"It's a bit premature to say."
Emma allowed herself a small sigh of relief.
"But it does involve—"
"Lady Beatrice, um, did you sleep well last night?"
Interrupting one's hostess was rude, but Emma was certain strangling her was a greater solecism. Still, the selection of last evening's events as a change of topic was not inspired. Lady Beatrice frowned.
"No, indeed. I barely slept a wink, what with that spectral disturbance and my wretched head. Do not drink brandy, Meg. At least not in excess."
"Brandy? Spectral disturbance?" Meg murmured while Lady Beatrice rubbed her forehead. "Perhaps this will not be such a boring gathering after all."
"Hush."
"What did you say, dear? I'm afraid I wasn't attending."
"Nothing, Lady Beatrice. I'm just happy that last night's events turned out to be nothing significant."
Emma saw Meg's eyes were bright with questions, but fortunately Charles chose that moment to appear.
"Good morning, ladies. Did I hear you say this is your sister, Miss Peterson?"
"Yes, my lord."
Charles took Meg's hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Margaret. The last time we encountered each other, you were still in leading-strings."
Meg rolled her eyes, but she did smile. "Please, Lord Knightsdale, call me Meg. No one calls me Margaret."
"Meg, then. I believe you'll find your dog in the nursery."
"My dog?"
"Prinny," Emma said. "Your dog, Prinny."
"I don't know why you insist Prinny is my dog, Emma. I may have named him when he was a puppy, but you're the one he thinks he belongs to. Probably because you're the one who remembers to feed him."
This was a familiar argument. Emma took a deep breath and tried to sound calm.
"You know Prinny's supposed to keep you company on the long rambles you insist on taking. He's your protection when you are out in the fields alone."
"Hmm. Have you told Prinny this? On the odd occasion he comes with me, he's off chasing rabbits. I don't want him with me. He tramples the specimens."
"Specimens?" Charles asked.
"I'm very interested in plants, my lord."
"My lady, Mr. Stockley is arriving," Mr. Lambert said.
"Ah, the beau." Meg grinned at Emma. "It will be rather hard to avoid the man if he's a guest also, won't it, Emma?"
"The beau?" Charles raised an eyebrow as Lady Beatrice went off to greet her new guest.
Emma would gladly have wrung her sister's neck. "It's nothing, my lord. Meg is only funning." She shot Meg a look that warned of dire consequences should she pursue this topic. Meg ignored her.
"Mr. Stockley has been a frequent—or should I say constant—visitor at the vicarage since he moved into Mr. Atworthy's house. I've missed stumbling over him since Emma came up here. He's quite smitten."
"I see. Then I am so glad we encountered him on the road yesterday and invited him to join the party."
"Yes, it was quite fortunate, was it not? Come, Meg, I'll help you settle into your room." Emma grabbed Meg's arm and fled upstairs.
"What was that about?"
"What was what about?" Emma looked around Meg's room. It was slightly larger than her own.
"That gallop up the stairs. I'm rather out of breath."
"I'm sure I don't know what you are speaking of."
Meg's room faced the back of the house. She had a very pleasant view of the gardens and the lake.
"Emma, what is going on between you and the marquis?"
"Nothing!" Did she really squeak when she said that? Surely not. "Why would you think anything was going on between Lord Knightsdale and me?"
"Emma, I may be socially inexperienced, but I am not stupid. You are usually as staid as an archbishop, but downstairs just now you acted as if you were waltzing barefoot over hot coals. Would you care to explain?"
"No. I mean, there is nothing to explain. I'm merely the temporary governess."
"Oh? And where are the children?"
"What?"
Meg put her hands on her hips. "The children. Governesses usually take care of children, do they not?"
"Oh. Oh, yes. Isabelle and Claire. You know them, Meg."
"Of course I know them, dear sister. If you are their governess, even only temporarily, why are you not governessing?"
"Good point. I'm leaving now. Welcome to Knightsdale."
Emma closed the door on Meg's laughter.
So Stockley was taken with Emma, was he? For the first time Charles was happy to have a title so he could shove it down this twiddlepoop's throat. He watched the man take out his quizzing-glass and examine a large flowered urn by the door, going so far as to lift the lid and peer inside.
