by Anne Gracie
People stopped to watch, speculating as to what was going on.
“Do they have to brandish those damned pistols?” Cal asked. “They’re women and children, for God’s sake. You’ll terrify them.”
“I want them terrified and for people to see it,” Radcliffe responded coolly. “Gimble needs to know we’re serious.” He glanced at Cal. “They won’t be hurt, if that’s what you’re worrying about. This is theater, not war. The more people see this, the more pressure Gimble will be under to rescue them.”
Theater or not, Cal didn’t like the use of women and children. But that was why Radcliffe had the job he had. He had to be ruthless. He operated on the demands of the larger picture, where individuals didn’t matter, as long as the greater good was achieved.
Cal, after half a lifetime at war, had decided that individuals mattered. It was why he’d never make a general.
He watched as the women were led from the house, red-faced and weeping. One of the women was visibly pregnant. Three children followed, a young boy of about eight or nine leading them. He was thin as a lath, with short, ragged hair from which his ears stuck out woefully. He held the hand of a little boy about four years old and carried a toddler, a little girl. The two small ones were sobbing, but the boy was silent and grim-faced. His eyes burned dark and intense, stark against his pale young face.
Cal ached for the lad.
Radcliffe’s men led them into a waiting high-barred cart. Ignoring the shouts from the gathering crowd, they loaded the women and children into it—the boy handing his siblings up himself, refusing the aid of the soldiers.
“It looks like a damned tumbril,” Cal muttered. The women clutched at the bars; the little ones cried out piteously. The crowd was turning ugly and started pushing at the barrier of Radcliffe’s men.
“Theater,” Radcliffe reminded him. “If they look as though they’re going to their execution, all the better.” His head man glanced at Radcliffe, who gave a crisp nod. The cart rumbled off. The women wailed, the children screamed, the crowd shouted.
Cal turned away from the sight in disgust. It was not at all how he’d envisaged the conclusion of his hunt for the assassin. As he turned, he met the accusing gaze of the drunk former sharpshooter across the other side of the road.
A night in the cold rain seemed to have sobered him up a little. He gave Cal a filthy look, then spat in his direction. Then he lifted his gin bottle, drank deeply and staggered away.
Cal felt like doing the same.
Chapter Eighteen
A woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR
Emm and the girls arrived home around noon. They’d spent a delightful few hours exploring the London shops and had decided to go back to Ashendon House, have a quick luncheon and then visit the Tower of London. It was their first time in the great city—even Emm had never been there before—and they were determined to see all the famous sights.
The Tower was first on the list. Rose wanted to see the grim place where so many famous people had met their doom—she liked grisly stories—while Lily and Emm were keen to see the Crown Jewels. George, once she’d heard about the Royal Menagerie, was eager to see the exotic animals.
“You have a visitor, my lady,” the butler, Burton, murmured as he opened the door for them.
“Really? Who is it?” Emm couldn’t imagine who it could be. She didn’t think she knew anyone in London and, more to the point, nobody knew she was here.
“Lady Salter, Lord Ashendon’s aunt. She’s waiting in the green sitting room.”
“Oh, what a lovely surprise.” Emm handed him her hat and glanced in the mirror to tidy her hair and check that she was presentable.
“I gather you’ve never met Lady Salter, my lady,” Burton murmured.
“No, not yet.” Emm turned to the girls. “Rose, Lily, your aunt Agatha has come to call. Isn’t that delightful? George, come and meet your first London relative.” She led them to the green sitting room.
An elegant elderly lady looked up as they entered. She’d been perusing a magazine. She set it aside, raised her lorgnette and directed it at Emm. She said not a word.
Emm came forward, saying warmly, “Lady Salter, I’m sorry to keep you waiting; I didn’t know you intended to call. I am Emmaline, Lady Ashendon.” The title still felt odd on her lips.
