Perhaps it was time to approach her parents for the money.
Emma stuffed the bill in her pocket. “Opportunity is missed by people in our society because they undervalue a person in skirts.”
* * *
Emma swept into the Duchess of Langham’s salon, ready to discuss her plans of creating a bank with her mother. With a glance, she stopped. “What’s happened?”
Her mother’s normally vibrant face was pale, while her cerulean-blue eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Her father placed his teacup on the table beside him and shifted to his feet. His forehead crinkled into neat rows of lines.
“Hello, Puss. How’s my prettiest daughter today?” Her father delivered a hint of a smile.
“Wonderful.” She reached up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek, then crouched in front of her mother. She wouldn’t move from this spot until she discovered what trouble plagued her parents. Taking her mother’s cold hands in hers, Emma leaned forward and delivered another kiss. “What is it?”
“Oh, sweetheart, there’s no reason for alarm. I received a note from Blanche this morning.” Her mother tried to smile as if nothing was amiss. Her effort failed miserably.
“Is she all right?” Her mother’s best friend from childhood had married a beast of a man who refused to let her come to London. The Earl of Chelston chose to keep his wife at his ancestral seat while he openly flaunted his mistress in London. If allowed to make an appearance in town, the countess was forced to sleep in a guest bedroom while his mistress occupied the Countess of Chelston’s suites.
Some men were nothing more than selfish beasts, concerned only with their own pleasure. Lord Chelston, the perfect example of a horrid fiend, provided another reason to escape the marriage trap.
Her mother pressed her eyes closed as if trying to erase what she’d read. “Blanche is looking forward to our visit. Apparently, Chelston was drunk and…”
“Is she hurt?” Emma stood with clenched fists and faced her father. This was further proof that every woman deserved—and required—security from a husband’s irrational binges.
“No, sweetheart. He said some hateful things, and Blanche is naturally quite upset. Tell us of your morning.” Her mother tried to appear interested, but her eyes told another story.
Emma scrunched her nose. “I went shopping with Daphne for pink stockings, but that can wait until later. How long will you stay at Lady Chelston’s?”
Her father scooped her mother’s hand in his and pressed a gentle kiss across her knuckles. He took the seat beside her. “Three days, then we’ll return to London before we head to Falmont. The soonest we can leave is the day after tomorrow. I want the family to gather tomorrow for dinner.”
“I look forward to it.” A shot of excitement quickened the beating of her heart. “Should you cancel next week’s party?”
“We’ll only be gone a few days. Next week’s entertainment schedule is too important to cancel.” Her mother swallowed. The effort cleared some of the worry from her face. “Your father and I have something important we want to discuss with you.”
“Lord LaTourell will join us before Lady Session’s soirée next week,” he announced. “He wants to discuss your future.”
The air escaped from her lungs faster than an elephant’s stomp on her chest.
Precisely what she wanted to do with his proclamation—stomp on it. She struggled to take a deep breath. Control was the key to surviving this skirmish, and she fought to remain calm. “I don’t want to marry.”
She couldn’t think of marriage now. She’d readily agree LaTourell was nice enough, though somewhat turgid. His redeeming grace was his three sisters, who were everything lovely. However, the inevitable state of holy matrimony with anyone reminded her of a dose of cod liver oil. Her skin crawled with the notion that she’d be saddled with a husband for a lifetime, or heaven help her, eternity.
No question, eternity with any man was entirely too long.
“I’ll never want to marry.” Her heartbeat sped into a rhythm that rivaled a rabbit’s jagged sprint through a forest.
“Your mother and I were under a different presumption.”
As were the majority of people in London. The betting books at the exclusive gentlemen’s club, White’s, favored the Earl of LaTourell as most likely to win her hand. Fools disguised as gentlemen would soon part ways with their money.
“Emma, we’ve been lenient. It’s past time.” Her father softened his voice. “Come now, a marriage to Lord LaTourell would be the match of the Season.”
