“Lady Emma may not wish to be wed to the oldest lieutenant in the Navy,” Alex said dryly, “for you may be sure that in the unlikely event of them offering you another commission, Devlin, they will make you start from the bottom again in order to punish you.”
“I’ll still get to be an admiral one day,” Dev said with a grin. “You know I can do it.” His smile faded. “Besides, Emma will not like any of the things I am going to tell her. It is best that I accept our betrothal will be over.”
Alex refilled his coffee cup and pushed the pot toward his cousin. “Once again I am tempted to ask if you are mad,” he said. “Your debts must run in to thousands. If Lady Emma breaks off your engagement the moneylenders will foreclose and you will be ruined.”
“I know,” Dev said. He looked up and met his cousin’s eyes very seriously. “I can make it work,” he said, “if I get the commission, and have a regular income and win some prize money I will pay it all off—” He broke off. “I have to get my self-respect back, Alex,” he said suddenly, fiercely. “I hate what I have become. The only way to redeem myself in my own eyes is to go back to sea.”
Alex laughed suddenly. “Damn it, Devlin,” he said, “it’s madness to throw away all your advantages, but I admire you for it. For too long you’ve wasted your time and I have grieved to see you do it.” He paused. “There is only one other matter that concerns me. Chessie.”
“Yes,” Dev said. He grimaced. “I am only too well aware that I am in your debt, Alex. You give Chessie a home and you have promised her a dowry and that should be my role—” He stopped as Alex raised a hand.
“I was Chessie’s guardian as well as yours,” Alex said, “and for too long I was absent from your lives and you had to fend for yourself. You did plenty then, Devlin, to protect your sister. Allow me to do something now to ease my guilt a little.” A frown touched his brow. “For a while I thought Chessie might make a match of it with Fitzwilliam Alton,” he added, “but it seems not?”
“No,” Dev said. “Alton is to marry Lady Carew. The announcement of their betrothal will be made today.” He put his coffee down abruptly. It was cold now and tasted too strong and bitter on the tongue.
“A pity,” Alex said. “Chessie genuinely loves him. She seems very unhappy. Joanna commented on it to me only a few days ago.”
“Fitz is not good enough for her,” Dev said shortly. “I thought it would be a good match but I was mistaken.”
“Money and status again,” Alex said. He stretched, throwing down his napkin on the table. “Ah, well, so the mysterious widow catches the marquis. You know, when I saw her I had the oddest feeling we had met before.”
“I doubt it,” Dev said, even more shortly. “I do not believe she has visited London before.” He did not understand why he was protecting Susanna but some stubborn impulse nevertheless prompted him to keep her secrets. He was not going to tell his cousin that Alex had known Susanna when she had been the Balvenie schoolmaster’s niece.
“She is from Scotland, though, is she not?” Alex said. “I thought, perhaps—”
“Excuse me,” Dev said, standing up. “I need to go to the Admiralty and then I must call on Emma and acquaint her with my plans. Thank you for the coffee, Alex. And the advice.”
“My pleasure,” Alex said. He stood up and shook Dev’s hand. “Good luck, Devlin,” he said. “I will write in support of your application. It takes courage to do what you are doing,” Alex added, clapping Dev on the back. “You deserve it to go well for you.”
“Thank you,” Dev said. He went out into the summer sunlight. There was a fresh breeze and a bright blue sky overhead. It was the sort of day to be on the prow of a ship.
A newsboy pressed a sheet into his hand and Dev glanced down absentmindedly. There was a lurid cartoon of a half-naked woman with long black hair sitting astride a ducal coronet whilst in the background a man recognizable as Fitzwilliam Alton was counting out bags of money with an equally lascivious expression on his face. “Money sells itself for a title,” the caption read.
For a moment Dev felt such a blinding rage that he froze where he stood. To see Susanna displayed in such an appallingly blatant and disrespectful fashion was sickening and filled him with violence. Then, with a cold shudder, he remembered that this was what she had wanted, to catch a title, to secure her future. Until very recently it was what he had wanted, too. This, then, was the price one paid.