"Looking for something, Stockley?"
The little fop jumped, making the vase teeter on its pedestal. Charles steadied it.
"My lord, you startled me. I was just admiring this fine workmanship. Is it from the Ming dynasty, do you know?"
"Haven't the foggiest. You're interested in crockery?"
"Art, my lord. Art. Yes, I am very interested in all things valuable—statuary, paintings, jewels."
"Indeed?" Charles wondered if he should lock up the silver. What had Emma's father been thinking, letting this bounder over the vicarage threshold?
What had he been thinking? He'd invited the fellow to Knightsdale, hadn't he? He would just need to keep an eye on Emma. A very close eye. It was his duty as her host.
"Charles, the Society ladies are here."
"Right. Coming, Aunt." Charles turned back to Stockley. "I hope you enjoy your stay at Knightsdale. Do you need help finding your bedchamber?"
"Oh, no, my lord. I'm quite capable of finding my way." Stockley's lips twitched and he bowed.
Charles watched him mount the stairs.
"Aunt, you didn't put Stockley in a bedchamber near Emma, did you?"
"Of course not, Charles. What kind of a ninnyham-mer do you take me for? I switched his room with Miss Russell's this morning, when we moved Miss Peterson down from the nursery. He's at the far end of the east wing. Wouldn't want him mistaking his door in the night, would we?"
"Definitely not."
Charles stood by a window in the study, looking out at the gardens and the lake. All the guests had arrived. It was certainly an odd collection. Well, the husband-hunting mamas and their daughters and the assortment of unattached gentlemen were not so unusual. It was the addition of the ladies of Emma's Society that made the guest list interesting. Add brandy, and the ton might never be the same.
"Charles, did I just see the Farthington twins in the corridor?"
Charles smiled as Robbie Hamilton, the Earl of Westbrooke, slipped into the study. "You did indeed."
"Gawd. I need brandy. Where do you keep the stuff?"
"In the case there—if there's any left. Just be sure you don't let the twins catch a scent of it."
Robbie paused, his hand on the cork. "Brandy and the Farthington twins?"
Charles laughed. "Teacups full. I found the entire Society for the Betterment of Women—minus Miss Peterson—awash in my drawing room. Had to pour the ladies into my carriage to get them home."
"The thought boggles the mind." Robbie filled two glasses and handed one to Charles. "Besides the inebriated elders, how have you found things, my friend?"
"Well, I believe." Charles sipped the amber liquid, savoring the warmth that slid from his tongue to his chest. "It appears Paul invested wisely, so as far as I can tell I've got adequate funds. I straightened that all out when I was in London."
"That's a relief. And the estate itself?"
Charles shrugged. "Coles, the estate manager, seems competent. I just got here yesterday and I've had other, um, affairs to attend to. I've promised to give him some time tomorrow morning."
He frowned, looking into his glass, swirling his brandy slowly. He felt the solid weight of Robbie's hand on his shoulder.
"You know you
can call on me, if you need to."
Charles nodded. "I know, Robbie." He clasped Robbie's arm briefly. "I know."
Robbie grinned. "I just have more experience with this peer business. And running an estate, of course."
"Of course."
"Did Coles have anything else to say?"
"Just that I take it Paul was pretty much an absentee landlord after he married Cecilia. Coles has been rather blunt in expressing his hope that I intend to be in residence more frequently."
"Cecilia did like London."
"And apparently any estate other than Knightsdale."
Robbie sprawled into one of the chairs by the fire. "She needed society's constant attention."
"Leaving her children with very little of hers."
"There is that. But many children grow up with only the servants to raise them. I daresay I didn't see my parents above five or six times a year—and I don't suppose you spent much time with yours either, did you?
"No." Charles joined Robbie by the fire. "I didn't want to see my father. You remember his temper." Robbie nodded. "And your mother?" Charles sighed. "Not so different from Cecilia."
"And did you mind?"
"Not that I can recall. But my nieces"—Charles took another sip of brandy—"the little one calls me Papa Charles."
