“Another fact about military men I’m sure you already know—once they determine a course of action they are devilish difficult to dissuade! But despite Rob’s intention to take us in, I shall not permit it unless I feel you genuinely agree, not just acquiesce to Rob’s persuasion.”
For the first time Natalie gave a genuine smile. “He does tend to order one about, as if one were a soldier in need of direction.”
Emily laughed. “Indeed! I suspect you’ve already discovered wifely ways to deflect those commands. If necessary, we shall stand firm together on this. I’ll not dissemble—more than anything, I wish my son welcome here. But I’ll not intrude myself—not at the cost of your comfort.”
There, she had said it. What happened next depended on the coolly lovely lady sitting opposite.
Emily made herself wait patiently as Natalie silently gazed at her, apparently pondering her answer.
’Twould be sufficient if Rob acknowledged Drew, Emily thought, invited him to Maxwell’s Rook or the London house upon occasion. She could manage alone—had she not done so all these years?
She closed her eyes and tried to squelch the hope Rob’s rash invitation had engendered that the child-bride who’d been cast off at sixteen might finally come home.
“Auriana—Ari.” She opened her eyes to find her sister-in-law smiling. “I may call you Ari, may I not? Since it seems you will be living with us permanently. And not just to please Robert. Perhaps ’tis foolish for me to welcome into my home a lady so highly esteemed by my husband—and so beautiful into the bargain. But he is right. You are family, you and your son, and with us you must stay.” Natalie held out a hand.
Smiling back tremulously, Emily took it. “Thank you. I hope we will be friends as well. But ’tis enough for you both to acknowledge me quietly. This plan of Rob’s to introduce me—’tis madness! You must help me talk him out of it. You’ve been in society. You know my gaining acceptance would be nowhere as easy as Rob envisions.”
Natalie sighed. “No, not easy. Robert told me your parents are dead. Have you any other family?”
Emily shook her head. “No one else. Since Mama died a year after my marriage, and Papa never relented, he went to his grave leaving any more distant relations thinking I’d died. ’Twas what he told everyone, apparently, after I ran away with Andrew.”
“You have none who could vouch for you, then? Stand with Robert as your sponsor at a presentation?”
“I’m afraid not.”
To her surprise, Natalie threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, dear—’twill be a truly desperate undertaking! A single-handed frontal attack on the ton to shatter opinions, gather support here and reinforcement there—almost like a campaign in the army he so loves.”
Emily nodded. “Exactly what I fear. Except ’tis likely to be your status and reputation under the gun as well as mine. I couldn’t permit you to suffer on my account. No, we must convince him to drop this.”
“Perhaps…” Natalie rested her chin on her hand and looked at Emily, her eyes narrowing. “But I’m not really the pudding-heart I might first have appeared. If you are the lady you both claim you are, ’tis only right you regain your place.
“Besides…” Natalie quirked one eyebrow and grinned, dimples flashing in a mischievous look that gave Emily a glimpse of the charm that had lured her skittish brother-in-law into parson’s mousetrap. “I’m not so sure I wish to discourage him. True, gaining society’s acceptance may be all but impossible. Launching my dazzling sister-in-law into close proximity with single gentlemen, however, one of whom Robert might eventually deem sufficiently wealthy and distinguished to take over her care, might just be the best solution for us all.”
“You think to marry me off?” Emily said with a laugh. “How Machiavellian! But even did I wish to remarry—” she felt a pang and dismissed it “—gentlemen are as concerned about their family’s consequence as ladies. I’ve been a shopkeeper, right there in London! I’m afraid my receiving an honorable proposal is about as likely as my being sent vouchers to Almack’s. And the humiliation to us all should a presentation fail! No, I will not even attempt it.”
“Perhaps it would fail. But think of the benefits to your son should it succeed.”
A protest died on her lips. It was undeniable that a mother returned to the ton, no longer isolated in the shop, would do more to ease her son’s path than any other factor save his recognition by the Maxwell family. The risk of personal humiliation was nothing compared to the gain such acceptance would win Drew.