“We’ve already extended the invitation.” Her mother chimed in her agreement. “Dearest, this isn’t unexpected.”
She pressed her lips together and walked to the window overlooking the grounds of Langham Park. She shuttered inwardly. She knew what was coming next.
“Emma,” her mother scolded in the voice she always used when they discussed this topic. “Many couples aren’t comfortable with each other at the beginning. You could learn a great deal about marriage if you’d observe Claire and Pembrooke. Their marriage had an inauspicious start, but now, they’re ideal partners for each other.”
She forced a demure smile to her face, then pivoted on one heel. Marriage left a woman vulnerable. “I have observed the lessons well. Most married women lose the ability to move, think, and act once the signatures are dry in the marriage register.”
Her father’s jaw tightened. “Your mother and I don’t have that type of marriage. Do you think I’d allow you to enter into such a union?” He was practically shouting. “It’s time to give serious thought about your future.”
Her mother placed her hand on his forearm in an attempt to calm the storm. “Sebastian.”
“I don’t want the decision made for me.” She crossed her arms over her chest in a move to convince them her reasoning was sound. “It should be my choice.”
Prudence dictated she keep her opinion to herself, but she highly doubted there was a man out there she’d be willing to sacrifice her freedom for.
“Choosing a husband isn’t like a visit to the circulating library and browsing the selections.” Her father’s face flushed with a color reminiscent of a bullfinch’s breast. “You shall marry. Sooner rather than later.”
Her mother tried again to diffuse his temper. “This is not the time to bring up the subject. I should have never mentioned Blanche.”
“I have other aspirations.” Emma’s voice was courteous, but she didn’t hide the strength in her convictions. Absolute silence descended around the room. “I’ve thought about how I want to live my life and what would make me happy. I want to start a bank for women run by women, a financial institution that recognizes the distinct circumstances that women face.”
“What?” Her mother’s soft gasp shattered the tenuous peace in the room.
“Emma.” Her father sighed and shook his head. “Why am I not surprised?” He exhaled and then strolled to the tea tray and selected a raspberry tart. “I grant you this. It’s an interesting concept. But, why?”
That one simple question represented far more than his interest in what she proposed. It was the first volley in their engagement. Tall, with chestnut hair streaked gray at the temples, he could be intimidating. She recognized his easy posture and the slight hint of indifference he exuded when he was about to obliterate an argument.
Emma was prepared. She’d observed and learned from the best—her father. She mimicked his stance. “Think of it. How progressive would it be if the Duchy of Langham backed an enterprise designed to help women better their lives?”
“Would you allow men to conduct their business there if they requested it?” Her father gracefully sat beside her mother. Nonchalantly, he placed his arm on the back of the sofa. He reached for one of her mother’s blond curls and twirled it in his finger. Immediately, her mother leaned against him, a move designed to exhibit they were a united force.
Emma matched her father’s dissembled ease and sat across from her parents. “No.
This would be an exclusive establishment. Think along the lines of a gentlemen’s club—a private bank for the women of London.”
“Intriguing concept.” He rested his ankle across the other leg and contemplated her.
“Would you manage it yourself?” her mother asked. “I suppose Claire and I could lend some assistance.”
Emma inhaled at her mother’s acquiescence. The offer to help meant she thought the idea had merit. With her mother on her side, her father would capitulate in no time.
Her father drummed the fingers of one hand against his knee. “Before we go any further, let’s discuss capital. How much and where would you acquire the funds?”
The startling blue of his eyes pierced her gaze, signaling the inevitable paring of the argument into layers. Her brothers, McCalpin and William, referred to them as “shreds,” but Emma had confidence she’d survive the skirmish.
She clasped her hands in her lap in the perfect pose to demonstrate nonchalance, as if her father queried the weather. “I’d hoped that I might borrow ten thousand pounds from you or from my dowry since it won’t be needed. I’ve estimated I’d be able to repay the loan within—”
“Your dowry,” her mother exclaimed as she sat on the edge of the sofa. “Those monies are for your financial security later on.”
