It wasn’t there. He must have taken it with him.
Whatever for?
Perhaps, she thought, her cheeks warming, he found her comely. Or he was just proud of his handiwork and wanted to show it to others.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. It ought really to be their secret, or people would suppose…they’d suppose…well, they might imagine he admired her in some way. Which was ridiculous. He’d made his feelings about her perfectly clear. He’d apologized only because he was truly a gentleman. Not because he actually wished to be friends with her. The very idea.
Chewing at her lip, she fanned herself with her sketchbook and tried to marshal her foolish thoughts.
And concluded that perhaps James Markham, Viscount Tidworth, wasn’t a disobliging, ill-mannered boor, after all.
In fact, she had almost made up her mind to quite like him.
Until later that night. When she heard Miss Philippa’s voice drifting out from one of the bedrooms reserved for overnight guests.
The bedroom assigned to Viscount Tidworth.
Chapter Seventeen
It was now St. John’s Eve, as Midsummer’s Eve was known these days, and a full two weeks since James had last visited the Keanes. He’d been busy in the interim, scouting about for properties for his veterans’ hospital.
But not before making travel arrangements for Miss Emma Hibbert, which he’d done as soon as he returned home. He’d corresponded directly with Mr. Keane concerning the arrangements for her passage and was disappointed to discover she hadn’t revealed her final destination to her employer. Instead, she’d elected to be dropped off at the ghastly Four Swans, the unhappy scene of his brief imprisonment.
He was intrigued to know more about her. What was her real name? How important had her family once been? And was there no way of solving their financial difficulties? He also wanted to know if anything further had occurred between her and Charles. He was determined to voice his disapproval, if it had. Not that Mr. Keane would know anything about that.
Yesterday, a scribbled note had arrived from Charles to tell him they were due to depart for Brighton shortly, and did he want to come with them? Or perhaps pay a visit to Figheldene Hall before they left?
Remembering the uncomfortable incident that had occurred on his last visit, James was none too willing. Not with Charles, but with Philippa. He wasn’t sure he could keep his countenance in front of her. It would be easier to avoid the Keanes altogether, but Charles would make a fuss if his old friend deserted him and would want to know why.
James, however, wasn’t prepared to divulge a secret that was not his own.
On the bright side, Emma Hibbert would still be there, or so he hoped. Still, he couldn’t rely on Charles throwing ink over himself to permit James a few moments alone with the young lady.
He’d just have to take his chances on all accounts.
Stepping onto the mounting block, he threw a leg over Lawrie, then urged the horse to a brisk trot and reached Figheldene in under half an hour.
Mr. Keane greeted him with great good humor. James had long suspected Charles’s father of continually comparing his scapegrace son with James himself. He was lauded as a paragon of virtue, urging poor Charles to aspire to similar heights of rectitude, good manners, and the ability to find useful occupation. Fortunately, this situation had not, thus far, led to any bad blood between himself and Charles.
To his relief, Keane apologized that Philippa and Mrs. Keane were out visiting a silk mercer’s in Bath and intended to stay the night with Keane’s sister, Letitia—thus sparing James the awkwardness he was sure would ensue when he and Philippa next met face-to-face.
When he asked after the Keanes’ governess, he was told she’d left for home only that morning, to care for her convalescent father, and was expected to remain there until the Keanes returned from their sojourn in Brighton.
How infuriating! He’d missed her by only a few hours. Why had it taken him so long to decide to visit?
Deep down, he knew the answer to that question—he was a great deal more interested in Miss Hibbert than he cared to admit. He’d spent days reminding himself not to get entangled with someone who had such an unruly tongue and such unshakeable opinions. Not to mention her current station.
It seemed he was losing the battle. To hide his disappointment, he asked, “Have you heard of any properties for sale recently? My agent tells me there are several to be had within twenty miles of Bath, but I thought you might actually have visited some of the places and can advise me on where to look first.”