Lady Salter made no attempt to rise. She glanced at Emm and pursed her thin lips. “So I gather.” She looked at the girls, clustered reluctantly in the doorway. “Well, come in, gels, don’t stand there loitering. Let me look at you.”
The girls shuffled forward. The old lady scrutinized them carefully through her lorgnette. “Don’t any of you gels know to curtsey when greeting your elders and betters?”
She watched critically as they hastily curtseyed, and snorted when they were finished. “You, gel at the end, where did you learn to curtsey? You’re about as graceful as a bear.”
George lifted her chin. “Thank you,” she said. “I like bears.”
The old lady stiffened. “Cheek! I suppose you’re Henry’s bastard.”
George clenched her fists. Emm placed a soothing hand on George’s shoulder and said, “This is Lady Georgiana Rutherford, your nephew Henry’s perfectly legitimate daughter. Tragically lost to the family for some years, but we’re thrilled to have her here, where she belongs—with us—aren’t we, girls?”
Lady Salter’s lip curled. “Speaking for my family, are you, gel? And you a bride of how many days?”
“Almost a week,” said Emm composedly. She had this old woman’s measure now but was determined not to come to cuffs at their first meeting.
“Why are you and the gels not in mourning? Henry’s not been dead much more than a month.”
“My father’s will forbade it,” George told her.
“Pfft! Henry? Forbidding the wearing of mourning? I don’t believe it. That boy never gave a moment’s thought to anyone else in his life.”
“Be that as it may, my husband, as head of the family, has ordered that his brother’s wishes be respected,” Emm said.
There was a long silence, then Lady Salter said, “Well, if that’s true, it’s the first sensible thing that boy’s done since his return to England.” She jabbed her lorgnette in the direction of the girls. “From what I’ve heard, those gels need to be married off as quickly as possible.”
“No,” Emm said pleasantly.
The old lady’s eyes sparked flint. “What do you mean, no?”
“There’s no rush. The girls will take as long as they wish. I won’t allow anyone to put pressure on them concerning marriage.”
“You won’t allow—?”
“That’s correct, I won’t.” Emm gave her a steely smile to underline her message. “Now, may I offer you some refreshment, Lady Salter? Tea? Something to eat? The girls and I were planning to have luncheon shortly. We’d love you to join us.”
Lady Salter sniffed and glanced at the girls. She pointed her lorgnette at Lily. “That one could do without her luncheon. Put her on a reducing diet—potatoes boiled in vinegar was what did it for Byron. Give her nothing but potatoes in vinegar for a month; then she might look—”
Emm put her arm around Lily. “Nonsense,” she said briskly. “Lily is a beautiful girl and we love her just exactly the way she is. I would no more think of putting her on a reducing diet than”—she smiled sweetly—“trying to fatten you up, after your long illness.”
“What illness? I’ve never been ill a day in my life.”
“Oh?” said Emm with false sympathy. “I thought you must have been ill. So many recovering invalids are excessively thin and crabby and bad-tempered. I’m so glad it’s not illness that has caused it.”
The old lady’s flinty gray eyes narrowed, her thin bosom swelled and Emm decided
to get the girls out of the way before the explosion came. As it was, both Rose and George looked to be on the verge of saying something rude to their aunt, and Lily was on the verge of tears—real ones.
“Girls, run along now and get changed for our outing this afternoon. Rose, will you ask Cook to hold luncheon for another half hour? George, that dog of yours will be needing a quick walk, don’t you think? Lily dear”—she groped for something to ask the girl to do that would make her feel good about herself—“would you run up to my room and select a scarf for me to wear this afternoon. The wind is getting brisker, and you have such exquisite taste, I can rely on you to choose the perfect one. Say good-bye to Lady Salter—she’s not staying for luncheon.”
The girls dropped a hasty curtsey and fled. Emm resumed her seat and smiled at Lady Salter. “They’re lovely girls, aren’t they?”
