Finally the Montagues exited the second scene, and Grey straightened as Lady Capulet and Nurse took the stage. There she was. It seemed longer than two days ago that he’d last seen her, and the view from the rear pew didn’t do anything to quell his impatience over that fact.
“That’s your unrelenting foe?” Tristan chuckled.
“That plump, white-haired old bat?” Alice elbowed Grey in the ribs. “She looks ninety.”
“Shh. I’m watching.” He couldn’t quell his abrupt satisfaction; Tristan had no idea of whom he was making fun. Grey, though, had no trouble at all recognizing her despite the wig and the considerable padding and the god-awful fishwife’s tone she’d adopted.
“‘Where’s this girl?’” she called, and he grinned in the darkness. “‘What, Juliet?’”
Juliet, a lovely young lady with long, coal-black hair, glided onto the stage. “‘How now, who calls?’”
“Now, that’s more like it,” the viscount muttered, sighing happily.
Several rows in front of them, a slim young man stood and began applauding. He continued until the actress on the stage looked in his direction, blushing. Ignoring the annoyed looks of his fellows in the audience, he slowly seated himself again.
“Apparently you’re not Juliet’s only admirer,” Grey whispered.
Frowning, Uncle Dennis leaned across Sylvia and Blumton. “That’s Freddie Mayburne,” he whispered, gesturing. “He’s been in pursuit of Lady Jane all year.”
“Poor fellow,” Grey muttered, his eyes on Emma.
The rest of the play proceeded without further interruption and nearly without flaw, and Grey joined the rest of the audience on their feet as the curtains closed and then opened again to reveal a stage full of beaming young actresses taking their bows.
“You see, Mr. Blumton?” Uncle Dennis said proudly, applauding. “They were splendid. Brava, ladies! Brava!”
“Very passable, for females,” Blumton said grudgingly.
“That pint-sized Mercutio could give Edmund Keene a run for his money,” Tristan said, chuckling, as the curtains closed again.
“Might we go now?” Alice asked, putting her shawl across her shoulders and exiting the pew behind Lord Dare. “I have no wish to be accosted by half the farmers of Hampshire.”
Grey could sympathize. Now that the play was over with, Lord Haverly’s party seemed to have become the center of everyone’s notice. All that lacked was for eligible young females to begin throwing monogrammed handkerchiefs in his direction, and he could imagine himself back in London with his mother and the unwed hordes hounding him.
He was daft to enter a girls’ school, he decided belatedly. Lusting after the damned headmistress was affecting his brain.
“All right, we’ll leave…” he began, trailing off as he spied a short, rotund form making its way through the admiring crowd toward them. “In a moment.”
“Grey, do you have to talk with that old witch tonight?”
“Yes.” He stepped forward as she reached them. “Miss Emma.”
“Your Grace.”
She curtsied, the motion elegant despite the enormous amount of padding beneath her frocks. Grey’s fingers twitched with the desire to begin unstuffing her. He shook himself. That could wait until after they settled the damned rent issue. “Do you—”
“Please excuse me, Your Grace,” she interrupted, turning her attention to his uncle, “but Lord and Lady Haverly traditionally join the cast for punch and cake after the performance. I wanted you and your guests to know you’re all welcome tonight.”
“We would be delighted,” the earl returned warmly. “We shall meet you in the dining hall.”
“Oh, lucky us,” Alice muttered, offering her arm to Grey.
He evaded capture, placing her hand over a surprised Tristan’s elbow and striding off after the headmistress before she could vanish into the crowd. “You received my letter, I presume?” he asked as he caught up to her.
She slowed, glancing over her shoulder at him. “Yes, I did. It was remarkably rude.”
“Just carrying on the tradition your letter began,” he said amiably.
“I was not r—”
“Oh, Miss Emma.” Another female, taller and nearly as rotund as the padded headmistress, swept up to clasp both of Emma’s hands. “I nearly fainted when Juliet woke up, looking for her Romeo, and him already dead beside her. It was even better than last year’s play.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jones. I’m so glad you could attend. And I see even Mr. Jones came this year.”
