Emily's Beau

by Allison Lane

  “You also don’t want her to think you are putting on airs. We should strive for elegance, not ostentation. Do you wish to court comparisons to the Regent’s extravagances?”

  “Of course not. But—”

  “Leave everything to me, Mama. I won’t disappoint you.”

  Emily stifled a sigh. Lady Hughes was noticeably weaker than when they had arrived in London. Her swoons occurred more often, and swollen feet made walking difficult. Her color was worse as well, her face so yellow it drew comments.

  It made Emily feel guilty for all the times she’d suspected her mother of exaggerating her illness to keep Emily at home. What difference would it have made had she reached London sooner? Her dreams would still have been exposed as fantasy. Jacob would still have been tied to another. She might have avoided meeting Harriet, but Charles would still have offered out of pity. It—

  “Lady Sophie has arrived,” announced the butler from the doorway.

  “I will join her downstairs.” Emily patted her mother’s hand. “Stop fretting, Mama. We will finish this when I return.”

  Without waiting for a response, she picked up her pelisse and headed out for yet another shopping expedition. Matrons wore different clothing than innocents in their first Season.

  * * * *

  “I barely escaped without Harriet,” Sophie complained as they climbed into the Inslip carriage.

  “Again? I thought Miss Beaumont had her under control.”

  With a clatter of wheels, the carriage rocked into motion.

  “She does, but that doesn’t prevent Harriet from wanting more clothes. You would think she’d been deprived for her entire life.”

  It was on the tip of Emily’s tongue to say, she was. But she didn’t want to talk about Harriet. A fortnight of rarely seeing her had been pure bliss. It was wonderful that her new status took her places Harriet wasn’t invited.

  “I told her to talk to Jacob if she needed more clothes,” continued Sophie. “And speaking of Jacob, what happened between him and Charles?”

  “I know of nothing. Why?”

  “Jacob actually ducked into Michelle’s Millinery yesterday when he spotted Charles approaching.”

  “That’s odd,” admitted Emily. Jacob’s refusal to take a mistress meant he never had to clothe one, so he had no business in a hat shop. But his actions fit her other observations. Charles avoided Richard. Jacob avoided Charles. Something was terribly wrong with the Beaux.

  “Has Charles said anything?” asked Sophie.

  “Not a word. Nor has Richard, and if something were wrong, he would surely know. He spent the afternoon with Jacob just yesterday.”

  “But not last evening.”

  “Not that I know of. Jacob wasn’t at the Hartford rout while we were there. They might have met later, but I wouldn’t know about that. Richard is still abed.”

  “There is definitely a problem,” swore Sophie. “I talked to my maid last night – she steps out with Charles’s footman.”

  “So he said.” He’d decided that Sophie had learned of his intentions because the footman listened at keyholes.

  Sophie nodded. “She claims that Charles goes out only to the Foreign Office or to escort you. He sees no one else and accepts calls only from the builder working on your house.”

  “That’s odd,” she repeated. The house should be a minor matter, since all they were doing was refurbishing three rooms.

  “Very odd. He even turned Richard away twice.”

  “Uh-oh.” But this explained Charles’s tension. Expecting a confrontation, he had fallen into his old habit of grousing at everyone when he was at odds with his friends.

  Since Charles had been morose for a fortnight, the quarrel must have occurred before the Inslip ball. Jacob had also been strained that night. He had attended to hide their falling out from society’s prying eyes, but had left at the first opportunity.

  Idiots! All three of them.

  Heaven only knew what silliness was causing trouble this time. There had been other instances, all difficult for innocent bystanders. Richard had broken from the group one year to cover embarrassment that he lacked funds to attend the Newbury Races. Weeks of tension passed before they settled the problem. A few years later, he’d rescued the Beaux from a more serious rift when Jacob and Charles had bid against each other for something – she’d never learned exactly what. Charles won, but Jacob accused him of cheating. Competition gave way to fury. Harsh words ended in accusations that might have led to a duel if Richard hadn’t suggested that the two pay for the item jointly, then donate it to the British Museum. Friendship was more important than ownership.