“I have, indeed,” replied Keane, ringing the bell. “I’ll just order tea, then run to my study to fetch the notes I’ve been making for you.”
While waiting, James wandered across to the window and attempted to peer through the diamond-shaped panes. The rippled glass distorted the image of the cobbled courtyard outside, with its ancient fig tree pushing up the stones in one corner, the collapsing wooden wheelbarrow used for mucking out the stables, and various children’s toys spread about the place. He wondered if Willie and Mary would miss their governess and how long she was likely to be away from Figheldene.
If only he knew where she lived. He could drop by and make sure she’d had a good journey and that her father was recovering.
“James! How could you come to Figheldene and not let me know? I am mortally wounded by your careless manners.”
“Charles!” James stepped forward, hand outstretched, and greeted his old friend. “I trust I find you well. Indeed, you look very nicely turned out. Not an ink spot to be seen.”
Charles grimaced. “Trust you to bring that up. But the breeches were new—well, new-ish—and I was damned if I was going to let them be ruined. I daresay you’ve no idea how much it costs to get a decent pair of breeches these days—you just order what you want from your tailor and cost be damned.”
Of course he knew how much breeches cost. He spent hours monitoring his household and estate expenses. Charles had no idea.
“Ouch!” he exclaimed rather than refuting, and pressed a hand to his heart. “Now it is I who am mortally wounded.”
“Never mind that,” Charles said crisply. Taking James’s arm, he led him away from the window and into the corner farthest from the door. Lowering his voice, he said, “You tore a strip off me that day for trying to kiss Hibbert, and I’m not sure I’ve forgiven you yet.”
James’s heart pumped harder. This was not a subject he wanted to discuss. At least, not with Mr. Keane due back any moment.
“I thought I had good reason,” James said, equally softly. “You have a bad reputation when it comes to misusing servants.”
“Ah, but this one’s different,” Charles said, pinching James’s arm for emphasis. “There’s something special about her. I believe you’ve noticed it yourself, or you wouldn’t have paid for her to hire a private carriage back to wherever it is she comes from.”
Damnation! He hadn’t wanted Charles to find out about that. It was meant to have been kept between himself and Mr. Keane.
“I felt sorry for the girl,” James replied, keeping his tone light. “The expense was nothing to me. I knew your mama would never have approved of the governess traveling in a hired chaise, and I didn’t want to embarrass anyone, so I dealt directly with your father.”
“Yes,” said Charles, his mouth twisting. “You and he are always in cahoots. I sometimes wonder why I’m still friends with you when all you do is show me up.”
“And I wonder why I’m still friends with you,” James retorted with a wry grin, “when you never have a good word to say about me!”
Charles waved a dismissive hand. “That’s all beside the point. I just wanted you to know that I’m serious about Hibbert. So, there’s no need for you to dash in and think you’re rescuing her. Just leave me to court her in whatever way I choose, and don’t interfere.”
Court her?
James’s breath caught in his throat, and he felt the muscles o
f his jaw clench. He didn’t know what to say. He was being warned off?
But Charles wasn’t serious, surely? Court his family’s governess? Marry his family’s governess? It would be scandalous in the extreme. Any liaison between Emma and Charles would prove Charles’s undoing. He would be disowned by his father, his mother and, more particularly, by his mercurial Aunt Letitia, from whom he expected to inherit a considerable amount of money.
Before James could comment or examine his feelings any further, he heard footsteps coming along the passageway.
Edging away from Charles, he took up position by the window again and schooled his expression to one of polite neutrality as Mr. Keane came back into the room. But his heart still pounded uncomfortably from the shock of Charles’s revelation.
As he joined Mr. Keane at the table to pore over the newspapers he’d brought in with him, Charles left the room, tapping his nose knowingly as he left.
And James realized why his heart was pounding.
He’d never before come so close to punching his best friend. This situation between Charles and Miss Emma Hibbert was unacceptable for all concerned.
It was clearly up to James to do something about it.
