Vanquishing the Viscount

by Elizabeth Keysian

  It was Belinda Carslake. The woman he was still in love with.

  How could Emma have been so taken in by his soft, serpent’s words?

  Fortunately, George had instilled in her a positive attitude toward sick people. It didn’t matter whether one liked them or not, nor how they behaved. One should always remain detached and ignore all their taunts, complaints, and rudeness. And remind oneself that no patient would have said such things had they been well.

  She should have known better than to believe a word he said in his delirium.

  She, however, was still a lady, and in control of her behavior. “Do you think I should go out to the carriage and offer the countess some refreshment?” she asked her mother.

  “Certainly not!” Mama replied. “I don’t want her thinking us brought too low for propriety. No, indeed. Send Sarah to ask her. I want her to see that we keep a servant still.”

  Sarah was duly dispatched, and although she’d got used to the presence of a viscount in their midst, the countess so terrified her she could barely speak when she returned to tell them nothing was required.

  “She probably thinks we don’t wash our glasses properly,” Emma muttered, glaring at the open front doorway.

  “Then it’s a shame we can’t prove to her we do. Oh, but didn’t we sell our best glasses? I can’t remember. It’s been so long since we’ve had any port or claret to drink.”

  “Not all sold, Mama,” Emma reassured her. “And I would defy anyone to say port is better than our elderberry wine.”

  “But she’ll have such a refined palate—these aristocrats always do. Though I’m not decrying your elderberry wine, my dear. It’s excellent.”

  Their conversation was halted by the sound of a door opening. To Emma’s surprise, the parlor doorway was filled with the tall figure of the Earl of Rossbury, supporting his equally tall son. James had, in remarkably quick time, got himself dressed, booted, and by all appearances, ready for the road. He was pale and looked nauseous but was putting a brave face on it.

  When he saw her, his expression softened, and he treated her to his expansive smile, saying, “Here is my nurse, Papa, the redoubtable Miss Emma d’Ibert. I feel I owe her my life.”

  She said firmly, “Your life was never at risk, my lord. You flatter me by calling me your nurse—I only did what any sensible person would do under the circumstances.”

  “But not everyone has thirdhand medical knowledge,” he remarked drily. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t tease. I feel nothing but gratitude, truly.”

  Good. She certainly didn’t want him feeling anything else, thank you very much.

  She just wanted him out of her life. She wanted no reminders of how foolishly she’d behaved.

  The earl said, “Let me convey our thanks to you for caring for our son. Please send the bill for any expenses to Birney House, and you’ll be recompensed directly. Good day to you.”

  She nodded in acknowledgment and curtsied, but turned away when James reached for her hand, busying herself with a bonnet suspended from the coat rack.

  A sharp intake of breath was the only indication of his displeasure, and when she next looked around, it was to see Papa helping the viscount into a grand coach which all but filled the courtyard. She stepped outside and stood in front of the brick porch, doing her best to look as if the gold-emblazoned coat of arms, the splendid black team of four, and the liveried lackeys were a sight she saw every day and didn’t impress her.

  The countess took her leave with a courteous nod through the window. James stared at Emma, a slight frown marring his face, then gave her a single salute before turning away.

  “I suppose we should be glad he’s no longer our problem,” said Mama wistfully. “I only wish the earl and countess hadn’t been in such a hurry. It would have been good to talk to them.”

  “That’s a pleasure I can well do without,” Emma muttered.

  “Oh dear! They didn’t collect his things from upstairs!” Mama exclaimed. “Can you run after and catch them?”

  Chase after the Rossburys? That wouldn’t do at all. Emma still had her pride, and she was in no great hurry to oblige their son in any way.

  “I’ll get his things packed up and ready,” she replied. “When they discover the omission they can send one of their servants back. They certainly seem to have enough of them.”

  “But it’s such a long way from Birney House to here,” Mama protested.

  “We can’t afford the time spent on a fool’s errand.”