’Twas her most vulnerable point, and Natalie obviously recognized it. In helping with the presentation, Natalie would be a heroine in her husband’s eyes, championing his brother’s maligned widow and aiding her to make an advantageous second marriage. At worst, she would earn his gratitude by risking personal harm in standing by the outcast. Assuming her husband’s love was more important to her than anything else, as Andrew’s had been for Emily, either way Natalie would gain.
Machiavellian indeed. Emily’s admiration for her sister-in-law’s cleverness and courage ratcheted up another notch. Bowing to force majeure, she said, “I suppose I must reconsider, then.”
“Splendid! I’m sure you’ll not regret it.” Natalie linked her arm with Emily’s. “However, unless we wish to be dragged along with whatever mad scheme Robert devises, we’d best plan a campaign of our own.”
Chapter Fourteen
Wet and weary, in the early evening drizzle a few weeks later Evan finally pulled up his tired mount by London Bridge. He’d left three days ago to ride to the coast and meet Geoffrey Randall, afire with impatience for a firsthand report on all his good friend and assistant had learned in the Peninsula. But Geoffrey never arrived. After waiting a day and interrogating every packet captain who made port, he’d found no trace of the man.
Deeply troubled, he urged his horse onto the bridge. He needed a hot bath, dry clothes and food before he returned to Horse Guards and tried to untangle the puzzle. Had Geoffrey not received his missive? Stumbled on new information too important to leave without pursuing? Or had something more ominous occurred?
Anxious as he was to pursue the problem, with Randall hundreds of miles away the small delay required to refresh himself would make no difference. But as he turned his horse north toward Mayfair, a submerged but ever-present yearning drew him to Emily’s street.
He could ride by—’twas a public road. Filthy and bestubbled as he was, he’d not be tempted to stop in. Not that she’d ever permit that again, anyway.
Yet as he slowed his mount to a walk and saw the familiar landscape silhouetted against the dusky sky, a thrill of anticipation licked through his veins.
It faded as he reined in by the front door. To his surprise, the windows were dark. Curious. He was about to ride off when he noticed through the darkening gloom that the knocker was off the door.
For a moment, shock held him motionless. Could the staff have taken it down to polish? He could not conceive that she would have left London. Where would she go? As far as he knew she had no family, no friends beyond the military wife who’d once stumbled into her shop.
A more unsettling reason for her absence occurred, and he drew in his breath in alarm. Had her dreaded father-in-law finally found her? If the man had carried her off, was it to make amends for his previous ill-treatment—or would he wrest away her son and abandon her, alone and destitute in some distant village?
Early in their liaison, curious about the background of the woman who so captivated him, Evan had pressed Mr. Manners to discover more about her. A short time later the man informed him he had found no aristocrats with the family name of “Spenser”, nor did anyone of prominence in the City recognize the name. He’d offered to dig deeper, but hoping eventually Emily would confide in him, Evan had not pursued the mystery.
Desperate to know she was safe, he wished now he’d persisted. How could he find her?
He might ask Brent her whereabouts—but he’d save that as
a last resort. Gossip might help, he concluded. If Emily’s father-in-law occupied the high position to which she always alluded, his discovering a long-lost grandson would surely elicit talk. Evan needed dinner, anyway, and would just as soon avoid his family and the inevitable inquiries his return would engender. He’d slip home for a quick wash and change of clothes, then proceed to White’s.
Mercifully, none of his close acquaintances were present and Evan was able to dine alone. He could idle about the gaming room for an hour or so, see what he could glean, and then proceed to Horse Guards. Arming himself with a deck of cards, he went in.
Soon after, a group of young dandies entered in a rush of laughter and loud voices. One of the newcomers, a man Evan knew from Oxford, saw him and approached.
“Evening, Cheverley. Haven’t seen you in a dog’s age!”
Over the obligatory handshake, Evan replied, “Family business, Braxton. Dull stuff, I’m afraid.”
“Isn’t it always? Now, me and the bucks—” he grinned and indicated the noisy group now settling around several card tables “—always find some amusement. Say now, did I not read in the Times that you’re getting leg-shackled?”
