Let the Lady Decide

by Gemma Blackwood

  "It's none of my business, sir, but there happens to be a side gate just past the apple trees. Should you need to make a quick exit without going through the house."

  "Very kind of you," said James. He fixed his hat back upon his head. Judging by the gardener's knowing expression, he looked half-dead with despair. He strove to regain his customary saunter as he made his way towards the side gate and slipped round to the coach house to claim back Harry's curricle.

  The clatter of the horse's hooves on the street cut through his thoughts, leaving them broken and disjointed.

  Emily's fingers intertwined with his.

  The sunlight sparkling from the tears on her cheeks.

  Her sigh as he pinned up her hair at the ball.

  Her lips.

  Her eyes.

  Blast!

  James refocused his attention on the horses just in time to avoid running over an unfortunate pedestrian.

  Where had he been going? Hyde Park, wasn't it?

  A brisk drive in the rare August sunshine. That would clear these mournful cobwebs from his mind.

  James drove the curricle through the park gates at a merry canter. He nodded briskly to one or two of his acquaintances as he sped past the other carriages.

  How he longed for the countryside! There, he might really let loose!

  Emily's words echoed unwanted through his mind. This is the end of our friendship.

  How could she simply cut him off like that?

  Would she miss him? Did he even want her to?

  What kind of blackguard would wilfully wish pain on the woman he loved?

  James had never been in love before. He had certainly never dreamed of actually telling a woman he loved her. But if he had ever imagined it, he would not have predicted it would end like this.

  You must leave me. Before it drives us both mad.

  Intolerable!

  James realised, too late, that the carriage was coming up to a sharp corner. He seized the reins and tugged the horses around. His pace had grown fast – almost too fast to make it – but at the last moment, the wheels on one side lifting from the ground, the curricle whirled in a wild half-circle and made the turn.

  It would all have been perfectly fine if the Dowager Countess of Ashton's carriage had not been coming the other way.

  James's horses reared up, narrowly avoiding plunging their hooves into Lady Ashton's barouche. The curricle leapt forward on its own momentum, one wheel catching in a ditch.

  The world flipped over. James experience a single, weirdly blissful moment of empty air.

  Then it all, curricle, dignity, hopes and dreams together, came crashing down on his head.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  "Really, James, you've no right at all to stand there with that miserable expression. You're dashed lucky it wasn't a good deal worse." Harry counted off the morning's various losses on his fingers. No, it was not just Harry – when he was striding back and forth and lashing words about in that strident tone, he was more the Duke of Westbourne than James's soft-hearted older brother. "The curricle – ruined. Lady Ashton – scandalised. I wouldn't be surprised if she had to take to her bed thanks to the shock. The horses terrified. Your carelessness condemned throughout the ton! And yet you've not a scratch to show for it. It's a wonder you didn't break your arm – or your head! Therefore," he concluded, slamming his fists down onto his desk, "you ought to think yourself very lucky indeed."

  "I thought it appropriate to appear contrite," said James wryly. "Considering the dressing-down you've given me."

  "Dressing-down? James, I'm glad you're alive! I've seen the damage the curricle took. It's a miracle you survived it." Harry sank down into his tall-backed leather armchair and ruffled a hand through his hair, as he often did when unpleasant thoughts arose. "What on earth possessed you to drive so recklessly in Hyde Park, of all places?"

  "I was...distracted."

  "That's a poor excuse."

  "I was upset." James prayed his brother would not ask him to elaborate as to why. "I wasn't paying attention."

  Harry groaned. "Well, you've thoroughly cemented your reputation as a rogue behind the reins, James. I'm not sure there'll be much salvaging you this Season. You'll have to apologise to Lady Ashton, of course. By all accounts you nearly brought her down with you."

  "Salvaging me?" James repeated, failing to take his brother's meaning.

  "Your reputation. My reputation. James, we are nobility now. We cannot lark about crashing curricles and – and waltzing with women – thinking no-one will notice. Your little scrape will be the talk of the ton, at least until some other scandal comes along. I've half a mind to send you off to Larksley. You don't deserve London, and I am quite certain poor London does not deserve you."