"What's this?" a man said from the doorway. "Are you a father, Charles? My felicitations—though it might be advisable to acquire a wife before you begin to fill your nursery."
" James!" Charles stood to greet the Duke of Alvord. "How is Sarah?"
"Quite well, thank you."
"Expecting the next duke, I hear," Robbie said. James grinned. "Perhaps."
"Really?" Charles offered James the brandy bottle. "This calls for a drink."
"Just be sure you've shut the study door, James. Charles tells me that the Farthington twins are partial to brandy."
"Really? I never would have guessed. And was that Miss Russell I saw examining the statuary upstairs?"
"Most likely," Charles said. "Did she have a small man with her?"
James's eyebrows shot up. "Never say Miss Russell has a beau?"
Robbie laughed. "This is definitely going to be an interesting house party if that's the case. Did you know Charles got the ladies drunk?"
"I did not get the ladies drunk, Robbie. Aunt Bea did that. I wasn't even home when they broke into my brandy."
"I see." James grinned. "Or rather, I don't see. Who is the little man who is courting Miss Russell?"
"Mr. Albert Stockley, and he is not courting Miss Russell. I found him examining the vase in the entry hall on his arrival and thought perhaps he had joined Miss Russell in appreciating Knightsdale's art."
"Think Stockley might be somewhat light-fingered?" James asked.
Charles shrugged. "Perhaps. I don't like the man."
"So why did you invite him?" Robbie frowned. "Isn't he the coxcomb who's renting Atworthy's house?"
"Yes. Do you know anything about him?"
"Can't say that I do. How about you, James?"
"No." James grinned. "I've had my mind on other matters."
"I bet you have." Robbie rolled his eyes. "The Alvord ladies fled to Brighton to give your, um, mind the opportunity for complete concentration."
"Had to do my duty, after all, and see to the succession. And you'll be happy to hear that Aunt Gladys, Lady Amanda, and Lizzie are back in residence. Lizzie is joining the house party tomorrow."
"So is little Lizzie also joining the pack of young misses baying after the new marquis here?"
"I don't believe Lizzie is interested in Charles, Robbie."
"And I'm not interested in any of the young ladies," Charles said.
"You're not? So why have you collected this school of ballroom barracudas? I swear I saw Lady Dunlee and Mrs. Frampton glaring at each other in the hall. If you are not the bachelor morsel to be tossed into their jaws, who is?" Robbie put up the hand that wasn't holding his brandy. "It ain't going to be me."
"Well, it can't be me, can it?" James said. "And if Charles here is unwilling . . ."
"No. I'm too young for a leg shackle."
"There are other unattached men present," Charles said, "so you need not fear."
"Oh, no? I am not so certain. If the ladies can't have a marquis, they may pursue a mere earl. No, I shall have my valet check my bedchamber thoroughly for any stray misses before I retire each night, and I will carefully avoid all secluded areas of your lovely estate." Robbie took another sip. "Perhaps I'll just attach myself to your Aunt Bea—she'll have no trouble routing any encroaching misses, and I understand she's quite free with the brandy bottle."
"A splendid idea, Robbie, "James said. He leaned back in his chair. "However, I still don't understand why you invited all these people here, Charles, if you have no interest in selecting a bride. I'm quite certain that lovely Lady Dunlee and charming Mrs. Frampton did not drag their delightful, marriage-hungry daughters down to Knightsdale for the scenery—unless, of course, the scenery included the sight of you slipping the Knightsdale engagement ring on one of their progeny's fingers."
"Yes, I understand that. I thought I was in the market, but I've already found a suitable bride."
"Oh? And who might this paragon be?" James asked.
"Miss Emma Peterson."
"The vicar's daughter?"
"Not only the vicar's daughter, James," Robbie said, chuckling. "Shadow."
"Shadow? Who? Oh, yes, I remember. The little girl who used to dog Charles's steps when we were boys. That was Miss Peterson, wasn't it?"
"And if you haven't noticed"—Robbie grinned— "and of course you haven't, being a married man— Miss Peterson is no longer a little girl."