The old lady sniffed. “Rose is a beauty—she’ll do well enough. Lily needs to reduce, no matter what you say. And as for the other one”—she rolled her eyes—“no breeding at all. What was Henry thinking?”
“George is an original. I think she’ll take the ton by storm.”
“You do, do you?” Lady Salter said acidly. “Know a lot about the ton, do you? Whom, precisely, do you know in London?”
“Since I have no idea who is in London at present, I cannot say.”
“Who are your people?”
Emm gestured to the house around her. “They are here.”
“I meant your family.”
“They are here.”
Lady Salter’s lips thinned. “Don’t be obtuse, gel, I meant your father and mother.”
“My father was Sir Humphrey Westwood; my mother was Alice Carsgood.”
The old lady leaned forward. “Of the Hampshire Carsgoods?”
She was, in fact, but Emm couldn’t resist saying, “Of the nowhere-in-particular Carsgoods—it was a love match, you see.”
Lady Salter snorted. “Love! Tawdry middle-class sentiment.”
“But soooo romantic.” Emm produced a gusty sentimental sigh and fluttered her eyelashes.
“Pshaw! Blood is what counts in marriage. Blood, breeding and land.”
“Really? How interesting. It’s important when breeding pigs too,” Emm said brightly. She rose from her seat. “Are you sure you can’t stay for luncheon, Lady Salter?”
The old lady glowered at her, and for a moment Emm could see the resemblance both to Cal and to George. “Send for my carriage, gel.”
Emm inclined her head. “With the greatest of pleasure.”
* * *
Cal, feeling soured and depressed by the morning’s events, needed a distraction, and as he wandered past Covent Garden, he decided an evening at the theater was just the thing. Among the various entertainments listed on the playbill was As You Like It, which he felt would please Emmaline, who, as a former teacher on her first visit to a London theater, might want something Shakespearean, but since it was also comedy, it should suit him and the girls.
He sent a message to Ashendon House to let them know he’d be home for an early dinner before escorting them to the theater.
He then decided to visit Tattersalls and came away quite pleased with himself. He’d conducted several very satisfactory transactions and had also run into two old friends who, learning he was here with his new bride, invited him and Emmaline to a party and a musical evening in the following week.
The commencement of the season was still several months away, but a few small parties would ease his wife into the London social scene gradually and by the time the season started, she’d be much better prepared to make her way in London society.
* * *
“I met your aunt today,” Emm said over dinner. “Lady Salter.”
Cal almost choked on his soup. “Damn—I mean blast. I meant to warn you.”
Her brows rose. “Did you know she would visit, then?”
“No, but she was waiting when I came downstairs this morning. According to Burton she’s been coming every day around eleven.”
She nodded. “To check up on the domestic arrangements before we arrived, yes, Burton told me after she left. It was very kind of her.”
“Kind?” Cal gave her a cautious look. “You liked her, then?”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure we’re going to become fast friends. George dear, could I trouble you for the salt, please?”
“Fast friends?” Cal repeated, stunned. Aunt Agatha’s few friends were a small collection of well-born but downtrodden ladies whom she ruled with a rod of iron. Unfortunately some of those ladies were very influential in society.
“Yes, indeed,” his wife said enthusiastically. “We had a thoroughly delightful exchange. I enjoyed myself immensely.”
Cal could hardly believe his ears. “You’re sure it was Aunt Agatha you met, not some other lady? Skinny, elegant, dressed in black and white, tongue like an asp?”
“That’s her. She was utterly charming. We simply adored her, didn’t we, girls?”
It was at that point that Cal realized his sisters and Georgiana were smothering giggles. And that his wife was teasing him.
“Ah, I see. Well, sorry I didn’t warn you beforehand.”
Emmaline laughed. “I quite enjoyed myself, as a matter of fact.”
