course that isn’t what I want,” Mr. Keane said. “I’d just like you to mend your ways, take other people into consideration, and give a bit of thought to your future.”
“I am happy to do so. But just for the record, Papa, I have a friend who is even now making inquiries on my behalf about positions. So I’m not quite such a scapegrace as you believe.”
The gentleman next to her snorted softly, and she looked up, but it was too dark behind the curtain to see his expression.
“Very well,” said Mr. Keane, not sounding at all mollified. “I shall give you the benefit of the doubt. But I want to hear no more about you flirting, seducing servants, or playing tricks on our friends and neighbors. I know more about what you and your sister get up to than you might imagine.”
Emma heard the latch click upward, and the door closed.
She released a quiet, fluttering breath. Had they both gone? Or was one of the men still in the room?
She felt some of the tension drain from the man holding her, but an instant later, he stiffened up again.
There was a loud thud, the sound of someone kicking a door. It was followed moments later by a tinkling crash, accompanied by a splash.
Her heart sank. It had taken her ages to put that display of flowers together.
Her companion bent his head and whispered in her ear, “Stay here. I’ll deal with Charles. Don’t show yourself until the coast is clear.”
His tone brooked no disobedience, so she nodded mutely and held her ground as he shoved the curtain aside and strode into the room.
“Tidworth! What the devil?” Charles sounded furious.
“Apologies, old friend. I just stepped up here for some peace and quiet. I’d no idea your papa was about to ring a peal over you.”
Charles sputtered. “You could have said something!”
“Could I? You know me better than that. I can’t deny a fault in another, even if I can overlook it. There was some truth in what your papa said, even if he exaggerated a bit in the heat of the moment. Come, let’s go down and have one of your favorite malts, and you can tell me your side of the story.”
Mercifully, the door then closed behind the two men, leaving Emma alone.
After a careful peek, she hurtled toward the door and pressed her ear against the wood, not daring to leave the room until all was quiet in the passageway. Once their footsteps faded, she dashed up the back stairway to her attic room, shut the door firmly, and barely resisted the urge to barricade herself in with a chair under the latch.
What was she afraid of? Despite his obvious animosity toward her, the man Charles had called Tidworth had proved a diplomat. By leading Charles away from the schoolroom, he’d preserved Emma’s dignity—and her position.
For now.
However, a knot of trepidation settled in the pit of her stomach. She knew instinctively this Tidworth fellow was not yet finished with her.
But…if his plan wasn’t to expose or humiliate her, what on earth did the dratted man mean to do with her?
Chapter Seven
After a sleepless night worrying over all that had happened, the next morning Emma made her way wearily to the stillroom to mix up a batch of Willie’s cough medicine. She’d no idea if Tidworth was still in the house—she understood several of the guests had stayed over, but was the man who’d so disturbed her tranquility among them?
She sighed heavily, then jumped in alarm as a pair of cool hands clamped firmly over her eyes. The hands remained in place as a hard masculine body pressed against her from behind and a soft voice whispered, “Guess who, Miss Hibbert?”
Her heart thumped in painful anticipation. Tidworth had come to destroy her equanimity.
She spun around, only to discover her tormentor was not her nemesis, but Mr. Charles. She put her fleeting sense of disappointment down to the fact that she was keyed up to defend herself against whatever Tidworth intended to tax her with.
Now her carefully planned speeches would have to wait.
The expression of studied innocence on Charles’s face soon stripped her of her seriousness. It was impossible to remain cross with him when he looked at her like that, and as she well knew, if she didn’t humor him, his mood could easily be tipped over into one of his sulks.
Had Tidworth said anything to him about her?
“What are you about today, Miss Hibbert?” Charles asked.
“I am making the tincture for Willie’s cough.”
“Then don’t forget to put plenty of licorice in—he’s much more likely to take it without complaint.”
“Good to know.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me if I enjoyed the party last evening?”
“Of course, sir. I trust you enjoyed yourself. I understand we were privileged by the attendance of a member of the aristocracy.”
She had to assume the name Tidworth was part of a title. It was worth a shot.
Charles’s brow furrowed for a moment, then he exclaimed, “Oh, you mean Tidworth? Yes, he’s a viscount, son of the Earl and Countess of Rossbury, but he’s decent enough. Indeed, I hardly think of him as an aristocrat anymore. I invite him to everything. He’s very well connected. I fully expect him to get me preferment in the Admiralty Office one day, or Whitehall, or some such place.”
“You know him well, sir?”
“Indeed. We both attended the same dismal prep school at Malmesbury, though I was a deal younger than he. I used to run errands for him, clean his boots, serve him his meals, and so on. But he was never unkind to me. Quietened down a lot at the end of his army career, mind you—never was the same after Waterloo. Shall I stir while you measure?”
The tiny room barely permitted two people to stand shoulder to shoulder without touching. She busied herself over the sink and hoped he wouldn’t notice her fingers were trembling. “Would you mind getting the ipecac down for me, Mr. Charles? It saves me fetching a chair. So, did your friend enjoy his evening?”