  "Send me away, then," said James bitterly, realising a moment after he'd said it that it would surely mean losing Emily forever. "No – don't send me. I won't go."

  Harry raised an eyebrow. "Something keeping you here, is it, James?"

  "Nothing." He remembered Mrs Wrenn. "Yes, something. Someone."

  Harry sighed. "A woman. I might have known."

  "Susan Wrenn. I promised I would help her." James crossed his fingers behind his back for luck. "In fact, I cannot leave without accompanying her to her lawyers to make sure they have matters fully in hand."

  "Susan Wrenn," Harry repeated. James doubted he believed a word of it. "Very well. You'll take her today. I've half a mind to go with you, but I've affairs of my own to deal with. I'll ask the footmen to report back and tell me where you've been."

  "As if I were a naughty child?"

  "Until you prove to me that you can behave otherwise, yes." Harry tapped his fingers against the desktop. "There's something else, James. I'm no fool. And I'm your brother. You haven't been yourself for weeks. Don't think I haven't noticed."

  James stayed silent. It wasn't that he wanted to lie to Harry. It was simply that he couldn't bear the shame of speaking the truth.

  "If you won't tell me," Harry continued, speaking more gently, "at least write to Mother or William. Tell someone what's troubling you. You know I'd do everything I could –"

  "There's nothing you can do," said James.

  "I am a Duke now, James," Harry reminded him. "We're not the poor boys of Elmston anymore. I have influence. I have –"

  "Not in this matter." It was sad but true. Harry might now be Duke, but the other titled gentlemen of the ton would never forget what his origins had been. Inheritance had dragged him up faster and further than Society approved.

  Why, Emily's own father had reacted so poorly on meeting the new Duke of Westbourne at a banquet at St James's that it was said he could not now bear to hear the Duke's name mentioned at all!

  Only imagine now asking that same man to give Harry's brother Emily's hand in marriage. It was an impossible situation.

  "I'll go and call on Mrs Wrenn directly," said James. "And then I'll closet myself away in my rooms all day. I wouldn't want to overwork the footmen you've set to spy on me."

  "James –" Harry called. James didn't stay to hear his brother's protests.

  Perhaps Harry was right. At least in Larksley he'd be spared any news of Emily's forthcoming marriage to the Marquess. Would it be more painful to be far away, or less?

  He found Mrs Wrenn more than amenable to visiting the lawyer. She had a number of questions she hadn't been quite brave enough to ask by herself.

  "It seems such a dreadful task, going up against a Viscount," she fussed as they sat in the oak-panelled waiting room. The offices were disconcertingly grand. Harry's money had paid for the very best - he wouldn't hear of less.

  "But it is not you alone," James reminded her. "You have all the might of the Duke of Westbourne behind you. And my own might, such as it is."

  "It is plenty," Susan assured him.

  The lawyer's name was Mr Whitbread, a tall, thin man with sharp features. He resembled nothing so much as the point of a powder-haired needle. James hop
ed he was as incisive as his appearance implied.

  "Ah, Mrs Wrenn. I am extremely pleased to meet you at last. Take a seat, do. And this fine gentleman?"

  "I am James Marsden, the man who engaged you." James extended his hand and was pleased to find the lawyer had a firm, warm handshake.

  "Very good, very good. Well, sit down, both of you. I am delighted to tell you that I have good news. In cases of this sort, all too often the end result is the sad realisation that the deceased failed to provide for his family." The lawyer pushed his gold-rimmed spectacles up his nose and nodded to Mrs Wrenn with some satisfaction. "My dear lady, your husband did not leave you destitute. On the contrary, the management of his estates was exemplary."

  Mrs Wrenn opened her mouth to thank him, but what issued forth was a sob. Her face sank into her hands, and she gave herself over to copious weeping.

  "My poor Andrew," she cried. "I never doubted you – never!"