  This was no exaggeration. If the viscount decided to buy her beloved Tresham, there was much to do—not the least of which was finding somewhere else for her parents to live. They might as well keep the wretched man’s belongings here if the house was soon to be his.

  She was so tired! Her eyes were moist with weariness, but lest Mama think they were tears of defeat, Emma turned briskly and marched up the stairs to the box room, where the viscount’s saddlebags had been left.

  His spare clothing had been hung up to air by Sarah. It consisted of an excellent quality superfine jacket, a pair of linen shirts, twill breeches, and some well-starched cravats.

  There was a walnut box, too, presumably containing toiletries. Curious, she opened it and discovered various brushes, a complete shaving set, and a bottle of cologne.

  Cologne he’d no doubt purchased to please her—his precious former lover.

  “My angel, indeed! Beloved Belinda, indeed!”

  Grasping the bottle of cologne, she went to the window and flung it open, thinking to pour all the scent away. Hopefully it was exceedingly expensive, and he’d be most put out.

  But as she unscrewed the top, an exotic, spicy aroma drifted up. Her mind taunted her with a vision of James, tousled and tempting, gazing up at her with those gray eyes, demanding she get into his bed.

  She screwed the lid tightly back on the bottle. The cologne was making her eyes water again. She’d send Sarah up later to put his things back into the saddlebags. She wanted nothing more to do with Viscount Tidworth.

  In fact, it would make her very happy if she were never to see him, ever again.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was midway through July before Emma could think of Viscount Tidworth without kicking herself for her folly. How had she ever come to begin nurturing feelings for him? It must have been simply her naïve response to his considerable physical attributes, combined with pity for his parlous state of health.

  Yes, that was it. She’d just been suffering from a bout of compassion, not passion. And now he was gone, so her heart could be light again.

  James Markham, Viscount Tidworth, was perfectly placed to break her heart. She’d seen him brought low and pleading, she’d seen his superiority and arrogance shorn away by his illness, and she’d seen his desperate need for her help. Right up until that moment when he’d called her by the wrong name, she’d even believed he had tender feelings toward her.

  Elias, Earl of Overcrich, had given her the same impression, and look how that had turned out! She’d sworn off handsome men once before, and to protect her vulnerable heart, she needed to reinforce that vow.

  That wasn’t the only thing that counted against James Markham, the Vacillating Viscount Tidworth. He wanted to wreck her childhood home.

  Fortunately, as nothing further had been heard from James, she began to hope Tresham might be safe from his destructive intentions. It still needed to be sold, however, and he was, unfortunately, the only person thus far who’d shown an interest in the property.

  A tap on the door shattered her depressing thoughts.

  “May I come in?” asked her mama.

  “Of course.”

  As her mother entered the room, Emma could tell immediately she was bursting with significant news.

  “What is it? Is George coming home?” How she missed her brother! Even just a few days in his company would brighten her spirits.

  “Oh, he’s such a kindly gentleman,” Mama exclaimed, clutching a fo
lded piece of paper to her breast. “So generous and thoughtful, for all his parents are so stiff and proud!”

  Not George, then. “Who is this paragon who’s written to you?” Emma inquired warily.

  “Surely you know? I’m surprised you didn’t come down—didn’t you hear the horse in the courtyard?”

  “What horse in the courtyard?”

  Mama settled herself on Emma’s bed. She had something momentous to impart, judging by the brightness of her eyes and the flush of color in her cheeks. Emma caught sight of an impressed seal on the opened edge of the letter. It was a coat of arms she’d seen just once before.

  Emblazoned on the walnut box belonging to Viscount Tidworth.

  Her heart lurched uncomfortably in her chest, and a feeling of impending doom settled over her.

  “Please explain, Mama,” she said quietly. Whatever James had written was bound to be to her detriment. Better get it over with quickly.

  “Well, my dear, the simple fact is that Tidworth has made such a generous offer for Tresham that we can afford to rent a very respectable new home. And can you believe it? He has been inquiring on our behalf and has found us one! And where do you think it is? Bath!”