He crumpled the scandal sheet in his hand so tightly that the corners cut his palm. Then he tossed it back to the newsboy and walked off without a word.
LADY EMMA BROOKE WAS in a bad mood. She tilted her parasol to block out the dazzling sunlight sparkling on the water and drew her shawl closer about her to ward off the nonexistent chill of the breeze off the river. The fact that it was such a beautiful day made her feel sour. Her mother had forced her to rise early—at ten o’clock!—in order to attend a breakfast party at Crofton Cottage on the Thames. Emma had not wanted to go but unusually the Countess had overruled her. Now, two hours later, Emma was beyond bored and approaching utterly exasperated. She knew her parents wished her brother to marry the Duke and Duchess of Crofton’s daughter but she did not see why she had to put up with the witless girl, as well. Let Justin do his own wooing. She was fed up, and she was done with men anyway—who needed them? First Devlin had proved a massive disappointment to her and then Tom Bradshaw had been full of empty promises.
After the encounter in the garden at midnight she had burned for the moment that she would see Tom again. She did not understand why. He was everything that she had been brought up to ignore: illegitimate, poor, a man who worked for a living. Yet none of that mattered to her because he had brought into her life an element that had been missing before, something new and different and exhilarating, and now that she had tasted it she wanted more.
She had looked for Tom’s tall figure everywhere, in the ballrooms of the ton, even though she knew he would never set foot there, in the shifting crowds in the Park where once she thought she had glimpsed him, on every street corner. Everyone had noticed her distraction. Her mother had commented that she had become withdrawn and had she taken a chill at the Cravens’ fête champêtre? Her father had rustled his newspaper irritably and said that he hoped she was not going to be so foolish as to go into a decline. He had said that perhaps they should bring forward her marriage to Devlin and when Emma had squeaked out a negative her parents had exchanged a long and meaningful glance. Later her mother had come to her and said very gently that if she had been having second thoughts about her betrothal that was perfectly acceptable and Devlin would understand if she had changed her mind. He would release her from her promise like the gentleman he was not. But Emma was stubborn. She did not want to give up her property quite yet, not whilst she did not have something better to take its place. And it seemed she had made the right decision because for all his pledges to see her again, Tom had proved to be full of lies. He had simply been amusing himself at her expense. Emma felt a fool and she wished she could hate him for it yet oddly she could not, which made her even angrier.
Her mother was beckoning to her. It was time to leave. Thank goodness. The lemonade had been warm and the sandwiches were curling up in the sun and it was too ridiculously hot to sit outdoors. Emma trailed her mother, Lady Bell and the two Misses Bell down to the river, past flower beds full of rioting roses whose scent hung on the hot, heavy air. She could feel the sweat prickling the back of her neck and running down her spine. It was most unpleasant. And why they had to take one of those silly little riverboats rather than bringing the carriage was anyone’s guess.
There were two boatmen. One had come forward to assist the ladies into the skiff. The other was checking that the mooring ropes were secure. Miss Bell and Miss Annie Bell were giggling as they climbed into the boat. Silly girls. Emma scowled.
“A beautiful day, my lady.”
Emma jumped and dropped her parasol. She knew that voice. Normally she did not look
at servants, which was why she had completely failed to notice that the man tying the boat to the bank was Tom Bradshaw. He straightened up, strong and lithe, and handed the parasol to her with a little mocking bow. When she took it from him he covered her fingers with his own. Emma’s throat dried and her heart started to bang against her ribs.
“What are you doing here?” she gasped. She glanced around to see if her mother had noticed but Lady Brooke was talking to Lady Bell and had her back turned.
Tom was laughing at her. She could see it in his eyes. The expression in them made her stomach melt. “I come and go as I please,” Tom said, “and today it pleased me to find you.”
“I’ve looked for you—” Emma began, then clamped her lips tight shut.
“I know,” Tom said. He was standing very close to her. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up and Emma could see the fine hairs on his forearms and the play of his muscles under the skin. His arm brushed hers and Emma felt the warmth of it through the thin cotton of her sleeve. She felt a little dizzy, too hot, her blood hammering in her veins.