  "There, there," said the lawyer, not at all perturbed. He offered Mrs Wrenn a handkerchief and resumed talking as though she had not dissolved into floods of tears at all. "On first inspection, it's true, his lands did not seem to be profitable. But thanks to the tip-off I received from you, Mr Marsden, about the income from Berkshire, I was able to delve a little deeper into the accounts. If you'll allow me to bore you with the finer details -"

  "Perhaps some other time," said James, with an eye on Susan's shaking shoulders. "I think Mrs Wrenn needs to process the shock."

  "Of course, of course. In that case, all I need is your permission to pursue the Viscount for wilful mismanagement of property and restoration of the funds which are rightfully yours."

  "Can I really do it?" Susan wondered aloud, looking to James for reassurance.

  "Remember you are not alone," he whispered.

  "Then, yes. I will sue the Viscount!" She pressed her hand to her mouth to stem a nervous giggle.

  "Excellent," beamed Mr Whitbread. James wondered how often he had the opportunity to lock horns with a member of the peerage. The man certainly seemed to relish the chance. "I anticipate having the first funds secured for you in a matter of months. Will you be able to manage in the meantime?"

  "She will want for nothing," said James. He knew Harry would not hesitate to help.

  "Then our business is concluded. I will write to you with the particulars so that you may peruse them at your leisure. It is very important, in my business, to keep a written copy of everything." He chuckled. "Something that the Viscount will, no doubt, learn to his cost! Now, have you any more questions?"

  "Not at present," said Susan. "At least, I'm sure I had some, but, now that I know Andrew did not leave me penniless, everything else has flown from my mind."

  "Feel free to write to me should anything occur to you. The Duke of Westbourne has me on a most generous retainer, so there is no concern as to the cost." Mr Whitbread showed them out, pressing yet another gleaming white handkerchief into Mrs Wrenn's hands as he did. James wondered what number of weeping women passed through his offices on a regular basis.

  "I cannot imagine a more satisfactory solution to your troubles," he said, when they were safely ensconced back in Harry's carriage and rattling their way through the London streets. Now that good news had lifted her spirits, he could see that Susan was enjoying the experience of travelling about town in a liveried carriage. She was looking out of the window and even waving to a few passers-by with a beaming smile on her face.

  "Now we must turn our thoughts to your own troubles, my dear Mr Marsden," she said, shooting him a look of intimate understanding. James blanched.

  "You heard about the curricle crash, I assume?" He tried to keep his tone casual. Susan tutted.

  "I am speaking of Emily Albemarle."

  James could not keep the pain from his face. "Nothing to worry about there. Matters have reached their natural conclusion."

  "Oh, my poor Mr Marsden!" Susan's eyes softened with pity. "But I thought, when I saw you dancing together –"

  "That's all done with." James coughed, attempting to hide the strain it was to speak. "Her father has made his views clear on the men she can consider marrying. I am certainly not one of them."

  "And you haven't thought of eloping, as I did?"

  "Thought of it?" James laughed bitterly. "Shall I be honest with you?"

  "Please."

  "The thought consumes me."

  "But you have not acted on it? You and Emily have no plans to go to Gretna Green?"

  "She has put an end to our friendship," James admitted hoarsely. "Don't ask me to tell you anymore. I can hardly speak of it."

  Susan put her hand on his with a sigh of deepest sympathy. "It's for the best. I know better than anyone else the dangers of an elopement. Oh, there's no denying it's romantic at the time, beautifully so... But to be left in a vulnerable position, with no dowry! That is more than you can ask of her."

  "You are right." James ground the palms of his hands into his eyes, trying to stop the pressure that threatened to burst through his skull. "I will not ask her to elope with me. It would mean losing all claim to her fortune. I won't do it to her."

  "What will you do?" asked Susan. "In your position I would never stay in London, myself. When Andrew died, the only thing that brought me solace was leaving behind the places that brought back memories of him. Oh, it was painful, at first, but in the end I think the fresh start did me some good."

  "Harry has asked me to leave London in the wake of that silly business with the curricle."

  "He may not know it, but it's good advice. Your heart will never mend while you are near her."