At Evan’s nod, he continued, “Congratulations, then. My sister’s being fired off this year—you must bring your betrothed to her ball, right?”
“Your sister’s ball ain’t going to be the one to catch,” one of Braxton’s friends remarked as he joined them, bottle in hand. “Everyone’s agog to see the Earl of Maxwell’s little ‘surprise.”’
Braxton held his glass up to be refilled. “Indeed! Now, there’s a story! ’Tis his mistress, I’ll bet—and so I’ve wagered. You stood some blunt yet, Cheverley?”
Listening idly, his eyes scanning the room for more interesting company, Evan replied absently, “Wager?”
“Aye. Haven’t you heard? Seems the old Earl of Maxwell—now there was a bad bargain of a man—and that nasty pup of his, Alastair, both got carried off by a fever. Title fell to the next younger son—Robert, I think the name is. Went haring off to the army a few years back, displeased the old Tartar and got himself disowned. Anyway, the banished son was riveted to some prunes-and-prisms nobody last Season before Maxwell’s honors fell in his lap—”
“But you’re leaving out the best part, Brax,” his friend interrupted. “Not only is Maxwell claiming he’ll sponsor the grandest ball of the season—”
“Stubble it, Wilton, I’m gettin’ to it.” Braxton put up a hand to forestall his friend. “What tears it is the fellow’s also going to present another female, the widow of his younger brother, he claims. And not just any old meek, mild dowd in black. This gel’s reported to be beautiful enough to take the dazzle off every Diamond in this year’s crop. Most incredible of all, though, until a few weeks ago, she was—you’ll never imagine—”
“A shopkeeper!” Wilton inserted triumphantly.
Evan had been half listening, but those words recalled his attention with a start. “What did you say?”
“Unbelievable, ain’t it! But all too true,” Braxton replied. “Why, my own mama’s bought hats at her shop. ‘Madame Emilie’ she was callin’ herself then.”
“Did you ever hear the like!” Wilton exclaimed. “M’father says even old Maxwell, unpleasant as he was, didn’t have this much brass.”
His heart commenced pounding and his head felt so light he wasn’t sure he was hearing correctly. “W-who did you say the lady is?”
“A shopkeeper, of all things! Of course Maxwell’s saying she’s not really a shopkeeper. That she’s—hear this, now—the long-lost daughter of a duke! The Duke of Suffolk, he claims.”
“Some fairy tale, eh?” Wilton scoffed. “Mama knew the old duke, and she said the daughter died years ago. ’Course, the old duke’s dead now, and the new one’s a distant cousin who didn’t grow up with the family, so can’t vouch for the girl. Convenient for her, ain’t it?”
“I still place my money on her being his mistress,” Braxton stated. “Must be some hot bedmate to have him so swoggled he thinks he can perpetrate this outrageous a hoax. And his poor wife! Humiliating, even for a country nobody.”
Evan couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Earl of Maxwell. Disowned brother in the army. Widowed shopkeeper. It all fit—fit too perfectly to be coincidence. It must be true.
Then the last bit of information sank in. Long-lost daughter of the Duke of Suffolk.
Through his numbed brain he tried to recall every scrap of information Emily had ever divulged about her father. That he was wealthy, powerful. That he opposed her marriage to a younger son. That he commanded her absolute obedience and would not tolerate being crossed.
Evan had always assumed the man was some wealthy captain of industry who wished his daughter wed to either an equally rich bourgeois or a nobleman whose family countenanced the match. Yet everything she had told him of her upbringing fit perfectly the image of a duke’s runaway daughter.
That instinctive grace and air of command, too inborn to have been veneered on by some ladies’ academy. Her independence, her fierce refusal to submit to anyone. Even her real name—Auriana Emilie. What English bourgeois counted a French aristocrat among her relatives?
It had all been there, all the pieces, and he too blinded by her current position and his own prejudice to see it. He had agonized over her status, dismissed outright the prospect of marriage. With the daughter of a duke, who from birth had outranked him.
Through the roaring in his ears he heard the conversation continue.