But what?
Chapter Eighteen
Emma sat on the windowsill of the chamber she’d called her own for the past twenty-two years and gazed out. The fact that she was home, at last, brought joy mixed with agony.
How could she ever say farewell to this place? She loved it almost as much as she loved her family, and the idea of someone else sitting in this spot, relishing this view of lush green countryside, was anathema.
For a while, she lost herself just admiring the overgrown gardens below and watching exhausted blackbirds whipping in and out of nearby hedgerows, either feeding current families or preparing for new ones. Soon she’d have to put on her oldest clothes, tie back her hair, and set to work on those very hedges, removing the choking bindweed, hacking back the brambles, and ensuring the immediate environs of Tresham Hall looked attractive to would-be buyers.
Would Charles write to her, as he’d promised? It was an unexpected offer, made when she expressed regrets that she wouldn’t know how Willie was faring at Brighton. At her protest that it would be thoroughly improper, Charles had called her a stick-in-the-mud, winked, then pinched her cheek. Fortunately, she’d remembered just in time to give him the Four Swans as her direction, rather than Tresham. Carrier Marshman would bring her any letters received at the inn when he next came by.
Sheer delight had filled her heart when her hired chaise had deposited her at the inn, and she caught sight of Marshman’s cheerful country countenance as he waited to pick up passengers. Unfortunately, whenever she thought of Marshman, she couldn’t help but recall the moment she’d first laid eyes on Viscount Tidworth.
A peculiar feeling of loss assaulted her. She fought against it, smiling wanly at her own folly. Tidworth had paid her back in full for insulting her and owed her nothing further.
Certainly not an explanation of what he had been doing with Philippa Keane in his bedroom, well after everyone else was asleep.
Slipping off the windowsill, she ventured downstairs, collecting her basket and shears en route. Briefly, she looked in on Papa where he sat at his desk and was pleased to see the color was gradually returning to his cheeks after his illness. George’s treatment regime had been most effective, thank heaven.
The sun glinted off the diamond-paned windows like myriad stars as she stepped into the courtyard, then made her way down the lane to where she’d left off weeding the day before. It was a beautiful afternoon, and late June flowers brightened the hedgerows—honeysuckle with its sweetly heavy scent, pink and purple foxgloves, and the impressively tall spikes of giant mullein.
Setting her basket down on the verge, she set to work dragging out the bindweed. It was a satisfying but mindless task, and her thoughts drifted back to the conversation she’d had with George when he’d paid them a short visit.
She’d told her brother about Charles Keane’s amorous behavior and received a stark warning to keep the man at arm’s length. George—with unsettling vehemence—offered to deal with the fellow personally if he upset or embarrassed her again.
“Please don’t call him out!” she’d begged. “It’s nothing as serious as all that!”
Then he’d remarked on the fact that most of her journey had been by hired chaise, and she’d had to confess that Tidworth had paid for it and had also convinced the Keanes she should travel home rather than go to Brighton with them.
Her sibling had given her an old-fashioned look. He said, “A gentleman, eh? You’ve made some poor, unsuspecting fellow fall for you already?”
Emma tugged viciously at a long strand of bindweed, recalling how she’d blushed at George’s taunt. The idea of Tidworth falling for her was ludicrous.
They were barely friends.
She hadn’t told George the entire story of what lay between herself and the viscount, as he’d only have teased her about it.
As it was, he’d laughed, then said, “Not one but two! Really, sister mine, your come-out was wasted. If only we’d known all we needed to do was dress you up as a governess and send you out into the world, to get the gentlemen trailing after you.”
She’d changed the subject after that.
Her brother was just too astute and could read her like a book. If she’d ever felt any warmth toward Tidworth, his secret liaison with Philippa Keane had crushed that feeling. Emma had fully expected an announcement after what she’d overheard, but none had been forthcoming. What kind of gentleman would so dishonor a lady?
And the letter she’d recently received from Charles had not only crushed any feeling she might have had for the viscount, but ground it underfoot.