The large woman chuckled. “He said it would be nonsense, but I saw him wiping away a tear at the end.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Not that he’d ever admit to it, of course.”
“It’ll be our secret,” Emma whispered, smiling. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Adjusting her padding, she waddled off again.
Grey wasn’t about to let her escape that easily. “Parents won’t appreciate your turning their well-bred daughters into actresses, you know.”
“That wasn’t the purpose of this exercise, though I don’t expect you to understand.”
As she continued down the long hallway, turned another corner, climbed a flight of stairs, and entered a small office, he abruptly wondered whether she hadn’t led him into some sort of ambush. A tall, silver-templed gentleman stood at one window, gazing in the direction of Haverly.
“Your Grace, this is Sir John Blakely, my solicitor,” Emma said, moving to the far side of an old oak desk. “Sir John, His Grace, the Duke of Wycliffe.”
“Your Grace,” Sir John said, coming forward and offering his hand, “it is a pleasure to meet you.”
Grey shook it, his attention on the headmistress. “Why am I meeting your solicitor?”
“Because I thought you might listen if a man explained to you that you cannot order me to do anything. My telling you obviously has had no effect.”
“I beg your pardon, but…”
He trailed off as she removed her wig and dropped it onto the desk. Disheveled auburn hair cascaded down past her shoulders in a riot of red-tinted curls.
She looked up at him. “But what?”
Grey tried to concentrate his attention on the solicitor. “My uncle has approached me to make certain changes in the management style of Haverly. Increasing his tenants’ rent is but one of them.”
“And do you have this transfer of authority in writing, then, Your Grace?”
Emma rose and walked through a door on one side of the office, then returned with a wash basin. She dipped a cloth in the water and began wiping at the heavy makeup on her face. Slowly the white and grey mask faded, replaced by the soft, lustrous cream of her skin. Usually Grey had no difficulty at all separating business from pleasure, but Miss Emma Grenville was distracting the hell out of him. “I can get it in writing, if that is what you require,” he said shortly.
“That would be helpful,” Sir John continued. “And of course, the document would have to be notarized by a solicitor.”
The headmistress reached around her back for one of the ties that held her bulky frock on, presumably over some other garment. Whatever he might like to imagine, he didn’t think she intended to render herself naked in front of two men.
“Fine. Please direct me to the nearest solicitor,” he said curtly.
“Ah. That is a difficulty. I am the only solicitor residing in Basingstoke at the moment, and as you see, I am representing Miss Grenville’s Academy. It would be a conflict of interest for me to—”
“Here, let me get that,” Grey interrupted, closing the distance between himself and the headmistress. Before she could do more than squeak, he had untied the four fastenings at her back. Slipping the heavy garment down her arms, he let it slide past her hips to the floor. Her hair smelled of lemon and honey, and he was seized with the sudden desire to run his fingers through the soft auburn tangles.
She moved away from him at high speed before he could act on his impulse. “So you see,
Your Grace,” she stammered, her fresh-scrubbed cheeks flushing prettily, “you will have to return to London or somewhere and employ a solicitor.”
“I employ a dozen solicitors already,” he said, stifling a scowl. “And I don’t need a notarized document; all I need is for my uncle to repeat his request in front of witnesses.” He pinned the solicitor with a glare. “Isn’t that correct, Sir John?”
“Ah, yes.”
“And when I do that, we will be back in the same exact situation we are now—except that you, Miss Emma, will have no legal recourse but to pay your rent.”
“I’m not as certain of that as you seem to be. I’ve been thinking of having Sir John draft a petition for presentation to Parliament,” she said, still backing away from him, “with the goal of having the Academy declared an historical building. This will give me special dispensation in paying—”
“Why, you little—”
“Your Grace!” the solicitor protested.