  “Bath?” Emma queried. Why ever did they want to move to Bath? She’d always assumed her parents loved the countryside just as much as she. But then, they weren’t getting any younger. Perhaps Bath would be for the best. But what right did James have to interfere with their plans? His arrogance was unsurpassed!

  She stood up and opened the window, leaned out, and took several calming breaths before saying, “Are both you and Papa happy to sell to Tidworth, then?”

  “Whyever not?” Mama sounded shocked.

  Emma turned back to her mama. “I thought you might not like the changes he plans to make.”

  “We can’t afford to repine on those. What will it matter, once we’re gone? It will be so much easier for George to visit us in Bath than here, for the roads are better and the stages more numerous. I’m sure we’ll love the house—it has ever so many stories, he says, and an open area with steps down to the basement in front. There’s a long, narrow garden behind, but not too much to manage.”

  Hardly tempting. The gardens at Tresham were extensive and stunning—when properly cared for—and Emma would miss them dreadfully. Hadn’t it occurred to James that his veterans might actually enjoy doing the gardening themselves, assuming they were capable?

  “There may be enough money left to employ additional staff,” Mama continued enthusiastically. “Can you imagine me not having to help Sarah with the cooking and mending but able to follow more ladylike pursuits instead? And we’ll be able to go visiting, for there is good society to be had in Bath, you know. As good as anywhere else, they say.”

  Society that might include James. Emma frowned. She would have to time her visits to her parents for when he was out of town.

  “I’m delighted for you,” she said, and truly meant it. “After all your troubles, you couldn’t have hoped for a better resolution. I regret only that Bath is farther from Figheldene so I won’t be able to visit you often.”

  Mama appeared bewildered. “Figheldene? Why, Emma, there’s no need for you to go back there.” She fluttered the letter in front of her face like a fan, then burst out, “Oh, I am so pleased! What a generous man. I declare, if I were twenty years younger—and not married to your father—I would be half in love with him by now.”

  A grim sense of foreboding coursed through Emma’s body, and her limbs felt heavy as lead. “Not go back to Figheldene? Why should I not?”

  After scanning her face anxiously, her mother said, “I can see I’m just making you more confused. Here, this will explain it so much better than I can, I assume.” She fished in her apron pocket and withdrew a second letter, still sealed. “It’s addressed to you from the viscount, but I believe I know what’s in it.”

  Emma took the proffered paper in trembling fingers and broke the seal.

  My dear Miss d’Ibert,

  I am writing to thank you for your recent care of me. You will be pleased to hear that I am now quite well recovered and able to put in place a scheme which I expect will be pleasing to your family. I have acquired a new townhouse in Daniel Street in Bath on behalf of your parents. There will be sufficient funds left over from my purchase of the Tresham estate to provide a modest annual allowance which will, if expenditure is moderate, secure your parents’ comfort in their declining years. As for yourself, I have interceded with my mother, and she is willing to sponsor you for the Season in Bath. You will reside at the Rossbury house in Great Pulteney Street. All your expenses while there will be borne by them. All I ask, my dear Miss d’Ibert, is that you conceal from the countess the nature of your association with my friend Charles and his family, as I have done. I think she will not understand that you have had to earn your own living.

  With sincere affection,

  Yours,

  Tidworth

  The letter slid from her fingers as the air whooshed out of her lungs.

  Sponsored for a Season in Bath? This could change everything!

  She blinked. But did she want a Season in Bath?

  “What is it?” Mama asked. “Shall I fetch the salts? Oh dear. I had hoped it would be news that was pleasing to you.”

  Swallowing hard, Emma pushed the letter at her mother. “Read it yourself, and make up your own mind. I hardly know what to think.”

  She went back to the window and gazed out across the complex network of gardens, seeking comfort in the familiar sight. For a while, there was nothing but the sound of her mother’s indrawn breath as she read the letter and the loud trickling song of a dunnock in the box hedge outside.