“I should say not,” Charles replied, handing her down an ancient Delft jar sealed with a large cork. “He left without saying goodbye to anyone. Something must have got him in a pet, as he’s never rude like that. Honor and correctness are everything to him. But Miss Hibbert, you wound me! You don’t ask me about my plans to be a grand gentleman in the government. Are you interested only in the nobility?”
It took a moment for his words to sink in. Viscount Tidworth was no longer at Figheldene. She could breathe a sigh of relief.
“Of course not!” she replied when her heart resumed its normal rhythm. “I was merely curious about the viscount. So he’s prone to dark moods, is he?”
“Yes. But that doesn’t matter. You’ll be meeting many more aristocrats if you go along with my plan—some even higher than he.”
She blinked at him in puzzlement. “What plan, Mr. Charles?” Was this one of his so-called tricks that Mr. Keane had objected to last night? A feeling of dread stole over her. Had she escaped one crisis only to be catapulted into another?
“Well, it’s not quite finished,” he said. “I’ve barely seen Philippa this morning to discuss it—she has a headache today and complains of exhaustion. Really, you’d expect a girl of her tender years to be up
to dancing the whole night long with no ill effects, wouldn’t you?”
“I’m in no position to comment, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must take this medicine to the kitchen to warm it.”
“That wretched brother of mine! What does he mean by having a cough all through the spring? The rest of us threw it off in March, but not Willie. I’ve seen him eat more horehound candy than you can shake a stick at, but his cough refuses to budge.”
Emma did not want to be drawn into a discussion of her pupil’s ailments. She’d finish her letter to George today, and ask advice on Willie’s condition. She said, “I really must carry on with my duties now, sir.”
She turned to go, basin in hand, but Charles interposed his body between herself and the door.
The bowl trembled in her fingers. What was the fellow about?
“You’re in too much of a hurry, Hibbert,” he said, his voice very low.
She kept her eyes lowered, her expression blank. Was he planning on flirting with her, despite his father’s dire warnings? Thankfully, with the household already up and about, he could do no real damage without being caught.
Hearing his intake of breath, she raised her head to meet his eyes, trying to achieve an expression that neither invited nor repulsed.
His hand pressed beneath her chin, tilting her face up to his as his pale-blue eyes smiled down at her.
For a horrifying moment, she thought he was going to kiss her.
Instead, he scanned her face with insulting intimacy, then asked, “Tell me, Miss Hibbert, do you think you could pass for a lady?”
Chapter Eight
The night was cold, excessively so for the time of year. Word had reached Birney House that there’d been snow in London, which, for the end of May, was ridiculous. James hoped none of his guests for tonight’s masquerade ball would have been foolish enough to choose Grecian or Roman costumes—in which case they’d need to do a good deal of dancing if they didn’t want to catch a chill, even with all the fires blazing about the house.
Striding through the ballroom to check all was running smoothly, he caught sight of himself in one of the pier glasses and paused to make sure he passed muster.
At Mama’s insistence, he’d dressed as the notorious highwayman, Dick Turpin. Still determined to have him married and cheerful before the year was out, she’d told him it was the most dashing costume he could assume, and the ladies would be falling over themselves to dance with him.
His hair was covered by a long dark wig, tied in a queue at the back of his neck and topped with a tricorne. He’d chosen a black mask that gave him an air of mystery—so Mama said—and his coat was also black, cut very long and swirling about his calves. Beneath this, he sported a dark waistcoat with huge pocket flaps and myriad buttons that had taken an age to fasten. His stock was loose, his white shirt frothy with lace, and he wore shoes with huge silver buckles and a noticeable heel, which made him tower over everyone.
He gave his reflection a wry grin. Dick Turpin was meant to be a rake, a charmer, a man who made ladies swoon. Despite Mama’s reassurances, he’d never been vain, and was much afraid his current dark, menacing look, combined with his exaggerated height, would repel young females, not attract them.
Speaking of young females, wasn’t that Philippa Keane who’d just entered? She was going to be cold in that Greek chiton. And that must be Charles with her, dressed as a Venetian Harlequin—no one had quite such cherubic blond hair as Charles. Mr. and Mrs. Keane had to be away, as they’d not accompanied their offspring—and probably wouldn’t approve of them attending a masked ball, anyway, not even for a good, charitable cause like his veterans’ home.
James’s mouth twisted. A few short weeks ago, he’d expected to be announcing his engagement to Belinda at this very ball. The familiar pain clawed at his gut, and he blinked his eyes against it. Her rejection was still too recent, and his fear of being a laughing stock among the ton all too real. Tonight, he would have to put on the act of his life and pretend he cared not one whit.
To make things even harder to bear, Mama had invited Belinda and Cornwallis. She’d said—quite rightly—it would be a pointed snub if they were excluded. Hopefully, James wouldn’t recognize either of them, particularly Cornwallis. The temptation to floor the upstart would be too great.