Her father uncrossed his legs and rested his elbows on his knees as he considered Emma. “You’d rather operate this business in lieu of marriage I take it?”
“Yes,” she answered without any hesitation.
“Puss, I can’t help but think this is tied directly to your grief for Lena.” All his earlier detachment dissolved in a vat of disquiet.
Emma straightened in her seat. “Well … yes and no. Certainly, I want to help other women escape the same circumstances. When hardworking women find their luck fickle, I want to provide resources to help them reestablish their lives. Just today, I met a young viscount’s sister who was desperately seeking funds for the maintenance of their estate.”
“Really, who?” her father asked.
“Miss March Lawson. Her brother is a boy, and Miss Lawson has taken all the responsibility of his viscountcy. But another reason for the bank is that I plan to use part of the profits to pay you back and the other to bring Aulton to justice.”
Suddenly, her father and mother stood.
“Absolutely not,” her mother cried.
“I forbid it,” her father bellowed.
They both spoke in unison. Their harsh reprimands reverberated throughout the room, even making the tea in her china cup quake.
But she wasn’t as delicate as a cup of tea and stood in answer. “If not me, then who?”
Her father studied the rug as if he could divine the appropriate response in the red and blue oriental patterns. Tenderly, he took her mother’s hand in his.
Emma expected her father to speak, but it was her mother. “My love, this is not your responsibility. It’s Lord Sykeston’s.”
“He’s fighting in France. How can Lena’s brother accomplish anything from there?” Emma paced in an effort to stem her outrage at the injustice of it all. Jonathan Eaton, the Earl of Sykeston, was her brother Will’s age and had left for France shortly after Lena married.
Her father stepped forward and took her hands in his, effectively halting her strides. “Your mother’s correct. It’s Sykeston’s concern. For us to step in is an insult.”
“Insult?” She did nothing to hide the amazement in her voice.
“Emma, no.” Her father’s hand cut through the air as if he’d brook no more opposition. “Your mother and I are aware you’re hurting, but this isn’t your fight.”
“What if the husband you choose for me is unkind or cruel? What would you do?” Emma didn’t hide the challenge in her voice.
“I’d tear the bastard apart.” Her father’s answer was a promise, bluntly spoken.
“What if it was too late?” she pressed.
Her father exhaled, the redness in his face receding. “Sweetheart—”
“I’m not a woman who wants to marry.” At one time, she’d dreamed of having a marriage like her parents’ union. The love they held for each other was obvious. They listened to each other’s opinions on everything from agriculture, estate management, even politics.
However, her fantasy had dwindled quickly with her disappointing Seasons. Year after year, the eligible men of the ton proved their conventionality. They all adhered to the provincial concept of how a proper wife should conduct herself. Not one seemed able or willing to accept a woman as an equal partner. But the truth of Lena’s marriage was the final blow. She vowed to live on her own terms without answering to anyone. She had too many important things to accomplish, namely, helping women flourish and prosper in lives that were safe. Only then could they pursue their dreams and succeed. Her own personal goal was to find a way to make Aulton pay. With what she’d seen of Miss March Lawson today, her business would be a resounding success.
“Emma, love, we won’t force you into making any uncomfortable decision. But we want you happy and secure in your life.” Her mother’s voice had returned to its normal soothing tone. “Promise me you’ll keep an open mind about next week’s party.”
“I agree with your mother. Don’t make any rash judgments.” Her father’s tone deemed the subject closed. “We only want what’s best for you.”
She groaned under the weight of her frustration.
She didn’t have time for marriage. Nor did she have time for Somerton and his threat to discover her plans from Mr. Goodwin. She turned all her focus to Portsmouth, but Somerton invaded her thoughts once again.
It would be her luck he’d stick his perfect nose in her business once again. If he thought to stop her from traveling south, she’d squash him like a rotten apple on the road.
