‘Everyone who was in White’s knows. And, by now, likely everyone who wasn’t.’ He moved toward the stairs, the rigidity of his body beginning to slip. ‘Can’t call it off. I’m right.’
He didn’t wait for her response but turned and went up the steps. It was as though he’d told her what he wanted and now he was through and going to bed. He’d dropped his cannonball and left her to deal with the knowledge as best she could.
Emma stared after him, her mouth open. What could she do? She had to do something.
How could she prevent Bertram from meeting Mr Hawthorne? If she announced it to the ton, she would be considered vulgar and that would hurt Amy still more. Ladies did not know about such things. If she told a Member of Parliament, he would likely ignore her. Duelling was illegal, but everyone did it, even the highest in the land. The only penalty was if a man killed his opponent. Then the winner had to flee to the Continent.
In a daze she moved to the kitchen, the thought of hot chocolate sliding down her throat to a grateful stomach drawing her. Vaguely aware of what she did, she prepared the hot drink and poured it into a large, cracked mug. She twisted the mug so the crack was away from her mouth and took a sip of the burning drink.
Warmth spread from the center of her body to her extremities. She realised her fingers and toes were nearly numb. Chills took her.
She set the mug on the large wooden trestle table so the drink wouldn’t slop onto her and buried her face in her hands. She had to do something.
Inspiration hit. She jerked her head up and stared at the fireplace. She would ask Charles Hawthorne to call off. He had nothing to lose by doing so, and he was in the wrong. That would solve everything.
But how to do it?
She grasped the mug and wrapped her fingers around its heat before picking it up and drinking more. She was glad to note that with a solution her fingers had stopped shaking.
She drank everything before a plan came.
Only later did she realise she hadn’t once considered that Charles Hawthorne could be harmed by Bertram. Mr Hawthorne was an experienced rake who had duelled several times. His reputation on the field of honour told her that he was not the one in danger.
She closed her eyes in exhaustion.
Emma watched Amy leave with Julia Thornton and Julia’s mama. She had pleaded exhaustion to avoid going with them to Almack’s.
This was the only chance she would get. She hurried upstairs to her room where she still kept the black hat with a veil she had worn at Mama’s funeral. She would wear her black cape as well.
It took only a moment to fetch the hat from the top shelf of her armoire. It took longer to pin it in place so the veil completely covered her face.
Looking in the mirror, she decided no one would recognise her when she visited Mr Hawthorne. Definitely not him until she told him who she was.
The only thing that might give her away was Mama’s pearls. So far she had been unable to make herself give them to Bertram. She knew she would have to at some point, but the longer she had them the more she hoped to keep them. But that was a futile hope. Bertram’s debts wouldn’t disappear.
She reached up to finger the lustrous necklace, rubbing each pearl as she made her way to the clasp. Her fingers trembled and it was several long minutes before the heavy strand fell from her neck into her hands.
She closed her eyes to keep from crying. It was as though another part of Mama had disappeared from her life.
She took a deep shuddering breath. She had not been successful at trying to take Mama’s place. Perhaps it was time for her to be herself and to live her own life.
For a moment longer, she allowed herself to hold the pearls. Then she dropped them into the silk bag she had dug out of her drawer this morning.
On her way out of the house, she stopped in Bertram’s room. She left the pearls on his shaving stand.
Charles Hawthorne looked up from the open ledger where he diligently, and with a great deal of satisfaction, entered the figures of his latest trading enterprise. Sometimes his skill at business surprised him. It always brought him satisfaction.
Every time he walked into his town house or visited his country estate he appreciated his business skill. He had made enough profit in the last three years to buy a very nice property in London and to get his once depleted country home back to a place where it supported itself. In a couple of years it would once more provide income. He got great satisfaction from creating after he had allowed his gambling habit to be so destructive for so many years.
A discreet cough drew his attention from his pleasurable thoughts. His manservant, Stoner, stood in the open doorway, his bulky chest filling the space.
‘What?’ Charles put down his quill.
‘Guv’nor, there is a woman ’ere to see you. Quality by the looks of ’er.’
Always one for a challenge or a mystery, Charles unfolded his lean, well-muscled frame and stood. ‘A lady? Here?’
Stoner shrugged. ‘Best I can tell. She’s wearin’ an ’at with an ’eavy veil and a thick black cape. But the material is good and ’er mannerisms are those of a lady.’
A spark of interest had Charles sitting forward in his chair. He squelched it. The only lady he knew who had the recklessness to visit him in his home was Amy Stockton. Not a situation he wanted.
However, if it were her sister—which would never happen… ‘A lady of quality doesn’t visit a man she isn’t related to.’
Stoner shrugged again, being a man of few words. With his scarred face and broad, beefy shoulders and arms, all he had to do was look at someone to make them step back and leave him alone.
Charles suppressed an irritated frown. Stoner was good at what he did, and if he didn’t speak much, then that was the way it was. Although, since patience wasn’t one of Charles’s virtues—and there were many who said he had none, usually women—it was hard not to take the hulking man in front of him to task for being so taciturn. However, Stoner was an excellent judge of character. If he said the lady was quality, then Charles would bet a monkey the lady was—if he still bet.