  Suddenly Mama was beside her, enfolding her in her arms. “My darling girl, what a wonderful opportunity for you. To be sponsored by the Countess of Rossbury—such an honor!”

  Emma submitted to her mother’s rapturous embrace for a moment, then gently disentangled herself. “But it won’t advance me, at all. What’s the point in my dressing up and going to assemblies when I’ve not a penny to my name?”

  Mama clicked her tongue. “The patronage of the Rossburys is more valuable than gold. Doors will open for you, and you’ll be able to visit the very best families.”

  “And when the Season’s over? What then? Back to live in a townhouse in Bath on a moderate income. What’s the point of making new friends when we can’t afford to entertain them? What’s the point of visiting the best families if I can’t afford the latest fashions to wear or to keep a carriage? No. Enjoyable as a Season in Bath might be, I’d better refuse the offer and return to obscurity at Figheldene.”

  Mama looked shocked. “Refuse? You cannot refuse an offer like this! Your father would never permit it. Do you truly wish to offer insult to one of the most ancient names in the land just because the offer is of short duration? Why, as a girl I’d have given my right arm to be so indulged. What matter if you return to live with us at the end of the Season? At least you’ll have lived like a lady again, if only for a little while.” Her mother’s expression became mulish. “No, I’ll not have you going back to Figheldene. That governess idea was a bad one. I don’t know why I ever agreed to it.”

  Mama was going to stop her returning to Willie and Mary? But they’d been getting on so well under her tutelage! Was she going to be forced to reinvent herself—again?

  “And what will happen when Bath Society finds out I worked as a governess? Everyone will laugh at me for having pretensions above my station.” The last thing she wanted was to live a lie. She already had too much to conceal.

  Her mother shook her head. “How will anyone find out?”

  “The Keanes will tell them.” And that would raise a scandal. Inevitably, the grim summer when she was toyed with by the Earl of Overcrich would be remembered by everyone, and the gossip mills would spin at staggering speed.

  This was a bad idea.

  “They’ll keep quiet if the Ro
ssburys ask them to,” Mama countered confidently.

  “But the Rossburys won’t do that, will they? Because they don’t know.” She was feeling close to panic now. Why couldn’t Mama see all the risks in accepting this offer? Holding the paper out, she said, “Read the end of the letter again. The viscount has not told his parents of my employment.”

  Mama scanned the letter once more, and her face grew grave. “Hmm, I see what you mean. Oh well. Your papa shall write to Tidworth, entreating him to swear the Keanes to secrecy.”

  Emma thought about the mischievous Charles and Philippa Keane. She could already see several reasons why they wouldn’t comply with James’s wishes.

  “Do you think I want to live a lie? I’ll be tripping over myself trying not to say anything amiss. It will be the worst kind of ordeal—”

  Her mother drew herself up and pronounced, “Nonsense! You’ll be the Countess of Rossbury’s protégé. Who would dare utter a word against whomever she decides to prefer? And who’s to say that she won’t take to you and want to keep you as a companion? You are very knowledgable and useful, you know. And maybe one day, Tidworth, too, will recognize your worth.”

  Emma gritted her teeth. The last thing she needed was for her family to have expectations in that direction. They would be sorely disappointed.

  “Mama, I beg you not to have hopes of Tidworth. He’d never stoop so low.”

  “But he already has, hasn’t he? He praised you highly in his letter to your father. This generous offer must be an indication of his affection for you. And don’t forget, you’re a d’Ibert. Your father’s is an ancient family with not one single blot on the escutcheon, and my family was highly thought of. Anyone would be proud to be allied to a d’Ibert.”

  “Now you are marrying me off! Trust me, Mama, nothing could be further from the viscount’s mind. His affections lie in a quite different direction,” Emma said firmly. With his beloved Belinda.

  Mama huffed in annoyance. “If I were in your position, I’d be overjoyed to try to capture his interest, for he’s handsome, wealthy, and generous. And obviously grateful to you for nursing him back to health.”