Lady Bell was settling herself in the boat now, making a great fuss and taking up at least three seats as she smoothed out her skirts. Emma held her breath but still Lady Brooke did not turn around.
“I’ll come to you tomorrow night,” Tom whispered, his lips brushing Emma’s ear. “Be waiting for me.”
A shiver took Emma, raising the goose bumps all over her body. Tom was smiling, his eyes so dark, his expression so wicked that Emma felt as though the ground had fallen away beneath her feet and she was stepping into empty air. She felt Tom slide an arm about her on the pretext of guiding her down to the jetty. She felt the press of his hand at her waist; his fingers brushed the underside of her breast and she gasped aloud.
Her mother had noticed nothing and was waiting for Emma to join her in the boat. Tom held out his hand to her to help her aboard. Emma hesitated before touching him and felt her senses jolt as his hand closed about hers. It was as though someone had dropped hot wax on her naked skin. The heat enveloped her whole body. She was burning up yet she felt chilled to the bone at the same time.
Emma took her seat on the cushion beside her mother and watched in a trance as Tom cast off and seated himself in the bow. He was facing directly toward her and she watched him pull on the oars, watched the muscles in his thighs tighten as he rowed and the way the wind flattened his shirt against the contours of his chest. She felt transfixed, her mother’s conversation rolling over her like a soundless reel, whilst her ears were full of the splashing of the water and the sun beat down on her parasol and in her belly was a hot, demanding ache she had never imagined before. She did not understand why no one else seemed to notice her discomfort when it was so acute. Yet everyone was behaving perfectly as normal. Only she was caught up in a painful spiral of lust and wanting. Only Tom knew.
They were drawing up at Westminster Quay. Tom jumped ashore. Gravely he helped the ladies up onto dry land and to their carriages. He was all that was proper and deferential. Emma saw her mother graciously hand him a tip and felt obscurely ashamed. Once again she hung back and felt his touch on her wrist and his lips brush the corner of her mouth in the briefest of caresses.
“I’ll take payment from you tomorrow, Lady Emma.”
She was in the carriage and she felt limp and boneless with the tension and the tight desire inside her.
“You look done up, my love,” Lady Brooke said, viewing her flushed face with some concern. “Too much sun, I suppose. It was unconscionably hot.”
“Yes,” Emma said. Her skin felt feverish and sticky. “When we get home I think I might lie down for a little.”
She had promised herself that she would not look back to see if Tom was watching but she could not help herself. As the carriage turned the corner and headed away from the river she craned her neck to catch one last glimpse of him but he was nowhere to be seen.
SUSANNA WOKE LATE, HAVING slept deeply through sheer exhaustion. She only awoke when Margery came in, flustered, with a cup of tea and a copy of the Gazette. The hall, Margery said, was full of flowers. The Duke and Duchess of Alton had sent a footman with a note that they would be hosting an engagement party for Susanna and Fitz that very evening. Margery had taken the liberty of sending for the hairdresser. Several modistes had called to offer their services in the design of the wedding gown. They had left gifts, samples …
Susanna resisted the urge to pull the bedcovers over her head. After Margery had gone out to draw her a bath she got out of bed and went across to the balcony, opening the long doors, remembering with a lurch of her heart how she had closed them the previous night after Devlin had gone. It was a beautiful morning. The sky was a clean bright blue and the sun was high and the air was fresh. Susanna rested a hand on the stone balcony and looked down into the street below where another flower cart had arrived and John, the footman, was struggling under the burden of a huge arrangement of lilies that looked more appropriate to a funeral than a wedding. No doubt they were from Fitz, Susanna thought. He was given to the grand gesture when he knew that people would be watching. Poor Francesca Devlin. People would be watching her, too. Today, with the announcement of Fitz’s engagement, her humiliation would be complete.