“You should have been there, Cal,” Rose interjected. “Emm gave Aunt Agatha as good as she got, but so perfectly politely there was no way the old horror could take offense. I mean, she knew Emm was saying cutting things back, but they were, on the surface of things, polite, so she had nothing to get hold of. It was brilliant, Emm.”
“You shouldn’t call your aunt an old horror,” Emm said. “Whatever you think of her, outwardly at least, we will all show her the utmost respect.”
“She is an old horror,” Cal said.
Emm shrugged. “You can’t choose your relatives.”
“She’s also my godmother,” Cal said.
“And mine,” Lily said gloomily. “I’ve always hoped she’d turn out to be some kind of fairy godmother, but all she could say to me was that I was fat and should be forced to eat nothing but potatoes boiled in vinegar.”
“What?” Cal exclaimed. “That’s disgusting—and wrong! You are not in the least—”
“Oh, don’t worry, Emm had the perfect response,” Rose said warmly.
“Yes, thank you, Emm,” Lily said. “I was ready to sink until you spoke up.”
“Don’t you dare let her get the better of you, Lily,” Georgiana said fiercely. “She’s not a fairy godmother, she’s a feral one.”
There was a short silence, then they all burst out laughing.
“Stop maligning your relatives and eat up, you disrespectful females,” Cal said a few minutes later. “We don’t want to be late for the theater.”
Who knew that Aunt Agatha would turn out to be the very thing he needed? It should have occurred to him sooner: In the face of a common enemy a disparate group would usually unite. Good old Aunt Agatha.
* * *
“Has something happened to disturb you?” Emmaline asked Cal that night as they were undressing for bed. “You’ve been very quiet all evening.”
“What do you mean?” He’d done his best to be cheerful and entertaining. He’d thought he’d done quite a good job.
“We’ve had a lovely night—I think you can tell from the conversation in the carriage coming home from the theater how very much the girls and I enjoyed ourselves. It was so thoughtful and kind of you to take us. But you haven’t said a word to me about how it went with your assassin this morning.”
“Oh. That.” He shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want the ugliness of the morning spilling over into his marriage. “It doesn’t matter. Come to bed.”
He made love to her then, using all the skills at his disposal, seeking forge
tfulness, oblivion, finding comfort in the warmth of her acceptance, in the sweet response of her body.
But after they’d climaxed and lay spent, exhausted and satisfied, sleep didn’t come—not to Cal, and not to Emmaline; he could tell by her breathing. She lay wrapped around him, their legs intertwined, her cheek resting on his chest, her palm pressed against his heart, one finger caressing him softly. They often fell asleep in that position, but not tonight.
In the hearth the coals glowed and hissed, sending out a soft, dim light. The silence stretched between them.
She murmured, “It sometimes helps to talk, you know. And I really would like to know what happened.”
“You don’t.”
She raised her head and looked at him, her eyes dark and troubled. “Was it really so bad?”
He sighed. “No, I suppose not. It’s just . . .” He didn’t know why he felt so . . . He didn’t even have a word for how he felt. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to tell her. Nobody was injured, after all. Nobody killed.
So he told her about the decision to imprison the women and children as hostages for the assassin. Told her about the tumbril cart and the weeping women and children. And about the young boy carrying a burden too great for his scrawny young shoulders, stiff with pride—and shame.
“But they will be released, won’t they? They won’t be hurt.”
“No, they won’t be hurt.” Not physically. He tried to think of words to explain how he felt. The trouble was he didn’t know how he felt. He was a turmoil of contradictory thoughts and feelings.
“Their father did murder your friend and many others.”
“I know and I despise him for it, but . . . it’s not as simple as it seemed before. When I was hunting him, it was just him and me—clear-cut, straightforward. As it had been during the war—you didn’t think about it—there was the enemy shooting at you, so you shot back. Now . . .”
It was different now, but he couldn’t explain how. Cal lay quiet for a while, trying to gather his thoughts. The fire was dying. He got out of bed and added coal, poking savagely at the embers until he had a bright blaze going.