‘Yes, Miss. I believe Master Bertram is sleeping.’ He cleared his throat, an unconscious habit he had when he thought he should say something but didn’t want to.
She would help him. ‘Did my brother come in several hours ago?’
‘Yes,’ Gordon murmured.
She wasn’t surprised. She had expected Bertram to go out after their talk last night. In fact, she would have been shocked had he not.
‘Thank you again, Gordon.’ Somehow she found a smile for him, knowing it was weak but the best she could do.
Emma turned back to the stairs and mounted them slowly, keeping her back straight even though it felt as though the weight of the world rested on her. She was not surprised by anything the butler had told her. Both her siblings had acted just as she expected them to. But the consequences of their actions would make life more complicated for her.
When she had promised Mama that she would care for them and Papa, come what may, she had never expected it to be this difficult. Now all she could do was her best.
Emma rapped on Amy’s door. When there was no answer, she entered. She was in no mood to cater to her sister.
Amy sat up in bed, her blond curls spread around her shoulders in glorious disarray, her cheeks rosy with excitement and her blue eyes dancing. Emma had no doubt Amy’s note had precipitated something Emma would not like and that Amy would like very well.
‘Good morning, Em.’ The younger girl was all innocence.
Emma moved into the room. ‘Good morning, Amy. I hear you have been to the kitchen.’
Amy blushed and Emma marvelled at how beautiful her sister was. When Amy refused to look at her, Emma sighed.
Amy tossed a curl over her shoulder. ‘I went for a bite. I was hungry.’
Emma made a moue of irritation. ‘Amy, when will you stop these high jinks? I know you gave a note to the hired girl. I am sure you sent it to Charles Hawthorne. I don’t know what you said, but it is not done. Not done at all.’
Amy’s face paled into obstinacy. ‘You carry on as though Charles Hawthorne can single-handedly ruin all my chances. Really, Em, you worry too much.’
Emma spluttered in her sudden anger. ‘You do not worry enough!’
‘Pooh!’ Amy threw back the covers and slid out of bed. ‘If you know exactly who I sent the message to, then why are you berating me? I’m surprised you haven’t sent another message telling him to ignore mine.’
‘Then you did send it to him.’
Amy’s attention snapped back to her sister. ‘You didn’t know.’
Emma shrugged. ‘A calculated guess based on what I know of you. You just confirmed my suspicion. Thank you. Now I shall send a note.’
‘Don’t forget,’ Amy said, mimicking her sister’s tone, ‘it isn’t done to send a message to a single man one isn’t related to.’
‘You should have remembered that before you put me in this position.’ Emma didn’t try to keep the tartness from her voice. ‘I have had enough of this, Amy. If you don’t behave, I shall tell Father you must return to the country.’
Amy pulled on her finely woven wool robe, for it was still cool in the mornings, particularly since Emma ordered no fires to be lit in order to save on costs. ‘You know he will not agree. I am the fatted calf.’
There was only a touch of bitterness in the younger girl’s words, but it was enough to stop Emma. Neither one of them was happy with the position they found themselves in. Neither one of them had created this situation, but both of them were paying for it.
Emma’s anger melted. Amy was only doing her best to enjoy her first and only London Season. She would be wed all too soon, sacrificed on the altar of gambling.
Unable to swallow her sorrow for her sister, Emma said, ‘You are too young for this and I wish I could spare you, but I cannot. Just as you are correct in saying Father will not allow me to send you home.’ She went to the door, turning back to say, ‘I will tell Mrs Murphy you are up.’
Emma left, feeling worse than when she’d arrived. Added to that was the requirement to send a note to Charles Hawthorne telling him not to do or respond to whatever was in Amy’s note. One complication after another.
In her room, Emma sat down at the scratched and stained writing desk and pulled a piece of thick paper from the drawer. The note to Charles Hawthorne was not easy. Several copies later, she was satisfied enough to sand the sheet before folding it into a twist. She would give it to a footman who had been born on their family estate. She could trust him not to speak of this. Once that was done, she could settle into her daily supervision of the housekeeping and accounts.