  This quarrel would be equally silly, though it seemed Charles was the latest culprit – why else would he refuse to see Richard? And she feared that Harriet might be involved. Harriet did not understand the Beaux and was too selfish to share Jacob with anyone.

  “I have to figure this out,” declared Sophie. “Charles has been miserable lately. Their friendship is too important to let it die.”

  “I’ll talk to him.” Now that she knew his melancholy arose from an argument with Jacob instead of dissatisfaction with her, the words would be easy.

  “Thank you, Emily. The question will be better coming from you.”

  Emily nodded as they entered Bond Street, then changed the subject to fashion. She should have known that Charles was brooding about something besides her – would have known if she hadn’t let Harriet’s snide remarks erode her confidence.

  Perhaps the future was not as dark as she’d feared.

  * * * *

  Jacob stared blindly at the report in his hand. Lords would soon open the debate on building new churches – so many people had left the countryside to find work that several hundred new parishes were needed. Parliament’s problem was deciding how many, for the trend would likely continue long into the future.

  A future without Emily. And without Charles.

  It was harder to avoid them than he’d expected. He could skip social gatherings and stay in his study instead of visiting White’s, but Mayfair was small enough that merely stepping outside could bring him face to face with acquaintances – he’d barely avoided Charles on Piccadilly yesterday. Yet staying home wasn’t a permanent answer. Avoiding the clubs kept him from his other friends.

  Then there was Richard. Their meetings were strained, for Jacob had to retain strict control lest he reveal too much. If Richard started asking questions, he would have to cut that connection, too. Richard might be lighthearted, but he had the tenacity of a mongoose. Once he went after something, he never quit.

  So far, Jacob had steered their conversations onto innocuous subjects, but Richard suspected something was wrong and might well bring Charles to one of their meetings to help ferret out the problem. Walking out on them would solve nothing. So he might lose Richard’s friendship, too.

  He forced his eyes back to his notes, but Emily’s face hovered over the page, eyes alight as they’d been at the Hartleigh ball. Every time he recalled how happy Charles made her, his own pain deepened.

  Maybe he should abandon London immediately instead of waiting until Parliament adjourned. His voice would matter little in the upcoming debate, for Canterbury had all the votes he needed.

  Setting aside his notes, he fetched the brandy.

  He would do it – the moment he settled Harriet, which could be any day now. If only Barnes accepted her…

  Brandy was a mistake. It relaxed him, freeing memories he’d tried to forget – Emily racing across a meadow, determined to reach the stream before the boys did … Emily knocking his hat off with a green apple, revealing her presence in the tree above him … Emily’s eyes aglow as she waltzed around Lady Inslip’s ballroom after her betrothal announcement…

  “Stop this maudlin pining,” he snapped, even as his hand poured another glass. “You lost. Unless you want to court dishonor, you must put her behind you.”

  * * * *

  Richard lef
t Emily with Lady Inslip, then departed the ball. He was only there because Charles had sent word at the last minute that he could not escort Emily after all.

  Richard wanted to know why. He’d had enough evasions. Emily’s wedding was only a week away. If there was trouble between the two, he would step in and stop it. It was time for the truth.

  Two hours later, he found Charles in a gaming hell on Jermyn Street. It was not a place he’d ever expected Charles to frequent, but neither of his friends was behaving normally of late.

  Nor was Emily.

  He’d returned home the night before to hear heartrending sobs emanating from her room. It had taken tremendous effort to stay outside rather than rush in and demand answers.

  But her tears were the last straw. She had changed since arriving in town, and not for the better. Her explanation was patent nonsense.

  She had eagerly anticipated this Season, fairly dancing with excitement when she arrived in town, her laughter filling the house, her enthusiasm infectious.

  Six weeks later, she never smiled. Her shoulders seemed to slump even when she was standing erect. Instead of bringing sunshine to any room she entered, she brought gloom.