“So you would rather see Haverly bankrupted than pay another shilling,” he snapped, clamping a fist over his temper. No one outmaneuvered him. And certainly not this sprite of a headmistress. “Just to keep this trivial pretty-house open.”
She lifted her chin. “You’re rich; you pay to keep Haverly solvent. And this is a place of learning, not a ‘pretty-house,’ as you so inaccurately term it.”
“‘Inaccurately?’ I hardly think—”
“No, you don’t, do you?”
Women never argued with him. They sighed and agreed and tittered and talked of inane nonsense until his head was ready to explode. This was exceedingly…invigorating. “What would you have me call it, then? You refuse to pay rent to Haverly, all the while playing dress-up and looking for rich husbands for your so-called students.”
She advanced on him, looking angry enough to spit nails. “That is not the function of this Academy, and I will not tolerate your insulting these young ladies when they have worked so hard to—”
“—to learn how to discuss the weather?” Grey suggested, folding his arms across his chest. “Name one practical piece of knowledge your girls acquire.”
“As if you know how to do anything but bellow and order everyone else around. Ha! Who shaved you this morning, Your Grace?”
“I shave myself, Miss Emma.”
“Good for you. How many people helped you dress, excluding the servants who polish your boots?”
Grey narrowed his eyes. “I believe we were discussing the uselessness of this school, not your fascination with my morning toilette.”
“Your Gr—”
“Quiet,” Grey snapped at the solicitor, not bothering to glance in Sir John’s direction.
“You do not fascinate me in the least,” Emma stated in a loud voice. “I am making a point.”
The idea that he didn’t affect her was even more annoying than her absurd stance in defense of females. “And just what do your students learn here that is more significant than the knowledge they could acquire from a fortnight in Whitechapel or Covent Garden? All you do is provide a stamp of respectability for their seductions.”
The solicitor stepped forward. “Your Grace, I must warn you—”
“Get out,” Grey growled.
“I will n—”
“Please, Sir John,” the headmistress said unexpectedly, her voice tight. “I am quite capable of fighting my own battles.” To Grey’s surprise, she escorted the solicitor to the office door and ushered him out.
“Close it.”
“I intend to,” she said, complying. “I really didn’t think you wanted anyone else to overhear your ignorant prattling.”
Despite the bold words and the closed door, Emma was white-faced. If not for the unmistakable fire and fury flashing in her eyes, Grey would have ceased his attack. That realization surprised him. The imminent collapse of his opponent was generally his signal to go in for the kill. “We were discussing the difference between graduates of a finishing school and…actresses, we’ll call them.”
“Why not say what you think? I find innuendo tedious and the forte of simple minds.”
So now he was a halfwit. Grey crossed the room toward her. “Whores, then,” he said distinctly.
“Ha.” Though her cheeks flooded with color, she stood her ground. “You’ve destroyed your own argument again. Obviously, Your Grace, you don’t have enough people around you informing you when you’re not making any sense.”
Grey couldn’t remember the last time anyone had dared insult him so directly. Anger coursed through his veins, accompanied by a darker, equally heated sensation. Good God, he wanted her beneath him. “Pray explain,” he ground out, wondering if she realized just how much peril she was in.
“Gladly. You have several times insisted that the Academy’s only raison d’être is to produce wives, presumably for you and your peers. Men of your station, to be blunt, don’t marry whores. Ergo, my school does not produce whores.”
“A flower, sweetly perfumed or rotting on a trash heap, is still a flower.”
“I pity you if you can’t tell one from the other. A stinking bog and a fertile field are both pieces of dirt, yet I would think you, as a landowner, would find them more different than similar.”
“As if a female would know the difference between mud and cow dung, if not for the smell.”
Emma wrinkled her nose, though he couldn’t be sure whether the expression was for him or for his allusion. “Better than you could tell a whore from a lady, obviously.” She put her hands on her hips.