That afternoon Emma sat near the window in the parlour that looked out on the back garden, using the afternoon light to see. She looked up from her darning on a pair of silk stockings when Gordon entered and cleared his throat.
‘Yes?’ She smiled at the elderly butler.
His brow furrowed. ‘Mr Hawthorne is at the door, Miss Stockton. He says he is come to take Miss Amy driving.’
Emma’s stomach seemed to plummet in a pleasurable sensation and her fingers tingled. Her weakness tightened her mouth. The man was nothing but trouble.
‘He ignored my note,’ she muttered.
‘It would seem so, Miss.’
‘Please send him away.’
She ignored a traitorous pang of disappointment. He was not to be trusted and he was only amusing himself with her innocent sister. He was nothing to her.
‘Yes, Miss.’ Gordon said the words without inflection but the gleam in his eye told Emma he would enjoy doing her behest.
The door closed behind him just as Amy’s raised voice came from the foyer. Emma didn’t have to think. She knew if she didn’t get to Amy, the chit would take off with Charles Hawthorne and the devil take the hindmost. She dropped her darning without a qualm, even though there was the chance it might come undone. Seconds later, she was in the hallway.
‘Amy!’ She marched to the couple. ‘And you!’ She turned to glare at Charles Hawthorne.
He was dressed casually but impeccably. His navy jacket fit his broad shoulders as if it had been moulded to him. His buff breeches were equally tight, showing muscular thighs that, try as she might, Emma couldn’t quite ignore. And his top boots were shined to a mirror glow. He held his beaver hat in gloved hands.
He quirked one black brow and said with a sardonic drawl, ‘Miss Stockton, how nice of you to come and see us off.’
Emma halted several feet away from them and forced her attention from the man to her sister. ‘Amy, you are not going driving.’
Amy tossed her head, her blond curls bouncing beneath the brim of her stylish straw hat. Her mouth was a mulish line. ‘Of course I am, Em. There is nothing wrong with accompanying a gentleman in an open carriage through Rotten Row. It is nearly five and everyone will be there.’ She slanted a sly look at Charles. ‘And it will do wonders for my reputation when the other gentlemen see me squired by Mr Hawthorne.’ Her gaze slid back to her sister. ‘Even you must admit that Mr Hawthorne sets the tone.’
Emma closed her eyes briefly and wondered why she even bothered when Amy was so determined to throw her reputation to the wind. When she opened her eyes, it was to Charles Hawthorne’s ironic grin.
‘Much as it pains me to seem so arrogant,’ he said, his tone saying nothing of the sort, ‘your sister is correct. I am generally considered a paragon of fashion.’
Emma snorted before she realised it. Scarlet suffused her face but she would not let herself look away from his now laughing eyes.
‘It is true, Mr Hawthorne, that no one has ever accused you of modesty.’
He made her a mocking half bow.
‘No matter how attractive such an attribute would be for you,’ she finished before turning back to Amy. ‘You are right, it is perfectly acceptable. And the weather is delightful. I believe I shall accompany you.’
Amy’s mouth dropped before she gathered her wits. ‘But, Em, where will you sit? Mr Hawthorne drives
a high-perch phaeton that will only hold two and his tiger.’
Emma considered her dignity for a second before throwing it to the wind. ‘I shall sit between the two of you.’
‘We will be tight as clams,’ Amy groused, using a term she had coined when young. She had tried to open a clam bought at the fish market and been unable to. Ever since, when something was hard to open or tight, she used the phrase. ‘Really, Em, it is too bad of you to be this way.’
Ignoring Amy’s words, Emma said, ‘I will only be a moment to get my hat and a pelisse.’
Not waiting for an answer, she hurried up the stairs to her room. She rummaged through her closet for the pelisse and hat, yanking the short jacket on without bothering to button it and cramming the hat onto her head with no regard for her styled hair. She trusted the old butler to do his best to delay them, but she was not giving that pair the opportunity to leave before she got back down.
