Lord Kane's Keepsake

by Sandra Heath

“Good night, Lord Yarmouth. And thank you.”

  He smiled. “It’s a pleasure, my dear. As to the fact that you and Kane are now compelled to travel entirely alone, you may rest assured that no word of it will ever pass my lips.”

  Inclining his head to Gerald, he turned and left them. Gerald instructed the coachman to drive to Grosvenor Square, and then climbed into the barouche, slamming the door behind him. As he took his place opposite her, he smiled a little, his eyes shining in the light from the theater portico. “Propriety cannot always be strictly observed, I fear.”

  “I quite understand that, Lord Kane.” She hesitated. “Will you answer a question, sir?”

  “That depends upon what the question is, Miss Rutherford.”

  “Why would the Countess of Purbeck do such a thing?”

  “I really have no idea, Miss Rutherford,” he replied lightly, his eyes still meeting hers.

  She did not believe him, but felt there was no point in pursuing the matter. She said nothing more, and looked out at the street as the barouche drew slowly away from the curb, endeavoring to thread its way through the incredible jam that now choked Bow Street from one end to the other.

  *

  As Lord Yarmouth’s carriage conveyed them away from the scene, a shadowy figure moved from beneath the theater portico and stood watching the maroon barouche until it passed from his sight.

  Lord Avenley smiled a little, pushing his hat back with the tip of his cane. How very fortunate that the future Lady Kane was so very much to his taste, for it made his plan so much more agreeable and satisfying to carry out. He had always had a penchant for a profusion of dark curls, and the delightful Miss Rutherford had them in plenty.

  His own carriage at last halted at the foot of the steps, and Lord Avenley whistled softly to himself as he entered it. He leaned his head back against the leather upholstery, still whistling softly. The past was about to be avenged, and if poor Miss Rutherford was to be the pawn, then that was simply her misfortune.

  *

  Very little was said in Lord Yarmouth’s barouche as it bowled west across London toward Mayfair. Emma would have liked to make more use of these unexpected minutes alone with Gerald, but his suddenly rather aloof manner prevented her. Earlier he had gone to a great deal of trouble to reassure her by giving her the Keepsake, but now she felt strangely further away from him than she had before.

  By the light of passing streetlamps she could see his withdrawn expression as he gazed silently out of the barouche. She could also see how he toyed with his wedding-ring finger, as if the ring were still there. It was as if a barrier had been erected between them. Her doubts, eradicated when he gave her the Keepsake, now returned anew.

  The barouche entered Piccadilly and then had to halt before turning into Bond Street. On the southern side of Piccadilly, its windows cluttered with open volumes, was Hatchard’s, the most famous bookshop in London. Gazing at it, the thought suddenly entered Emma’s head that it would be good to purchase an entirely unsuitable, farfetched Gothic novel of the type adored by ladies but scorned by so many men. Lord Bagworth’s library was very worthy and serious, and she needed a silly diversion, something to distract her for a while.

  Gerald had been observing her as she looked at the bookshop windows, and he spoke suddenly. “You seem deep in thought, Miss Rutherford.”

  She collected her thoughts. “I … I was merely thinking that I would like to visit Hatchard’s as soon as I can.”

  “What sort of book do you enjoy?”

  “The sort you would not, I fancy,” she replied.

  “You cannot know that for sure.”

  “I think I can be fairly certain, Lord Kane, for I enjoy gothic novels.”

  He smiled a little. “You have judged me accurately, Miss Rutherford, for gothic novels aren’t at all to my liking.”

  She looked at him. “I cannot judge you at all accurately, Lord Kane,” she said quietly. “Indeed, I think I know you less now than I did when we set out this evening.”

  His gray eyes shone in the light from passing streetlamps as the barouche drove north up Bond Street. “Miss Rutherford, I promise you that you know all you need to about me.”

  “Do I?”

  He smiled again. “Yes, you do.”