‘What does she want?’
‘To see you, Guv’. What do they all want?’
Charles’s guard was up, but his interest was piqued. If she was Amy Stockton, he would send her packing. If she was someone else…
‘Send her in.’
Stoner turned and left without word or movement to show acknowledgement, but Charles knew the man would do exactly as told. He had found Stoner near starvation when the two of them had been cell neighbors in debtor’s prison. When he got out, Charles took Stoner with him. The man was fanatically loyal.
Wondering what a woman of his own station was doing seeking him out, Charles turned one of several ladder-back chairs in his office so he could straddle it. An outrageous pose for a man to take in front of a woman of sensibilities, but he had learned long ago that often the unexpected got the best results.
He knew how gambling could get into a man’s blood and destroy his life. That was why Bertram Stockton disgusted him. The man was too weak to mend his ways, so he let his obsession ruin his family.
After the debacle several nights before with Amy Stockton, he had not gone out of his way to run into the Misses Stockton. He regretted the part he had played in the dustup between the two sisters. Baiting Miss Emma Stockton chased away his ennui, but not even for the entertainment it provided in an otherwise dull Season, did he want to cause more problems for her than she already had.
This mysterious woman would be his diversion tonight.
A small smile of anticipation played around the corners of his mouth. This meeting would surely enliven an evening that so far had been spent in the satisfying, but far from entertaining, occupation of updating his accounts. He could hire a man of business, but he found pleasure in personally entering the fruits of his outré enterprise in the ledger.
The door opened again and Stoner ushered in a woman covered from head to toe in black. Even her
hat, with its near-opaque veil, was black, as were the half boots peeking out from the hem of her skirt, which showed beneath the bottom of her black cloak. She was definitely dressed for secrecy.
He smiled. The dark colour and enveloping folds of the cape did nothing to keep him from remembering the tall, slim, elegant figure underneath with a narrow waist, small breasts and—he would swear—long legs. Nor did the hat and veil disguise the tilt of the woman’s head. And nothing could conceal the liquid grace of her walk or the illusive hint of sweet peas wafting from her. He knew only one woman who wore that fragrance.
He smiled. He had decided not to further inconvenience her, and instead she came to him. It was the last thing he expected from the prim and proper Miss Emma Stockton. His interest in her grew.
He stifled a laugh and instead smiled and stood, motioning to another straight-backed chair. He would play her game for awhile and see where it led.
‘Please have a seat.’ After a quick turn of her head to take in the entire contents of his office, she sat with her spine ramrod stiff and not touching anything. His smile widened. ‘I would offer you refreshments, but all I have is Scotch whisky. No sherry since the last lady visitor drank it all.’
Her shoulders stiffened. ‘I imagine you have quite a few visitors.’
He resumed his outrageous position straddling the chair, hugely enjoying himself. Her voice confirmed what he already knew. This was indeed a very brave and determined lady.
‘Enough visitors to keep things interesting. But what can I do for you? It isn’t often I entertain a lady of quality here.’
‘That is abundantly obvious from your manners.’
He would swear he heard her sniff from behind what she thought was the disguising curtain of her veil. He wondered how long it would take her to reveal herself and her reason for coming here, although, truth be told, he had a good idea. This had to be about Amy Stockton.
He rested his forearms on the back of his chair. ‘But you are not my usual visitor.’
Her hands, covered in black kid gloves, clutched the top of a matching reticule. He was glad they weren’t on his neck because she would be strangling him. A tiny spark of sympathy for the position she found herself in blunted some of his humour. He always felt sorry for the unfortunate, and his visitor was definitely that. He admired her courage and determination.
‘You realise,’ he said softly, ‘that if you are discovered, your reputation will be ruined.’
This time she snorted. ‘As though you would care. You are a debauched rake and seducer of innocents. What would one more reputation be to you?’
He winced, but only briefly. There was some truth in what she said. ‘I don’t seduce innocents. I may flirt and sometimes be a little outrageous, but I do not seduce.’ He paused. ‘Unless the lady invites me.’
‘Hah! One would never know it from your behaviour—’
‘Towards your sister, Miss Stockton?’ he asked.
She jerked. ‘How do you know?’
He was not about to tell her how he really knew. ‘An educated guess. I can’t think of another lady who would visit me here—unless it was your sister, but her voice is higher and more breathless. Or, my sister. She might be harebrained enough to come here, but at least she is married—if not respectably so—and she is my sister.’
He frowned at the memory of his sister and her recent marriage to Adam Glenfinning, a rake of the first order. Charles had fought their liaison and lost. Juliet was strong willed. Juliet was as strong willed as the woman sitting across from him.
‘The man she married is no worse than you, Mr Hawthorne. At least he has never been involved with a chit fresh out of the schoolroom.’
‘Like your sister.’
‘Exactly.’
‘What if my intentions are honourable?’
She snorted again. ‘What if they are? You are not exactly an eligible party.’ She waved one graceful arm to encompass their surroundings. ‘Even though you are successful, trade is not considered acceptable behaviour for a member of the ton. Although, you don’t seem to have suffered for doing it.’