She pushed the uncomfortable memories away and concentrated on her task, working steadily until that time of the afternoon when even the birds fell silent, and the countryside slumbered. The only person she saw during the following half hour was Henry Wilkins, a shepherd attached to the Home Farm. As he drove his small flock of Ryeland sheep before him, he smoothed down his beautifully embroidered smock and touched a forelock to her. Wellington, Henry’s sheepdog, panted up and drooled at her, hoping for a fuss, which she happily supplied. Aside from that, and a kestrel swooping upon a vole, she was the only active creature in the whole of the landscape.
As the afternoon became more humid, her labors slowed. Farther down the lane, a patch of willows edged a large pond fed by a spring, offering blissful shade. She decided to allow herself a moment’s respite, and reread her letter from Charles.
There was no one about, so she slipped off her shoes and stockings and sat down on the edge of the bank to dangle her feet in the shallows. The water was deliciously chill. After a moment she removed her bonnet, pulled the pins from her hair and shook it about her shoulders, then splashed her face with water. Leaning back on her elbows, she allowed the cooler air beneath the willows to infuse her body, and unfolded the letter.
My dearest Emma,
I assume I may call you that, due to the special nature of our relationship? I so miss having you around—there is no one here to tease or be gay with except Philippa, although we hope soon to attend an assembly where no doubt there will be better sport. I’m not to remain in Brighton long, however, but must return to Bath where Aunt Letitia is currently situated receiving a treatment for eruptions on the skin—how very distasteful! I’m expected to attend upon her, although no doubt I may make my escape and sample some of the delights of the town, while at the same time reveling in the fact that I’m so much closer to your mysterious dwelling place. Maybe on my return to Figheldene from Bath, I shall collect you and bring you back there where we may both be comfortable together.
Comfortable? Alarm shot through her at the very idea. That would never happen. She huffed and continued reading.
But you’re a woman, so you’ll be crying out for the gossip! I won’t bore you w
ith the deeds of the ton, none of whom you’re likely to know, except for our mutual acquaintance, Tidworth. He’s up and down the country a good deal at present, sometimes in the company of a new arrival in his parents’ household, none other than his freckled cousin Jemima Pitt. She’s just a year younger than Philippa but as simpering a miss as you could ever meet. There are chasms of difference between her and Pip. Miss Pitt is very much a girl just out of the schoolroom, whereas my sister is already a sophisticated woman of the world. You’ll be interested to hear there’s some speculation that Tidworth is to marry Miss Pitt. Good luck to him, say I. He evidently cares not that he might sire children with rusty hair and freckles.
My pen’s becoming blunt now, dear girl, with all this writing, and I’m too lazy to sharpen it, so I’ll close now, and exhort you to write back as soon as you can, at the address below.
Your fond friend,
Charles Keane
I almost forgot to say, the sea air does indeed seem to agree with Willie, and the family is to remain here in Brighton for the foreseeable future.
Emma folded the paper angrily and stuffed it in her apron pocket. The cad! If Tidworth was to marry his cousin, he’d treated Philippa Keane abysmally. Just when she’d decided he was not a monster, but a man of morals and charitable intent, it appeared he’d thrown over one woman for another in a matter of weeks.
She let out a snort. And he’d had the effrontery to rail at her when she’d inadvertently stopped him proposing to Miss Carthorse, or whatever her name was!
Were all men such hypocrites? Or did they improve with age?
She closed her eyes and let the play of sunlight between the bobbing willow leaves bathe her eyelids. In a minute, no more, she’d put her hair up again and head back to work.
How long she’d drifted in and out of her doze, she couldn’t say, but she was shocked into sudden wakefulness by the sound of a horse cantering up the lane. She sprang to her feet, her first thought to hide behind the slender trunks of the willow trees. But as the horse came to a halt level with the pond, she knew she’d already been seen.
Vanquishing the Viscount Page 8