  She lowered her eyes and said nothing more. She didn’t know him at all. She didn’t know what his feelings really were toward her, or if he compared her with Margot. She didn’t know why there was such ill feeling between Lord Avenley and him, or why Lord Avenley should make such a point about meeting her. And she didn’t know why the Countess of Purbeck was behaving as she was. But Gerald knew all the answers, she could see it in his eyes, just as she could see that he had no intention at all of telling her.

  The barouche left Bond Street and struck west through Mayfair toward Grosvenor Square, coming to a halt at last at the door of Lady Bagworth’s house. Gerald alighted and turned to hand her down.

  She hesitated before accepting. “Would you care to come inside for a while, Lord Kane? Perhaps you and my father could share a glass of cognac?”

  “I fear I must decline, Miss Rutherford. I have many papers to attend to at the moment, things which I meant to work on after the theater, and which would have kept me busy well into the night. Now they can be dealt with at a more civilized hour, and so I think I should return directly to St. James’s Square. With your permission, I will simply see you to the door and then go, but I do thank you for the kind invitation.”

  Awkward color touched her cheeks as she slipped her hand into his and allowed him to assist her down to the pavement. Then she turned to face him. “Good night, Lord Kane.”

  Now he hesitated, as if realizing that he had brought the already shortened evening to a rather abrupt close. “Tonight may not have gone to plan, Miss Rutherford, but I promise that for you it was a victory.”

  “A victory?”

  “Those who met you approved of you.”

  “Except for the Countess of Purbeck.”

  A light passed through his eyes. “There will always be exceptions to prove the rule,” he murmured.

  “Is your grandfather such an exception?” she asked suddenly.

  He seemed surprised. “Why on earth do you ask that?”

  “I … I just wondered if he would have preferred you to find a bride from an aristocratic family.”

  “He has never expressed a preference. Miss Rutherford, what is all this about?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Suddenly he put his hand to her chin, forcing her to look directly at him. “You are everything I wish for in a bride, Miss Rutherford, and I am quite certain that when my grandfather meets you tomorrow, he will be charmed by you.”

  She said nothing.

  His hand remained where it was. “I have no wish to ever hurt you,” he said gently, “indeed it is still my desire to reassure you as much as I can that this match means a great deal to me. I know that I am not without fault, and that I am occasionally less than communicative, but you must never think that it is because I am having second thoughts about our marriage.’’

  For a moment his thumb moved softly against her skin. “May we dispense with strict formality and be forward enough to address each other by our first names? I confess that I would much prefer to call you Emma instead of Miss Rutherford.”

  She stared up into his eyes. When he spoke gently, and when he smiled so winningly, all her doubts began to recede again, like an ebbing tide. “If that is what you wish, my lord—”

  “My name is Gerald,” he prompted.

  “Gerald.”

  For a heart-stopping moment she thought he was about to kiss her on the cheek, but then he drew away. “I must leave now, for those damned papers beckon me, but I look forward to tomorrow afternoon. I will call for you at three, if that is acceptable?”

  “It is very acceptable.”

  “Good night, Emma.”

  “Good night… Gerald.” She couldn’t help stumblin
g over his name.

  Her awkwardness amused him, but he said nothing more as he returned to the waiting barouche.

  Saunders had detected the arrival of the carriage, and now opened the door to admit her. She paused on the doorstep, turning to look at Gerald again, and she was just in time to hear the last part of his quietly uttered instructions to the coachman.

  “… House in Upper Brook Street, if you please.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Emma’s lips parted in surprise. Upper Brook Street? But he had just insisted that he was driving straight back to his residence in St. James’s Square to attend to some urgent papers.

  The barouche drew away, and she watched as it drove around the misty square before vanishing from sight in the gloom as it entered Upper Brook Street in the northwest corner. She stared after it. If only she’d heard the full address. Something House. But there were so many fine mansions in that particular street, and he could be going to any one of them.

  “Madam?” Saunders was waiting at the door.

  She turned and went inside.