She arrived downstairs breathing quicker than when she had left, but they were still there.
Amy continued where she had left off. ‘It will be horribly crowded with three. I wouldn’t wonder if Mr Hawthorne will be so cramped that his driving will be affected. That would not be good, for I know he is considered a fine whip.’
Still smiling, Charles said, ‘Thank you for the compliment, Miss Amy. I shall do my best not to lose your trust in my abilities.’
Emma cut him a look, wondering if he had meant the double entendre his words had implied. His countenance showed nothing but good humour. Perhaps her thoughts dwelt so much on his possible seduction of her sister that she read meanings into his words that weren’t there. Somehow she doubted it.
She moved to stand between them. ‘Shall we be on our way?’
She heard Amy’s huff of irritation and ignored it. She just wished she could as easily ignore the sense of Charles Hawthorne’s nearness. She wanted nothing to do with him yet her body betrayed her. She straightened her shoulders, determined to control herself, and marched through the door Gordon held open.
Outside was a magnificent ebony barouche that would hold four people comfortably. The top was down for the fine weather and the crest of Lord George Hawthorne, Charles’s older brother, adorned the door. The urge to turn on the odious man who had let them carry on thinking he was in his racing carriage was nearly too much to resist. He had made fools of them.
Instead, she allowed the footman, dressed in the Hawthorne livery, to open the carriage door and assist her. She sat facing the magnificent team of four matched bays and patted the velvet-covered seat beside herself to indicate Amy was to sit there.
Charles Hawthorne placed himself with his back to the horses. They were no sooner settled than he signaled the driver to start. The carriage moved forward with a smoothness that spoke volumes about the quality of the vehicle. Emma remembered riding in this carriage once with Lord George Hawthorne. She had enjoyed the movement then as well.
Her eyes met her host’s and she suddenly regretted her determination to join the pair. He had such an unsettling effect on her.
‘A tuppence for your thoughts?’
His deep voice penetrated her senses, seeming to sink into the depths of her being. There was something about this man that spoke to her of things done in dark, private places even though she deplored his morals and the way he led his life.
‘Oh, la, Mr Hawthorne,’ Amy said. ‘I am thinking of what an enjoyable drive we shall have.’
His voice tinged with irony, he replied, ‘I hope we will.’
Emma was grateful to Amy. She must have made a mistake when she had thought he was asking her. A silly mistake.
Against her will, Emma listened to the man exchange quips and banter with her sister until they turned smartly through the gate and into Hyde Park, taking their position in the throng of carriages and horses promenading on Rotten Row. Anyone who was anybody, and many who weren’t, crowded the park at this time of day during the Season. It was the height of fashion to be seen here, and Emma, always honest with herself, had to admit being here did Amy no harm.
Amy beamed, her Cupid’s bow mouth open to show perfect white teeth. She raised her gloved hand every few minutes to wave at an acquaintance. Emma decided that much as she had not wanted them to come here with Mr Hawthorne, it pleased her to see her sister so happy. Surely Amy would soon receive an offer.
Charles Hawthorne sat directly across from Emma and when she wasn’t careful, her knee brushed his. It was an unsettling sensation, she decided, as his knee grazed hers for the sixth time. Much as she hated to admit it, the experience was so startling she kept count.
Darting a glance at him and seeing the amused curve of his fine lips, she wondered if he meant to touch her in so intimate a manner. Immediately, she decided not. He was interested in Amy, not her. She had too many freckles and a spare figure that not even the high-waisted gowns in fashion flattered.
He could have his pick of the ladies of the ton or those not so high in the instep. He would never give her a second glance if he weren’t pursuing Amy for reasons Emma knew had to be far from honourable.
‘A tuppence for your thoughts, Miss Stockton.’
Warmth spread through Emma’s body at his use of her name and made her wonder if he had really meant her the first time. She chased that thought away. Everything about this situation was disconcerting.
