“Nevertheless. We have nothing more to say to each other.” Each word sounded like a stone dropped into an echoing tomb.
The tomb of all her hopes.
He swung away from her and unlocked the door. She hastened after him and placed a trembling hand on the doorknob.
“Don’t go like this, please. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I had to tell you. How could you ever respect me if I was less than honest with you?”
She moved her hand up to his arm, but he shook her off and turned the knob.
Her tears singed a trail down her cheeks. “Please, James,” she begged. “Let me speak to him and sort out this mess. Then I can give you my answer.”
He turned to her in the open doorway and looked down at her with an expression devoid of all warmth. “I’m not sure I have any interest in hearing that answer,” he said, and swept out of the room.
The hallway was full of bustling servants, so she couldn’t pursue him without losing her dignity. She retreated, wiped away the treacherous tears, and ran to the window to watch him leave. She could tell from the jerkiness with which he pulled on his gloves that he was furious. He stalked off down the street at speed, the folded newspaper beneath his arm.
Not once did he look back.
She went to the door, locked it, then collapsed into a chair and dissolved into sobs.
Chapter Thirty-Four
It wasn’t easy to locate Charles Keane in a city the size of Bath. James eventually managed it by making inquiries at the King’s Bath, which led him to Miss Letitia Keane’s residence. He had to bite down on his frustration as he drank tea with her and tried to pretend it was a regular social call. But finally—and rather cleverly, he thought—he managed to get Charles’s direction, and so he set out to find him as soon as he could take his leave without causing offense.
Charles was occupying a suite of rooms in a large townhouse in Norfolk Street. The rooms were furnished in a modern style, but with that heaviness of decor that suggested a bachelor’s preferences. Charles himself was draped over an armchair when James arrived, with an early bumper of brandy in his hand, reading the paper.
“James!” he said with evident pleasure, folding up the Chronicle and getting out of his chair, “What brings you here, old chap?”
That damned paper! James wanted to throw it into the flames—but he’d come here to reason with Charles, not fight him. He must contain his fury. Shutting the door behind him with a decisive snap, he entered the room, brandishing Emma’s copy of the newspaper.
“I know you sent this to Miss d’Ibert,” he said stiffly. “If it’s a joke, it’s a poor one and could have disastrous consequences. We must discuss this and, if you care for our friendship, I hope you’ll deal with me honestly.”
His friend assumed an expression of mock seriousness, but his eyes glittered. “Well, then, if it’s so serious, perhaps I should offer you a brandy…or take another one myself, to soften the blow.”
James’s jaw clenched. If Charles carried on drinking there’d be no reasoning with him. “Not for me, thank you,” he answered stiffly. “I’ll come straight to the point. Did you put this piece of tittle-tattle in the paper?”
“Of course not! When would I have found the time? So, no, it’s not one of my pranks. But I was amused when I saw the item, as it quite clearly refers to Emma and me, so I bought an extra copy and had it sent to her posthaste.”
James resisted the urge to pick up his friend and shake him. “Why frighten her like that? She’s only just returned to Society, and already you’re trying to ruin her.”
“If I meant to ruin her, I’d have sent the paper to your mama, not Hibbert.”
True. James drew in a breath and steeled himself to ask the question upon which his whole future happiness hung. “What are your intentions toward Emma?”
Charles strolled across the room and refilled his glass agonizingly slowly before replying, “Why, I have no intentions toward her. Why would I?”
This should have been the answer James wanted to hear, but he knew it wasn’t quite that simple. “Then why have you been behaving as if you have a particular interest?”
“Has she said that? I suppose I might have given her that impression. But I wasn’t serious.” Charles walked back to his chair and sank down into it. How could he look so unconcerned? He’d behaved appallingly.
Then James remembered his own behavior toward Miss d’Ibert. He was just as guilty as Charles of behaving like a cad.
Still, he had always intended to do the right thing.
Softening his tone, he asked, “Then why did you write to her? Why did you kiss her in a public place if you have no designs on her? I utterly fail to comprehend.”
Charles swilled his brandy around the glass. “Oh, don’t be such a stickler, man. You know how it is. You see a pretty woman and you fancy a kiss and a cuddle, so you say what you need to get her compliance.”
Just how compliant had Emma been? James felt sick.
“Don’t look so aghast, old man! It was just a kiss. We both remained fully clothed,” Charles said with a smirk.
James’s fist itched to connect with his face. But it would make him the worst kind of hypocrite if he punched his friend for doing exactly what he, himself, had been doing earlier.
However, his kiss had been a precursor to a proposal. He loved Emma, and it had taken hours of soul-searching to test the water with her and risk rejection again. Charles, quite clearly, had no such compunction.
“I suppose you used the same charm on that poor housemaid you got with child,” James muttered.
Charles’s face darkened. “I don’t wish to be reminded of that,” he said. “She was an acute embarrassment to me. I barely dissuaded Papa from outing me to Aunt Letitia. That would have put the cat among the pigeons, and no mistake!”
“You scarcely seem to have learned your lesson,” James ground out, “if you’ve been playing the same game with Miss d’Ibert.”