  At first he’d thought Harriet was to blame. Though the girl was exotic, with enough sensuality to incite lust in a corpse, an hour of acquaintance had revealed a sharp tongue and selfish nature, killing his interest. But he had no doubt that she’d turned her vitriol on Emily. The girl was a schemer. So he’d applauded moving Harriet elsewhere, hoping the change would restore Emily’s spirits.

  But it hadn’t. Nor had her betrothal. If anything, she was worse, as evidenced by last night’s tears. He feared she did not want to wed Charles. So why the devil had she accepted him?

  He’d paced his room for hours, but it wasn’t until dawn that he’d found a possible explanation.

  Em had always insisted on joining the boys for what she called adventuring. Whenever he was home on breaks, she pestered him for tales of school. When Brummell had coined the sobriquet The Three Beaux, the name had sparked her imagination, igniting an almost obsessive need to be part of the group.

  Accepting Charles would accomplish that – but it was a poor excuse for marriage.

  He also wondered if the ridiculous rift between Charles and Jacob had something to do with Em. Her attention had always sharpened when he mentioned Jacob. But if competition between the two had tied her to the wrong man…

  He couldn’t imagine anyone fighting over his sister, especially those two. Yet he could not deny that something was seriously amiss. It was time to learn what it was.

  “How about a hand of piquet?” he asked Charles now. His friend was leaning over the hazard table watching Ardmore’s throw.

  Charles jumped, spilling wine as he trod on Ardmore’s foot.

  Ardmore yelped.

  “What?” asked Charles, ignoring glares from several players.

  “Cards. Join me for a hand.”

  Denial hovered on Charles’s lips, but he could not refuse without drawing comment. He finally shrugged. “Why not? The dice aren’t falling my way tonight.”

  Charles had never been one to bare his soul, a tendency worsened by his work at the Foreign Office. So Richard kept the conversation light while they played out the first hand. Ignoring that Charles neither mentioned Emily nor asked why he was here, Richard discussed Glendale’s death two days earlier, laughed over Connoly’s embarrassing fall from his horse, and pondered the effect a wet spring would have on the crops. He also kept Charles’s glass full, occasionally emptying his own into it when Charles wasn’t looking.

  Two bottles of brandy later, Charles was misplaying cards on every hand. He’d unbuttoned his waistcoat to counter the heat and was sprawled precariously half out of his chair.

  “Have you seen Jacob lately?” Richard asked as he shuffled the deck. “He hasn’t been around much in recent days.”

  “No.” Charles shuddered. “Well, once. Ducked out of sight.”

  “Who did?”

  “Him. Can’t blame him.” He reached for his glass, but misjudged the distance, knocking it to the floor.

  “Why would he run?” demanded Richard, handing him his own glass.

  Charles drained it. A drop rolled down his chin when he hiccuped.

  “Why?” repeated Richard, hoping he hadn’t pushed Charles into unconsciousness.

  “Hates me. Can’t blame him.”

  “What happened?”

  Charles opened his mouth, closed it, then shrank into himself. Every trace of color drained from his face. His hand shook, setting off larger tremors that knocked him from his chair.

  Shocked, Richard pulled him up and dragged him outside. “We need to talk. Now!” he added when Charles balked. His coach waited across the street. Bundling Charles inside, he slammed the door.

  “No more running,” he snapped. “What the devil is going on? You’re a wreck. Jacob is so tense he will shatter at a touch. I can’t believe you are acting like this.”

  “Harri—” He stopped, gagging.

  Richard fished out the chamber pot he kept under the seat for just such occasions. He waited until Charles had cast up the second bottle of brandy, then returned to his questions.

  “What about Harriet?”

  “I-I seduced her at Mother’s ball.” He was shaking again.

  “The night you announced your betrothal to my sister?” His fist slammed into Charles’s jaw. No wonder Emily cried herself to sleep.

  “I don’t know what came over me,” swore Charles, making no attempt to defend himself. Tears streamed down his face. “I can’t stand her.”