‘I am wondering why everyone wants to be in London when the countryside is at its best at this time of year.’ She couldn’t help a wistful glance at the green trees and emerald grass. ‘There are days when I miss home very much.’
His eyes intent, he murmured, ‘How very interesting. I thought you enjoyed London.’
She met his gaze without thought. ‘I don’t know why you should think anything about me, Mr Hawthorne. You don’t know me.’
‘I know some things.’
‘Such as?’
He glanced at Amy and shrugged. ‘That you have been in London for the Season these past three years. That your family’s country estate is in Yorkshire. That until three years ago, you were in mourning. You did not come to Town until after that.’
She listened to him, thinking he must have heard everything from his older brother when she and George Hawthorne had been engaged for all of three months just two years before. It seemed a lifetime.
‘You are well-informed. I would have thought me too boring a subject to hold any interest for a man of your persuasions.’
As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. They sounded as though she were begging for a compliment, not as the insult they should have been. Why did this man—with nothing to recommend him that she valued—manage to make her feel disturbingly alive?
‘You don’t have a high opinion of me.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Em, how can you be so rude?’ Amy’s voice cut into what had seemed a small cocoon where only Emma and Charles Hawthorne existed. ‘If I said such a thing, you would threaten to put me to bed with only bread and milk.’
Emma shook herself, thankful to Amy for interrupting a discussion that was becoming too revealing. She angled to smile at her sister. ‘I might have done so several years ago, but you are too old for such measures now.’
‘Hah! And thank goodness for that.’ Amy laughed. ‘I have seen that glint in your eyes many times these last weeks. You always have it when you wish to discipline me.’
Bantering with her sister eased some of Emma’s uncanny awareness of the man sitting across from her. Even when his knee once more touched her own, she managed not to feel as though her stomach spiralled. She was more aware of him than she wished.
Charles Hawthorne raised his hand to wave and the carriage slowed. They paralleled a dark-haired, dark-eyed, vivacious woman who sat on a prime piece of horseflesh as though she had been born to the saddle.
Harriette Wilson, the famed courtesan, smiled at Charles Hawthorne.
Emma’s face paled and her fists clenched. This was not done and showed a
tremendous lack of respect on the man’s part toward her and her sister. She glared at him.
‘Harriette,’ he said, his fine voice making the name sound like a caress, ‘how are you today? You look in fine mettle.’
The woman smiled back, her entire body seeming to light up. ‘Charles, you devil, I am in great spirits.’ Her teasing gaze turned challenging. ‘Do you intend to introduce me?’
His grin widened. ‘I would not have hailed you if I did not.’ He turned so his intensity held Emma like a vise, his countenance as serious as Emma had never seen it. ‘Miss Stockton, Miss Amy, I would like you to meet Miss Wilson. A friend of mine.’
Emma nodded her head. Good manners and an innate tendency not to hurt others kept her tone pleasant and kept her from looking away without acknowledging the introduction. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Wilson.’
Amy’s voice rose. ‘Miss Harriette Wilson? The Harriette—’
Emma cut ruthlessly across her sister’s excitement. ‘That is enough, Amy. I am sure Miss Wilson has no desire for her name to be shouted for all to hear.’
The mounted woman laughed and her attractive face turned beautiful. No wonder men thought her irresistible. Emma found her appealing.
‘I am not shouting,’ Amy said indignantly.
Emma scowled at her, hoping to quiet her.
‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance,’ Harriette said solemnly.
Tension Emma had not seen before eased from the courtesan’s stiffly held back. Harriette Wilson had expected to be snubbed. Emma felt sorry for the other woman who had much more freedom than any respectable female, but also suffered more slights and less security. Upon the realisation, Emma gave the other woman a slight smile, her only regret being that Amy was in the carriage and being introduced to Britain’s most well-known, sought after and successful courtesan. This would do Amy’s reputation as much damage as being pursued by Charles Hawthorne.
Georgina Devon Page 3