Charles’s lip curled up in a sneer. “Why do you persist in calling her by that antiquated surname? Hibbert was good enough for her when she was a governess. I don’t see why she should change the pronunciation just because your mama’s taken her up.”
“Because it is her name.”
“How very droll. James, you really are being tedious today. Whatever is wrong with you?”
James could feel their long-held friendship melting away. He’d been angry enough when he heard about the housemaid, but toying with Emma was beyond the pale. How could he ever forgive Charles?
“If you made advances toward Emma but didn’t intend to marry her, you’ve acted shamefully,” he said bluntly. “She was ready to deal with you decently, which says a lot for her strength of character, if not for her perceptiveness. You’re not worthy of her. You never were.”
Charles took a deep draught of his brandy as his eyes narrowed. “Ah, I see where this is coming from. You want her for yourself, but she holds a candle for me. Well, touché, old boy—there’s nothing you can do about it. I have the prior claim.”
“You do not, since you’ve never made an honorable offer to her. I, on the other hand, have.”
A slow grin broke over Charles’s face. “Who would have thought it, eh? You and I, bosom friends for years, finally falling out over a female? Well, I can see only one solution that will suit us both. I’ll make her my mistress first, and when I’m done with her, I’ll pass her over to you.”
James clenched his fist. With the full force of his anger behind it, he knew he could quite easily spread Charles Keane all over the walls of his bachelor apartment.
But he must never stoop so low.
“I don’t know what has occurred between you and Miss d’Ibert,” James said through gritted teeth, “nor do I want to know. But this newspaper piece changes everything. If you don’t offer for her after this, she’ll become a pariah. So, I’m going to give you a chance to make good. My family’s been invited to a house party at Stourhead at the end of th
e week, and Emma will come with us. I’ll send the host a note to ensure you’re invited, too. There, you will do the decent thing and make your proposal to Miss d’Ibert.”
His heart pounded fit to burst. He was taking a gamble, and the stakes were terrifyingly high.
Pulling in a deep breath, he continued, “She will, I trust, reject you. Then you can inform the Chronicle of the fact, making it quite clear that it was her, not you, who rejected the idea of an engagement. The ton needs to know—and damn it, I need to know—that if she then accepts me, it won’t be just to save her reputation. It won’t be because you refused to do the honorable thing.”
He really didn’t want her to marry him to save face. It had taken a while to realize it, but what he wanted was not just her acceptance of his suit.
He wanted her love.
Charles choked as some brandy went down the wrong way. As soon as the coughing subsided, he exclaimed, “But what if I don’t want to propose? What if I would rather just play, but not commit to her?”
James’s towering anger threatened to overwhelm him. He stepped back toward the doorway and seized the doorframe to steady himself. “If you don’t make her an honest offer, I’ll inform your Aunt Letitia of your dealings with both the servant girl and with Emma. Miss Letitia Keane has no reason to doubt my word. Your precious inheritance will fly away, out of your grasp.”
“I say!”
James gazed down at the red-faced, spluttering man in front of him. He could almost pity him.
Almost.
“I’m not giving you a choice,” he stated. “You will go to Stourton House in four days’ time.”
Not waiting for a reply, he dragged open the door and stalked down the hallway and out of the building, desperate for some fresh air. He’d have to walk home or find a fellow boxer to spar with. Otherwise, the violent energies released in his body would consume him.
Four days.
In four days his future would be decided, one way or another.
They were going to be the longest four days of his life.
Chapter Thirty-Five
For three days, Emma waited in hope of word from James. But after that grim scene between them, he seemed disinclined to visit No.12 Great Pulteney Street.
The countess remarked upon it, and the earl said it was a pity, for he thought the young people were having a good effect on their son, taking his mind off his recent troubles.
No one felt James’s absence more than Emma. If only she could speak to him, explain herself, show him how she felt! But he’d denied her that privilege. He’d turned his back on her and left her dangling, unable to span the chasm that had opened between them.
Sometimes she stopped pitying herself and raged at him silently, blaming him for overreacting to her disclosure. Just because he’d been thrown over once didn’t mean he would be again.
She’d never meant to jilt him. She’d meant only to be open and honest. Far better he heard about what had happened directly from her instead of reading it in the paper.
If she ever found out who’d observed her being kissed by Charles and sent the juicy gossip to the Chronicle, she would not deal kindly with them. If they had any decency at all, they’d have rescued her from his clutches instead!
Not telling James meant risking that he might seek clarification from Charles. Which he surely would have done—no doubt resulting in disaster. Charles couldn’t be trusted not to exaggerate the situation simply for his own amusement.
Aside from the anonymously sent newspaper, she hadn’t heard a word from Charles, either. Surely, he’d have something to say on the matter? He was just as implicated as she, and now all of Bath Society would be expecting a proper announcement.
Or a refutation.
So why was he keeping silent? He knew where she was to be found.
She had to speak to him. She must make him understand that he needed to deny the scandal suggested by the paper and claim it was a case of mistaken identity or that it was an outright lie.
If he didn’t, any hope she had of reconciliation with James would be in peril.
A knock on her chamber door put a stop to her gloomy thoughts. It was George, come to say goodbye.