“How he thinks to pass off such an adventuress is beyond belief—” Braxton was saying, “—but you can bet everyone who can wrangle an invitation will be there. Can’t wait to see Sally Jersey and that dry stick Countess Lieven give the filly the cut direct.”
“Aye,” Wilton chimed in. “’Twill be the best show since old Earl Simpson tried to bring his opera singer to Lady Wetherby’s ball. You’re attending of course, aren’t you, Cheverley?”
Speech was still beyond him. Evan merely nodded.
“Come on, Brax, there’s a table getting up. You, too, if you’d like, Cheverley. No? Well, later perhaps.”
Clutching his bottle in one hand and Braxton’s elbow in the other, Wilton led his friend away. “What’s wrong with Cheverley?” Evan heard him say as the two walked off. “Looks devilish queer, don’tcha think? Not sickening with something, is he?”
He was still staring at his trembling hands when the anger hit.
All those weeks they had shared thoughts, dreams, every physical intimacy. He had agonized over the decision to break with her, a break that might have been unnecessary, had he known who she was. He could have held off proposing, begged his mama’s assistance in keeping his vow to Richard by finding some other worthy man to appreciate Andrea’s gentle excellence. He would have tried something, everything, before taking the step that now rendered a union with Emily forever out of reach.
Why had she never told him?
It appeared she had been reclaimed by her husband’s family, would be presented with their backing and surely, eventually, be accepted. Having been a shopkeeper would hurt, that was true. But only the very highest of sticklers were likely to exclude forever the daughter of a duke.
She would be entering the society he frequented. He might see her at any number of routs or dinners or parties.
And the household of the Earl of Maxwell, with her included, would surely be sent an invitation to his wedding.
A short time later he found himself at his office without remembering a step of the way. With steel discipline he forced his mind to the urgent matter of Geoffrey Randall’s disappearance.
Another friend dispatched to the fray of battle while he remained behind. Dear God, don’t let Geoff end up as Richard did.
His stomach soured at the thought and he focused instead on relentlessly examining every shred of information. Hours later, exhausted and disheartened, he had to admit he’d drawn a blank. No one at Horse Guards, noth
ing in any recent communication, gave him any clue to his assistant’s whereabouts.
Finally he gave up. It had, he concluded with bitter irony, been quite an evening. In honor of all he’d learned, he decided to return to White’s, where he immediately ordered a bottle of brandy. And then another and another, until for the first time in the history of his membership, the Earl of Cheverley had to be carried home unconscious.
The morning of Robert’s grand ball Emily sat with Brent in the drawing room of the Maxwell family’s London town house. She still could not quite believe she now resided within the austere marble-fronted walls she had so often this last year hidden in the shrubbery of the park to scrutinize for signs of occupancy.
“Nervous?” Brent interrupted her thoughts. “You shouldn’t be. Rob and his army friends will be there, and me, of course. Not that you’ll have need of our influence. Which,” he added with a self-deprecating smile, “is fortunate since I wield little of it. But the rich and powerful of London have only to see you to recognize the truth of who you are.”
Rising from her armchair, Emily sighed and walked to the window. ‘I wish I might believe it, but I’m afraid I rather think it will be a disaster. Oh, I’ve tried to talk Rob into letting me out of this! But even after we called on my mama’s Aunt Augusta, who made it quite clear that though she admitted us to her drawing room she had no intention yet of acknowledging the connection, he’s refused to let me withdraw. Why can he not see Natalie deserves her own presentation, free of the taint of scandal I bring?”
“Perhaps.” Brent came over to stand beside her. “But having you reside with them without presenting you would seem an admission the family doesn’t really believe you to be Suffolk’s daughter. Better to unite and strike boldly.”
“I suppose. Since Rob’s invited every person of importance in London, they can watch the bold strike fail together,” she added with asperity. “Oh, I care not for myself! Rob’s sponsorship alone will be enough to secure Drew’s future, and as for me—I’d hardly weep over rejection by a society I’ve never known or needed. But Natalie…”
A Scandalous Proposal Page 19