Chapter Five
After finishing at Goodwin’s, Nick started his morning as he did every day when in London. He reviewed correspondence, read the information provided by his long list of informants, and studied ships’ manifests against his warehouse inventories. The fire chased away the morning chill, and a cozy warmth filled his study. He hadn’t moved in over four hours and rose to stretch his legs.
“Pardon me, my lord. The Marquess of Pembrooke to see you.” His butler Hamm clucked his familiar disapproval. “You failed to eat last night. I’ll prepare a tray.”
“Thank you.” Who needed a wife when there was Hamm? “Go ahead and send him in.”
He stole a quick glance at the ever-increasing pile of correspondence and reports on his desk. Another unopened note from his father, the Duke of Renton, protruded from the stack as if begging for his attention. Nick picked it up and threw it into the blazing fire like he’d done with all the rest. It wasn’t worth the effort to watch it burn—or read it. Normally, the missives from his father arrived monthly. Now, their frequency had increased to weekly.
“Good morning, Somerton.” Alex strolled into the room. The marquess was Nick’s business partner, but more importantly, he held the distinction of being Nick’s closest friend. After his father had cut him off, Nick had struggled financially to complete his university studies, but the provost had allowed him to tutor in lieu of tuition. One evening, Alex had discovered him weak with a raging fever in the dormitory stairwell. After helping him to bed, Pembrooke had summoned a doctor, then insisted Nick take a small sum of money. They’d been friends since.
Alex sat and propped one leg over the arm of a chair.
“Tell me, what do I owe for the pleasure of your company?” Nick broke away from his desk and poured the customary two cups of coffee.
“I’m here to extend an invitation to dinner at Langham Hall tomorrow. It’s the family. Emerge from your dark vault and enjoy yourself for a couple of hours.”
Nick flinched as he brought over the coffee.
“Both Claire and I worry about you constantly hiding in this house.” Alex paused before continuing the often-repeated lecture. “You hardly ever s
eek company except for us. You’ve got to leave this haunt. You deserve a little comfort, a partner.”
Nick turned from Alex and stared into the fire. To contain his ire, he counted to five. He had his whole life planned, and it didn’t include needing anyone, particularly a wife. The companionship he received from Alex and his family was enough.
His attention reverted to his friend. “I’m elated you’ve found true happiness with your marchioness, but don’t mistake your road to marital bliss as the only way to find fulfillment. I’m a different beast.”
Alex took a sip, then drained the rest and set his cup down. “Don’t let your father’s vitriol color your actions now.”
“Pembrooke,” Nick warned. He stiffened at the suggestion his father still mattered in his life. “He has no influence.”
“We both know different. When he cut you off without a shilling, it changed your life.” Alex shook his head.
“I’m satisfied. I have everything I need.” Nick picked up a prospectus and sat down. He hoped the subtle hint would convince Pembrooke to depart or at least to change subjects.
Alex drew a deep breath. “I’ve never understood your father. You did what any honorable man would have done. You signed for a gambling debt to keep a man, a friend no less, from getting killed.”
“Unfortunately, Lord Paul never repaid me. In my father’s eyes, I was and still am a spendthrift. That’s my sin.” Nick waited for the inevitable bitterness to bite him at the mention of his father. He wasn’t disappointed. Even this many years later, dwelling on the betrayal shot anger through Nick. He tightened his hands on the prospectus and longed for an extended session at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon. The fact his father blamed him for Lord Paul’s gambling loss and accused Nick of wasting two hundred pounds only added suffocating layers to the betrayal. After Lord Paul’s perfidy, Nick wouldn’t allow anyone to take advantage of him ever again. And after his father’s desertion, Nick had learned to count on no one but himself. Alex was the exception. His friend had proved himself loyal time and again as evidenced by today’s stalwart defense of Nick’s actions.
The Bride Who Got Lucky Page 6