"Watch yourself, Robbie." Charles was surprised by the surge of annoyance he felt at Robbie's slightly leering tone. "I'll brook no disrespect of Miss Peterson."
"Oh, I always respect my elders."
"Elders? Miss Peterson is only twenty-six."
"As am I, my friend. You are the graybeard at thirty. No, I believe Miss Peterson is two months older than I—I vaguely remember getting into an argument with her on the subject when I turned ten."
"Gentlemen, let us not hearken back to our infancy." James raised his glass. "Congratulations are in order. When will you be announcing your betrothal, Charles?"
"Soon."
"At the ball?" Robbie asked. "That would be the most appropriate time. Perhaps you can keep the other ladies guessing until then so they'll leave me alone."
"Yes. At the ball." Charles remembered the sound of the china dog shattering on the study door. "I hope. There are a few matters still to be resolved."
Chapter 5
"If the London Season is anything like this, I am glad to have missed it."
"Meg, keep your voice down." Emma pushed her sister discreetly in the back to get her to step into the drawing room.
A sea of conversation washed over them. Elegant London ladies in fashionable dresses chatted with gentlemen in elaborate cravats and tight-fitting black coats. Emma felt more than a little dowdy. She searched for a familiar face—and saw Lady Beatrice, resplendent in a crimson gown with knots of lime green ribbons, laughing uproariously with Mrs. Begley. The liquid in their glasses looked suspiciously like brandy.
Where were the other members of the Society for the Betterment of Women? Emma spotted the Farthington twins in the far corner examining a large painting of a naked woman, a mostly naked man, and a sprinkling of fat cherubs. Miss Esther pointed to the man's bare shoulders and elbowed her sister in the ribs. At least neither lady was drinking. Miss Russell occupied a settee nearby, also without a glass or teacup at hand. Emma felt some tension ease from her neck. She did not want to entertain the Londoners with the spectacle of drunken locals.
"Just look at that gaggle of pea-gooses." Meg nodded at a group of young ladies clustered around Charles at the other end of the room. "Or is it 'pea-geese'? It's a good thing Lord Knightsdale favors short ha
ir or his lovely brown locks would be blown into knots by all those batting eyelashes."
Emma agreed. The girls were fawning over Charles in a most disgusting manner. It certainly could not be good for his already inflated estimation of himself. Not that he wasn't an arresting sight. He was even more handsome, if that were possible, dressed in eveningwear.
He looked up. His startling blue eyes met hers across the room, and the right corner of his mouth creased up in a half smile.
She felt an odd warmth radiate from her stomach.
"And here comes your own special admirer, Emma. He must have been watching the door for you."
"My own—oh." Mr. Stockley was slithering toward her. She had never thought of him as snakelike before, but tonight he struck her as having a distinctly serpentine quality. Perhaps it was his lack of expression. Or his quiet—stealthy, really—way of moving.
Ridiculous! She had not gotten enough sleep last night. It was the odd nocturnal events in the nursery that were feeding this bizarre fantasy.
"I keep expecting a forked tongue to flicker out of his mouth," Meg murmured. "I think I'll go help Miss Russell warm the settee."
Emma resisted the urge to grab Meg's arm.
"Miss Peterson, I am delighted to see Lord Knightsdale allowed you to join our gathering. Who is watching Lady Isabelle and Lady Claire?"
Emma gritted her teeth. "Nanny is with the girls, Mr. Stockley."
"Ah, Nanny. A mature, reliable woman. You, ah, have rooms on the nursery floor with the girls and Nanny, I presume?"
The man was presuming too much. "I can't imagine why you would be interested in my accommodations, Mr. Stockley."
Mr. Stockley smirked. "I mean no disrespect, Miss Peterson. I am confident a woman of your maturity will guard her reputation closely. It's just that . . . well . . . it would not do for you to be on the same floor as our host. A single woman without a chaperone present, you understand. It might give rise to unsavory speculation. People have such small minds."
Emma could name one person with a small mind. "Sir, I fail to see why my reputation is in danger. Lady Beatrice is in residence, after all, and now the house is filled with guests. Do you think Lord Knightsdale is going to break down my door and rape me in my bed?"
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