  Chapter Nine

  Mr. Rutherford was at first a little alarmed to hear of the unseemly demonstration at the theater, but was relieved that Emma had not come to any harm. Over a cup of chocolate in the library, he listened to her account of the evening and expressed his full approval of her conduct. She did not tell him about her brush with the Countess of Purbeck, about Lord Avenley, or about Stephen’s deception, for she saw no point in worrying him unduly.

  Stephen had not returned by the time she and her father retired to their beds, and Mr. Rutherford fell asleep still believing that his son was attending Donkey Shingleton’s birthday celebrations. Emma lay awake, staring up at the gentle shadows cast by the fire. She had so very much on her mind that sleep was quite impossible, even though she was tired.

  Midnight had long since passed, and London was quiet in the small hours of the night. The clock on the mantelpiece began to whir and chime once more, and suddenly Emma couldn’t lie there any longer. She flung the bedclothes aside and slipped from the bed. Drawing on her blue-and-white floral wrap, she went to the window, holding the curtains aside to look out.

  The mist had thickened a little, obscuring the lights of all but the nearest streets and the lamp in the mews lane. The garden was in darkness, the trees very still and ghostly, and the little wrought-iron gazebo looked very lonely in the sunken area where in the height of summer Lady Bagworth’s roses were a glory to behold and where the Michaelmas daisies were just coming into full bloom.

  She wondered when Stephen would return. Oh, how angry she was with him for his deceit. She’d actually believed him about tonight, and now she felt she couldn’t trust him at all. What if he’d lied about his activities at Lord Avenley’s club? What if he wasn’t merely a spectator at the green baize tables, but a participant?

  As she looked out, a shadowy figure moved by the little postern gate that gave access from the mews lane to the house and garden. There was a lantern on the corner of the coach house, and by its light she recognized her brother. His hat was pulled low over his forehead, and the collar of his greatcoat was turned up against the chill of the night, but there was no mistaking him as he made his way along the garden path toward the house.

  Why on earth was he returning by the back way? Even as she wondered, Emma knew why. Their father’s bedroom was at the front of the house, and he might hear if a carriage drew up on the cobbles at the door. If ever there was a guilty conscience abroad, it was Stephen Rutherford’s.

  She left the window, moving to the bedroom door to hear her brother pass, but the minutes went by and there was no sign of him. Puzzled, she opened the door and peeped out into the candlelit passage. It was deserted. She listened, but she couldn’t hear anything either.

  Quickly she left her room, hurrying along to the gallery above the staircase and entrance hall two stories below. There was still no sign of Stephen, but as she looked she heard a soft sound from the library, the door of which stood slightly ajar. The sound was the unmistakable chink of a decanter on a glass.

  Gathering her skirts, she went silently down the staircase. As she neared the ground floor, she saw her brother inside the library, his figure dimly lit by the fading glow of the fire. He was slumped dejectedly in one of the armchairs, a glass of cognac in his hand. His hat and greatcoat lay on a table, and he’d undone his neckcloth. Alarm crept through Emma, and her steps faltered, for she could tell that he was very troubled indeed.

  Suddenly she heard a door open on the bedroom floor above, and she turned quickly to see the flickering light of a candle approaching the top of the staircase. Her father appeared, protecting the candleflame with his hand. He wore his warm paisley dressing gown, with a thick shawl around his shoulders, and there was a tasseled night hat on his head.

  Emma fled to the morning room, slipping safely out of sight inside just as her father began to descend the staircase. She left the door open a little, and watched her father as he reached the hall. In the library, Stephen at last became aware of his father’s approach, and he got up quickly from the armchair, draining the glass of cognac and replacing it on the tray next to the decanter. Then he emerged from the library, assuming an air of lighthearted unconcern.

  He halted as he saw his father. “Father, what on earth are you doing up at this time?”

  Mr. Rutherford surveyed him for a moment. “One might ask the same thing of you, sir.”

  “I’m afraid the junketing went on a little longer than I expected.”