  "I suppose you're right." James sighed heavily. "Still, the thought of abandoning all hope..."

  "That is exactly what you must do," said Susan. "For her sake as well as your own."

  James made no response. None of the words that came to mind were powerful enough to express the pain he felt. Susan seemed to understand. She kept her hand in his until the carriage made its way through the narrow streets of Seven Dials to deposit her at home.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  "These biscuits are simply divine," said the Marquess. He passed one down to Annabelle, who was sitting in an extremely proper pose with her back as straight as a ruler. Someone must have warned her to be on her best behaviour.

  "They're Italian," Emily answered politely. Silence descended on the drawing room once more.

  Behind the Marquess, the Duchess made an impatient gesture. Emily concealed an inner sigh. Now that the Marquess had commented on the weather, the state of the roads, and the biscuits, it was up to her to come up with the next topic of conversation.

  It was not his fault. Far from it. She knew he was an interesting man who had plenty to say about all manner of subjects.

  Emily's heart was far, far away, and it showed plainly on her face. She had never been good at concealing her emotions. She'd never had the need.

  Now, she was afraid her listlessness was bordering on rude.

  "I was very taken by what you told me about the golden ratio," she said, remembering their conversation in the art gallery. It had been easier to pretend then. Everything had been easier when the dream of James was still in her future...not firmly consigned to the past. "I never thought the principles of mathematics could be applied to paintings."

  "Did drawing never interest you as a hobby?"

  "I'm afraid not. I've always been rather bookish, you see..." Emily broke off hastily, seeing the Duchess's eyes widen in horror. "In the past, I mean. As a child. While other girls were painting pictures, I was studying mathematics and geometry. But of course, those were merely childish pursuits."

  "They don't sound at all childish to me," smiled the Marquess. Curse him for being so charming! It only made her lack of interest seem uncharitable.

  She turned her attention to Annabelle. A child seemed a safer option than a man. "Would you like another biscuit?"

  Annabelle bit her lip. "May I, Papa?"

&nbs
p; "Certainly, if Lady Emily has offered it."

  Annabelle took the biscuit up greedily and stuffed it into her mouth whole. "Fank you," she mumbled, spluttering out a cloud of crumbs.

  "Annabelle!" The Marquess was not quite scandalised enough to keep the laughter from his voice. "What did we discuss this morning?"

  The little girl's face fell. Emily caught her eye, took up a biscuit, and deliberately stuffed the entire thing into her own mouth.

  "It's how they eat them in Italy," she explained, with wide, innocent eyes, although how much of what she said was comprehensible through her mouthful, she had no idea.

  Annabelle burst into a messy fit of giggles. "See, Papa! The pretty lady does it too!"

  "Emily!" gasped the Duchess. Emily covered her mouth as she chewed the remains of the biscuit. She was laughing too much to swallow.

  Oh, but it felt good to laugh! She'd had no cause for laughter since...since...

  No, she was determined not to think of it.

  To Emily's horror, hot tears began prickling at the back of her eyes. She swallowed the biscuit quickly and ducked her head so that the Marquess could not see. "Excuse me..."

  "Well, thank you for a very pleasant visit," said the Marquess, rising to leave. Had he sensed Emily's distress, or was it only the chill radiating from the Duchess's frozen smile? "Come along, Annabelle. We must be off."

  "But we only just got here!"

  "That's what morning calls are, sweetheart. Short but sweet." He bowed to Emily and her mother. "Very sweet. Good day, ladies."

  "Good day," Emily whispered in return. Her throat was burning with embarrassment and sorrow.

  Her mother rounded on her the moment the Marquess was gone. "What on earth do you think you're doing? Anyone would think you were trying to put him off!"

  That was a little close to the truth for comfort. "I wouldn't dream of it, Mama."

  "Thank goodness the Marquess likes children," the Duchess grumbled. "Your behaviour was worse than the little girl's!"

  "Sorry, Mama." Emily stood up. She hoped her mother hadn't noticed the tears about to fall from her eyes. "May I be excused?"