His enjoyment rapidly evaporating, Charles asked, ‘What exactly do you want? Visiting my home is more disreputable for a woman than making a living in trade is for me. I am the member of a respected family. I would have to do far worse than importing and selling goods for Society to close its doors to me.’
He heard the sharp intake of her breath and knew he had hit his mark. It was small satisfaction. He didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. But she had struck a sensitive spot, and he found himself unable to let her comments go. ‘You might even be recognised. After all,’ he drawled, ‘I knew who you were.’
‘You heard me speak.’
‘True.’ He let her think that was how he had recognised her. ‘Since I know who you are and since no one will enter here without my permission, why don’t you lift your veil so I can see your face when you insult me.’
She said nothing for long seconds before lifting the veil from her face. She had a very fine pair of grey eyes and they glared at him. A wisp of silky, flame-coloured hair teased the outer corner of one dark brown winged eyebrow.
As though the room were suddenly too hot, she also undid the clasp of her cape and allowed the heavy black garment to open at her neck. Underneath was a black dress with a modestly scooped neckline.
‘Pleased?’ Her rich contralto voice was edged with sarcasm and dislike.
‘Very much.’
Charles allowed himself to enjoy the rich cream of her exposed skin. He imagined it would be as soft and silken as it looked. A sensual delight.
But something was missing. He frowned. ‘Where are your pearls? I have never seen you without them.’
She moved like lightning. Grabbing the edges of her cape, she gripped them together and redid the clasp at her neck. ‘What I wear is none of your concern.’
He studied her. She was right, but from her actions he would bet a monkey that they were gone to pay one of her brother’s gambling debts. But she would never tell him that. He let the subject die.
‘I presume you are here to warn me away from your sister.’
‘One would think.’ Acid dripped from each word.
He began to think he had the wrong reason. But surely she didn’t know about the duel. No man of honour would tell a woman about a duel. It wasn’t done.
‘Yes, one would think that.’ He was not about to be the one to let slip the confrontation in White’s.
Her fine mouth sneered. ‘But that is only one of your transgressions against my family.’
She did know. He sighed, the fun of the encounter nearly gone. ‘And what is the real reason you are here?’
She twisted her reticule until one of the strings holding it closed snapped. ‘Please don’t duel with Bertram.’
He realised how hard it was for her to swallow her pride and ask him for something as well as risk her reputation in order to do so. But he could not give her what she wanted. His pride would not allow him. ‘It is Bertram’s place to call off, not mine. He did the challenging.’
She swallowed hard, the creamy skin of her neck moving. He wished he could ease her discomfort. But the price would be too high.
‘You can back out.’
He shook his head. ‘I could, but I won’t. I will not be branded a coward.’
‘No one would think you a coward.’ Her laugh was shaky. ‘You are known as a crack shot. Bertram can barely hit a barn from twenty feet. You will put a bullet through him while he is still aiming.’
Unreasonably, he wanted to comfort her. ‘I will delope.’
She snorted. ‘I don’t believe you. To do that would be to admit the reason Bertram challenged you is valid. You have said it is not—no matter how much you flirt with Amy.’
‘Do you doubt my word?’ He kept a tight rein on the anger her insult prompted. ‘I am not used to someone calling me a liar.’
She stared at hi
m, as though trying to figure out how serious he was. ‘I can’t believe you would admit to the world that Bertram is right by shooting to miss.’ She looked away, looked back. ‘People would then expect you to offer for Amy if your attentions have gone too far.’ When he didn’t immediately refute her, surprise rounded her eyes. ‘Do you intend to do so?’
The urge to let her think so was strong. He wished to make her pay for doubting his word. ‘Perhaps. Didn’t I ask you earlier what you would do if my intent was matrimony?’
Chagrin pulled her brows together. ‘I told you your suit would not be welcomed.’
‘Then I could ask for Miss Amy’s hand in the knowledge I would be safe.’
She looked momentarily nonplussed. ‘You could, but I believe you are trying to make me worry because I doubted your word.’
It was his turn to look surprised. ‘You are an astute woman.’
‘I have studied you carefully.’
‘Really?’
‘In an effort to stop you from carrying on with my young sister. Nothing more.’
‘Of course,’ he murmured, hugely enjoying himself again.
He watched the barest hint of colour mount her cheeks as the meaning of her words and his reply dawned on her. He wondered if she would blush if he kissed her, something he found he wanted to do. It was an unsettling realisation. She was nothing like his usual flirts.
She stood abruptly, nearly knocking over her chair. ‘If you refuse to call off the duel, then I have no reason to stay longer.’
Charles stood and paced behind his desk. Action in all things was better as far as he was concerned. ‘I am sorry your visit was wasted.’
Her full, peach-tinted lips thinned. She took a deep breath, and he could not help but follow the rise and fall of her bosom or what was visible of it through several layers of clothing. His imagination provided more than enough to make his own breathing quicken before he rebuked himself. He didn’t even like the woman. But he had learned early that desire and like don’t always go together.
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