“Damn shame you’re all going away tomorrow,” he said, throwing himself into a chair with a dramatic sigh. “Why you need to vanish off into Darkest Wiltshire when all the delights of Bath surround you, I’ve no idea.”
Emma nodded. She’d no wish to go away, either, but they were due to leave next day for the house party at Stourhead. Which meant she was running out of time to find Charles.
“I don’t want to go,” she replied. “I’d rather stay with Mama and Papa while the Rossburys are away.” She didn’t yet know whether or not James would be joining their party.
Part of her prayed he would. Another part of her hoped he wouldn’t—for it would be torture.
“You have to go, foolish girl,” George said. “You’re under the patronage of the Countess of Rossbury. To disobey her would be to resign yourself to a life of loneliness and misery. No one who is anyone will want to know you if she throws you off.”
There was only one person whose opinion of her mattered. And he, it seemed, had already deserted her.
“Why do these people have so much power to manipulate our lives?” she grumbled. “Why can we not be free of them?”
“You can be free of them if you don’t care about money or what Society thinks,” George responded with a shrug. “But I think you do care, my dear sister. You care very much. Anyway, it’s unfair you should complain about going to Stourhead—I’d give my left arm to come with you.”
Of course he would. The frequency with which he’d been visiting Great Pulteney Street to check on the progress of Jemima’s heel had been remarked upon more than once. And now she was being spirited away from him. But could he possibly feel more bereft than she did, at James’s absence?
“I understand Stourhead’s been planned on a very grand scale, with grottoes, lakes, walks, rides, and more follies than you can shake a stick at,” George said. “Sorry, I shouldn’t say follies. I mean copies of classical architecture. Oh, to have the money to indulge in one’s whims! But I daresay you’ll be able to do that in the not too distant future.” He smiled over at her.
“What can you mean?”
“Don’t go all miss-ish on me! You know perfectly well what I mean. Tidworth. You’re the apple of his eye.”
Perhaps she had been, a few days ago. But now, she wouldn’t wager anything on how he felt. He probably despised her, and this knowledge just made her want to crawl into a hole and die. If only she could somehow prove to him that he had no need to worry about Charles Keane.
“Oh, George! If only you knew!” She scrabbled in her reticule for a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.
Her brother sat forward, frowning. “Why the tears?” he asked. “Do the attentions of England’s most eligible bachelor not please you?”
Had it been so obvious? She was starting to believe that James had been singling her out for longer than she’d been aware. Perhaps even longer than he realized himself.
“Does everybody know?” she asked, her voice quavering.
“Of course not. I’m teasing you. I just noticed the way he danced with you the other night and how much he looked at you. The pair of you were forever disappearing off for a stroll.”
Her mouth dropped open in surprise.
“Not that I’m complaining—it meant I had more of Jemima’s attention. Oh, but she’s the sweetest creature, don’t you think? So very kind and compassionate, and she takes such pleasure in life—I’ve never yet seen her dreary. She bears her bad foot admirably, although I’ve made it a good deal better. But I’m loath to cure her completely, for what use will she have for me then?”
Emma forgot her own heartache for a moment, filled with trepidation. “You’re not seriously setting your cap at Jemima Pitt? She’d never be allowed to marry you!”
Her brother
steepled his fingers, his expression sober. “She might, you know. I’m close to receiving the offer of a partnership in Harley Street, where all the best doctors reside. One day I might number some of the highest in the land among my patients. Or, if we stay on the right side of Tidworth, I could doctor his wounded veterans. His older brother died in a veterans’ hospital, you know. A minor wound at the battle of Waterloo, but he got gangrene. Very sad.”
Yes, she knew. It must have been hard for the family to lose their elder son. Harder still for James, having to step into shoes he never expected to fill. She dabbed at her eyes again.
“Anyway,” George went on, “I’ve discovered that Jemima’s family is not nearly as lofty as the Rossburys. It would be a fairly even match on both sides, especially if we’re prepared to wait a year or two while I better myself.”
Wait a year or two? She could scarcely imagine! When she’d been in James’s arms, she hadn’t ever wanted to leave them. Not for a minute, let alone a year. The last three days had stretched out interminably in his absence. She’d felt as though something was shriveling up inside her, curling up and dying from the lack of his attention.
From the lack of his love.
She let out a trembling breath. “Oh, George, I’m getting a headache. Would you mind leaving me, please? I think I need to rest.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” he said jovially. “What with all this packing and preparation for the journey, the house is like a Bedlam. Anyway, I’ll drop by tomorrow to see you all off. I’ll just go and speak to Jemima before I go. I can hear the pianoforte being thumped enthusiastically in the drawing room. Excuse me.” He gave Emma a brief peck on the cheek and left her alone with her thoughts.
She settled on the bed and stared unseeing at the ceiling. What if James genuinely had loved her far longer than she’d been aware? He might not even have been certain of it himself. Which made the current situation between them even more dismal.
It also made her examine her own feelings more closely. If it was possible to be in love, yet not know it, perhaps the symptoms she suffered each time she was close to James were more than just a physical response.
Vanquishing the Viscount Page 17