  “What happened?” Charles was so haggard, Richard stifled his fury.

  “I drank too much,” he mumbled. “She helped me upstairs. The next thing I knew, I was ravishing her.”

  “So that’s why Jacob is so upset.”

  “Maybe— I don’t know. I wrote, asking him to call, but he never answered. I haven’t talked to him in two weeks. But he must know, because he’s avoiding me. Every time he sees me, he runs away. Why would he unless he fears he might kill me if he gets close?”

  It made sense. Jacob had a ferocious temper. Whenever it started to slip, he hibernated until he had it under control. “Harriet probably told him. She must have told Emily, too. She’s been upset.”

  “My God!” Charles turned green and lunged for the chamber pot. By the time he surfaced, he looked at death’s door. “I never meant to hurt Em. You have to believe that.”

  Richard nodded.

  “Harriet should never have been allowed in town.”

  “Agreed. But she is not your problem.”

  “Still is,” slurred Charles. “I wasn’t her first.”

  “Good God!” He stared. “Does Jacob know?”

  “Have to tell, but couldn’t put in letter…”

  Of course he couldn’t, admitted Richard as shudders wracked Charles’s body. What a coil! It was a wonder Charles could function at all. He might flirt with great skill and hide behind a façade of gaiety, but inside was a deep core of honor that must be shrieking.

  Damn Harriet. And to think he’d welcomed her into his home.

  “Stop blaming yourself,” he said at last. “It isn’t your fault.”

  “Weren’t you listening? I bedded—”

  “Yes, but you would never have done it without help. Not even in your cups. Think! Harriet is utterly selfish. You proved she’s also experienced. So why did she help you upstairs?”

  Charles’s eyes widened.

  “Exactly. She deliberately seduced you, probably to hurt Em.”

  Charles groaned.

  “But I have to know how susceptible you were. Do you love Emily?”

  “I thought I did.”

  “Thought?”

  “I must. I have to. I’ll treat her well, I promise. But—” He rubbed his hands over his face. “Kissing her is like kissing my sister.”

  “Good God.”

  �
��I don’t know what to do. Everything was fine until that night. Wonderful. Then—” He groaned, hiccuping several times before he continued. “I have to revive that spark. I have to. It isn’t fair.” Words gushed forth like a spring flood, detailing his growing fear that he would never be able to recapture the love he’d felt only a fortnight earlier. Every day was worse as self-loathing assaulted his senses, eroding his confidence and adding to his fears.

  What a mess, thought Richard as he hauled Charles up to his rooms. He could not let Emily wed a man who couldn’t love her, yet breaking the betrothal would ruin her in the eyes of the world. She didn’t have the credit to jilt a marquess’s son with impunity.

  Then there was Harriet.

  He shook his head as he turned toward Hawthorne House. Harriet would have grabbed the first opportunity to tell Emily about Charles’s advances – which would explain her tears. What she hoped to accomplish by her cruelty, he didn’t know. But he must stop her. It was time she left town.

  Jacob was home. The butler tried to turn him away, but Richard refused.

  “This is an emergency,” he vowed, brushing past the servant. “I haven’t time to cater to his megrims. Is he in the study?”

  Giving the man no chance to reply, he hurried up the stairs.

  Jacob was staring into the fire, an empty bottle on the floor, a nearly full one at his elbow. He raised bleary eyes, then shrugged and looked away.

  Richard sighed. At least Jacob was already well into his cups, which would make his job easier. Jacob was too good at keeping secrets. That he was drinking alone indicated serious trouble.

  Half an hour and three glasses of brandy later, Jacob had turned maudlin. “Ladies make no shensh,” he slurred, filling his glass. “You think you understand them, then they do something you don’t expect.”

  “Like Emily?” Richard dared.

  “Szactly. She always liked me, szo why’d she accept Charles?”

  “She liked all of us.”

  “Not like that. Special spark. Taste never did go away…”