Grey studied her for a moment, his lust for this assertive woman warring with his exasperation at her for daring to think she could stand toe to toe with the Duke of Wycliffe—though she was making a damned fine show of it. “Care to wager on that?” he asked.
She blinked. “What?”
It was ingenious. The impertinent chit—he’d prove to everyone that she didn’t have the dimmest idea what she was talking about. “I’m talking about making a wager, Miss Emma.”
Her hazel eyes narrowed. “A wager over what?”
“Rent,” he said promptly. The more he thought about it, the more brilliant it seemed. If she thought she had all the answers, she could damned well try to prove it. “If you lose, you pay the new rent. No more arguments.”
“You’re mad,” she said, looking at him warily. “What are you proposing we wager over? I have better things to do than sniff manure.”
He shook his head. “No. Much better than that.” This would need to be official, or she’d find a way to slip out of his grasp before he could make his point. He strode past her to the door and yanked it open. “You—Sir John. Get in here.”
The solicitor practically fell into the room; obviously their conversation had been overheard. Well, that would leave him less explaining to do.
“Humph,” the headmistress snorted, her color still high. “What in the world are you talking about, Your Grace?”
He gestured at the solicitor. “Sit down and take notes.”
“Please stop ordering my solici—”
“Excuse us,” Tristan’s voice came from the doorway, “but I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”
Barely sparing a glance at the Haverly party as they crowded into the room, Grey nudged the solicitor toward the tiny desk’s chair. “Glad you’re here. We’re making a wager.”
“We are not making a wager!”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Why, because you can’t support your silly claims of superiority?”
“Not superiority.” She hesitated, the first time he had seen her struggle to find the right word. “Equality.”
“Excuse us, Grey,” Lady Sylvia said in her silky voice, “but whose equality are we discussing?”
“Miss Emma’s to mine, obviously.” He circled the headmistress, his plans falling into order.
“Surely not.” Alice tittered behind her fan, the expression of innocence on her face ridiculous. He didn’t know why she bothered with it any
longer, unless she hoped to fool some unsuspecting halfwit. “Everyone knows a duke outranks a headmistress.”
“Not that kind of equality,” Emma snapped, obviously so out of patience that she was neglecting her own rules of politeness. “Mental equality.”
And the trap clicked shut. “Then prove it,” Grey murmured, stopping directly before her and holding her hazel gaze.
“How?”
“As I mentioned,” he began, “I’m looking for a more efficient and profitable way to manage Haverly. I propose that you attempt to come up with a better plan than mine.”
“An estate plan,” she said dubiously.
If he didn’t secure her agreement quickly, she would realize he was trying to bully her into a corner, and she would escape. “If you can do it, I’ll pay your damned Academy’s rent, ad infinitum.”
Emma pursed her lips, which made Grey want to kiss them. “All right,” she said slowly, “but I don’t see why I should be the only one to have to prove anything. Otherwise, when I do come up with a better plan than yours, we will simply have to assume that I am more intelligent than you are.”
Uncle Dennis drew in a breath. “Sweet Mary,” he muttered, and Grey distinctly heard Tristan snicker.
Accepting his challenge was one thing; insulting him while doing it was something else. “I don’t think you have a prayer of devising a better plan than mine,” he said.
“Yes, but you’re wrong, Your Grace.”
“I see. What do you suggest, then?”
She looked at him speculatively. “As it happens, I take personal responsibility for a small group of students at this time each year. The topic of this special class is London Social Graces. You seem to have very definite ideas of what makes a young lady successful in London.”
Grey’s chest began to tighten. “And?” he ground out.
“I suggest you attempt to pass on your expertise to my students. Perhaps in ballroom decorum, as that discussion is to begin on Monday, anyway.”
“Excuse me for interrupting,” Tristan said in a choked voice, “but wouldn’t that be rather like putting a fox in charge of a hen house?”
Emma blushed prettily. “His Grace and my students would be well chaperoned, of course.”
A Matter of Scandal Page 5