With any luck, they wouldn’t have the gall to come.
Good God, who was that entering behind the Keanes? Another female, attired in a paned, slash-sleeved dress in Elizabethan style. The stiff boning of the bodice pushed her breasts upward in a most provocative fashion, but the woman’s head was modestly covered and her face, of course, hidden behind a full-faced mask.
She wore a large ruff about her neck, and a rope of pearls caressed her breasts and disappeared tantalizingly beneath the low neckline.
James ran a hand around the inside of his collar. The room was definitely warming up now that more people were arriving. He should go to the door to greet them personally, even though it would give away his identity. Or he could leave that up to Mama and Papa and perhaps even enjoy his anonymity.
The first thing he’d do would be solicit the intriguing Elizabethan lady for a dance. There was something familiar about her he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Not until he came closer.
Of course! Her costume mirrored the one worn by one of the Keanes’ ancestral portraits—a Lady Jane Keane, wasn’t it?—that hung in the stairway at Figheldene.
Who could she be? He could tell from the milky bloom of her flesh that the lady was young, but she carried herself like a duchess, and those pearls looked expensive. He wasn’t aware of the Keanes having such distinguished friends or relations. Perhaps he should inquire first before dancing with the lady, to make sure he behaved appropriately to her station. If she were rich, she’d make a perfect patron for his veterans’ charity.
“James!”
“Mama?” How had she managed to creep up on him like that? He was too much engaged in delicious imaginings about the Elizabethan temptress. Time to remember his manners!
“Stop wandering about looking like a loon,” she scolded sotto voce. “You must either come and greet your guests or start hunting down subscribers. And I expect you to dance with every single young woman in attendance to see if anyone takes your fancy. You need something to lift the melancholy you’ve been stuck in, and marriage would be the perfect panacea.”
“Mother, really.”
“If you don’t mind me saying so,” she went on as though he hadn’t just admonished her, “Belinda Carslake wouldn’t have suited you, anyway. You need someone more level-headed and learned. You would have tired of Belinda the minute her looks began to fade. Find a girl who’ll still fascinate you when she’s fifty.”
Behind his mask, James rolled his eyes. Perhaps it hadn’t been such a good idea, after all, holding this event at Birney House. He should have done it at Langley, where he was his own master…and where Mama was less likely to treat him like a boy of twelve.
He forced a smile and obediently followed her toward the door. At that moment, the Elizabethan beauty glided past on the arm of the Harlequin. Charles gave him a cheeky little wave as they passed, then vanished toward the far end of the room.
Catching up with Mama, he asked, “Did you recognize Charles and Philippa Keane amongst the recent arrivals?”
“Of course. I heard their names read out when they deposited their cloaks.”
“And the woman who came with them?”
“Some countess or other, I believe. Not anyone I’d heard of. She must be far from home—Scottish perhaps? I thought it rude to pry.”
Taking up position outside the ballroom door, James scanned the room to see if he could catch another glimpse of the unknown countess.
Yes, there she was, dancing already—and very elegantly, too.
As he watched her movements—how she held her head, the way her lips moved as she spoke to her partner—he made a startling discovery.
&
nbsp; And stared at her, scowling darkly. He recognized more about the mystery woman than her costume.
And she was definitely no countess!
Chapter Nine
Emma looked around her in utter delight. Not even in the days before the collapse of her family’s fortunes had she seen such opulence as this. Or such excellent taste. Flocked wallpaper of a velvety crimson matched the damask-upholstered chairs with their elegantly carved and gilded frames. Portraits and paintings peered down upon the throng, some of them wide enough to fill the entire hallway of Figheldene.
Massive tulip vases stood on either side of the ballroom’s huge fireplace, which contained a cheerful blaze. On the overmantel, a bronze and gilt clock in the form of Phaeton’s chariot proclaimed the quarter hours. The Earl of Rossbury—whose house this was, if Charles was telling the truth—evidently enjoyed fine art, and must have a particular interest in Delftware and chinoiserie.
As she wandered about at will, totally incognito behind her mask and her flamboyant costume, Emma knew a happiness she hadn’t felt in years. She was quickly supplied with partners for the dances—Charles made sure of that—and before long, the ladies engaged her in conversation, having been told by Philippa that the mystery countess was enormously wealthy and eager to make new friends.
Emma was already tired from the dancing and a little giddy from the champagne when her gaze snagged on a gentleman who had—if she was not mistaken—just been looking at her intently.
He was dressed in dark garb, in a style harking back to the earlier half of the previous century, possibly trying to look like a highwayman, though his deportment proclaimed him to be a man of consequence. He seemed completely at ease in the midst of the mêlée, calmly stepping through the dance without a beat missed or a gesture out of place. She watched him shyly as he did an elegant turn with his partner, then smartly paraded the lady down the line of dancers.
Had he really been looking at her? If so, perhaps he would seek her out…
Vanquishing the Viscount Page 4