With a sigh Susanna closed the doors shutting out the shiny new day. She felt hollow and lonely. The prospect of going to the Altons’ party, of accepting the congratulations of the ton, of acting the role of Fitz’s fiancée was almost intolerable. She missed Devlin acutely, as though she were seventeen and had lost him all over again. She had wanted to avoid this pain. Instead, for the first time in years, the hard carapace that she had built about her heart to protect her felt as though it was breaking. She did not know why it hurt so much. She knew that she had no future with Devlin, knew, too, that at the end of this charade she would slip away, pay for the annulment and be gone. In a month she could very courteously end the betrothal—she did not flatter herself that Fitz’s feelings would be touched: only his pride and his wallet—pocket her payoff from the Duke and Duchess and slip away. She would never see any of them again. A month seemed an unconscionably long time.
She took her bath in the rose-scented water that Margery had so thoughtfully provided, dressed listlessly and wandered downstairs. Underneath all the notes of congratulation that had already accumulated on the hall table were the letters that she had dreaded finding the night before. Her heart did a small, uncomfortable flip. She took them out of the pile and went into the drawing room, closing the door behind her.
Her hand shook as she opened the first one. The moneylenders were not so polite this time, which was not surprising since she had ignored their previous missive. Susanna thought of the possibility of them going to Fitz and telling him that she was in debt and was not the rich widow he thought her. The delicate structure of her charade shivered a little. One word out of place, one false step and the delicate pretense she had built would be ruined and she would tumble back to the poorhouse, and take Rory and Rose with her. He heart swooped. How she hated this tangled web. She was so desperate to be free of it all.
There was another anonymous note. She recognized the bold black capitals and the arrogant strokes that said her mysterious correspondent had a hold over her and was determined to use it.
“If you wish me to keep your secrets meet me in the Bell Tavern in Seven Dials on Saturday night.”
Susanna stood up, crushing the letters fiercely and throwing them into the grate. She had no intention of keeping so dangerous an assignation. Yet if she did not there was no telling what her blackmailer might do. She thought of Devlin. Her heart was full of doubt and uncertainty. Surely it was not possible for Dev to make love to her with such passion and such tenderness, and then to pen a letter threatening to hurt her. They were locked in conflict equally as much as desire and yet she could not, she would not, believe Dev so dishonorable that he would threaten her like this. But if not Devlin then whom? Had he told his sister her secret
? Could Chessie be blackmailing her out of jealousy and revenge because she had stolen Fitz from her?
Whoever the blackmailer proved to be, Susanna knew she could not ignore them, for they held her future in their hands. They could destroy her, plunge her back into the nightmare of poverty and ruin. She felt the flutter of panic spread through her, setting her shaking. She had nowhere to turn and no one to help her.
Then she paused. There was one other person who knew who she was and perhaps—just perhaps—he might be able to aid her. Ignoring Margery’s protests that she could not possibly go out when there was so much to be done, she asked John to call a hackney carriage and set out for Holborn.
She stepped down outside the discreet door of Churchward and Churchward, lawyers to the noble and discerning. The Duke and Duchess of Alton, naturally enough, had no desire to pay her directly and so she had been instructed to submit her bills to Mr. Churchward and also to go to him should she have any financial or other matters that required attention. Susanna hesitated for a moment then set her hand to the knocker. She did not want to trouble Mr. Churchward. She was accustomed to dealing with her own problems, had done so all her life. But she needed assistance urgently. There was no alternative. Squaring her shoulders, she knocked decisively on the door. It seemed an inordinate amount of time before the door swung open and a man Susanna assumed to be a clerk stood in the doorway.
“I would like to see Mr. Churchward, if you please,” Susanna said in a rush.
The clerk looked down his nose. “Do you have an appointment, madam?”
“No,” Susanna said, “but it is very important.” She could hear the desperation in her own voice. “My name is Lady Carew. Please tell Mr. Churchward that it is extremely urgent that I see him.”
For a moment she thought that the clerk would refuse but then he stepped back reluctantly to allow her inside. She followed him up a polished wooden stair and was shown into a neat waiting room. She found she could not sit. She was too agitated. Fortunately Mr. Churchward did not keep her waiting long.
Nicola Cornick Collection Page 37