  “And Mr. Shingleton is now well and truly his new age?”

  “Oh, most definitely.” Stephen grinned.

  Mr. Rutherford nodded. “Well, young men will be young men, I suppose. As to why I am prowling the house so late, it so happens that I slept so much during the day that I’m quite restless now. I finished the book I was reading, and decided to come down and look for another.”

  “So that you can sit up all night reading it, and be too tired to get up in the morning?” Stephen asked lightly.

  “Don’t be impudent,” his father retorted, but with a wry smile. “To bed with you, sirrah, before I feel obliged to chastise you.”

  Stephen grinned again, and then went up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time, again as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  Shaking his head at the folly of the young, Mr. Rutherford proceeded into the library, where he could soon be heard, but not seen, rummaging along one of the shelves.

  Emma seized her moment, slipping from the morning room and hurrying up the staircase before her father could see her. She’d have to confront Stephen another time, but confront him she would, especially now that she knew something was wrong. He may have fooled their father with his lightheartedness, but she could see through the act. Something had happened tonight, and if her gravest fears were correct, then that something was a heavy loss at cards.

  Mr. Rutherford was at the breakfast table in the morning, and so once again there was no opportunity to speak to Stephen. Emma decided therefore to make an opportunity.

  She smiled across the table at him. “Stephen, I have a favor to beg of you.”

  “A favor?” He looked up from the newspaper he was reading.

  “I wish to go to Hatchard’s bookshop after breakfast, and hope you might be able to escort me.”

  He was horrified. “Hatchard’s? But that’s at the other end of Piccadilly!”

  “It isn’t all that far.”

  “It’s a positive route march!”

  She looked reproachfully at him. “But, sir, you were the one who said that brisk walks in the fresh air were the very thing to restore one.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Mr. Rutherford looked at his son over the top of his spectacles. “Your sister is quite right, sir, and if you had returned to the house at a civilized hour last night, I have no doubt that you wouldn’t find the prospect of a walk quite as wearisome as you apparently do. You wil
l escort Emma to Hatchard’s.”

  “Yes, Father,” Stephen replied, giving her a dark look before returning his attention to the newspaper.

  Just over an hour later, brother and sister set off for Piccadilly. Emma wore a chestnut velvet spencer over a gown of brown-spotted cream muslin, and her dark hair was pinned up beneath a high-crowned straw bonnet tied beneath her chin with wired brown satin ribbons. Stephen had on a sky-blue coat, oyster marcella waistcoat, and white kerseymere breeches, and his high-crowned beaver was worn at a rakish angle. They discussed her visit to the theater and her invitation to meet the Earl of Cranforth that afternoon, and it wasn’t until they entered the elegant but crowded confines of Bond Street that she made it known that she’d found him out in his lies about the night before.

  “Your Mr. Donkey Shingleton is a most remarkable fellow, is he not?”

  “Eh? I don’t follow.”

  “Well, there he was at the theater last night, looking almost twenty years past his coming of age, and yet according to you he was wining and dining the night away, celebrating that very thing.”

  Stephen halted, unlinking his arm from hers. “What are you saying?”

  “That you are an infamous fibber, sir. Not only did I speak to Mr. Shingleton last night, but also to your odious Lord Avenley, who was very careful to inform me that within half an hour of our speaking, he would be seeing you at his club. His club, not White’s,” she added.

  “Avenley didn’t say anything about meeting you.”

  “He said he was going to. But what does it matter now that you have been found out?”

  “In what? All I did was go to Avenley’s place and watch the play. That is hardly a crime to end all crimes,” he replied defensively.

  “I saw you in the library last night, Stephen, just before Father came down, and you didn’t exactly look the picture of joy, did you?”

  “My, my, how crowded it was down there last night,” he murmured, looking away.

  “You didn’t just watch the play last night, did you? You took part in it, and you plunged in over your foolish head.”

  “Leave it, Sis, I beg of you.”