Grandmère immediately lowered the lorgnette and sat back in her chair with an indignant twitch of her shoulders. “Oh! I shall not look in that direction again!”
“Who in the world is Mrs. Willoughby?” Emma kept her gaze riveted on the box Lord Harwich indicated as a dark-haired woman entered on the arm of a formally dressed gentleman.
Emma observed them with great interest. Even the actors on the stage seemed to be aware of the late arrivals.
The beautiful brunette glided to the front of the box and stood for a moment where she could be seen more easily by the entire theatre.
It was difficult to judge her height, but her slim, graceful figure gave the impression of regal tallness. Her dark hair, arranged in a riot of ringlets artfully erupting from a toque, must have taken her maid hours to perfect. Her claret-and cream-colored gown revealed an elegant expanse of alabaster décolletage.
Even from this distance, Emma saw that her complexion gleamed pale and flawless beneath the thousands of candles, and her lips were glossy crimson.
Emma, who had inherited a fondness for jewels from her mother and grandmother, took note of the glittering collar of rubies, or garnets, encircling Mrs. Willoughby’s neck. A brooch with the same stone the size of a pigeon’s egg rested in a gather of silk between her breasts.
Emma continued to observe the mysterious woman, fascinated by the manner in which the crowd seemed to be holding their collective breaths at her appearance. Mrs. Willoughby stood above them like a queen accepting tribute from her subjects.
“Who is she?” She directed her question to the earl, who cast Grandmère a hesitant look, as if seeking her permission to speak.
Turning her nose up with a sniff, Grandmère said, “I am sure the subject of Mrs. Willoughby cannot be avoided for long. It is bad enough that the cits and hoi polloi speak of nothing else, but her name is on the lips of half the ton as well. And I cannot see why. I will own that she is an attractive woman, but certainly nothing out of the most common way. My granddaughter’s beauty outshines hers tenfold.”
Lord Harwich inclined his head. “I agree. Lady Fallbrook has no rival in beauty, but Mrs. Willoughby has no rival in infamy.”
“Please, Lord Harwich, though I could happily listen to your compliments all evening, I am exceedingly curious about the mysterious Mrs. Willoughby.” Emma glanced back to see that the woman had finally taken the seat next to her escort.
“It’s a shocking tale, Lady Fallbrook, though everyone knows of it. Mrs. Willoughby burst on the scene last Season in some utterly forgettable opera. Soon Lord Monteford, old Pellerton’s heir … er … befriended her. Shortly thereafter, she quit the theatre and started appearing all over town, driving a bright red carriage with white ponies, wearing a different set of jewels every day.”
Grandmère abandoned her indifferent pose and tapped her fan sharply on her chair arm. “She is a woman given over to a shameful want of decency and decorum. Monteford’s mama, an old friend of mine, has taken to her bed over the fortune he has squandered on that wanton.” She glared at the box despite her earlier avowal not to look in that direction again.
“Is there a Mr. Willoughby?” Emma asked the earl.
“No one seems to know for sure. But there is a rumor that Monteford pays a bit of blunt to keep him snug in the country.”
“Despite her queenly demeanor, she is a wretched creature who does not even have the decency to be discreet in her depravity,” Grandmère put in.
Emma continued to watch Mrs. Willoughby and Lord Monteford. “Indeed, the better part of depravity is discretion.”
Lord Harwich chuckled at this quip and Grandmère scowled.
“She is exceedingly beautiful,” Emma continued. Though she was certainly not naïve about the ways of the world, she had never seen a mistress of a member of Polite Society show herself so openly in public. She found herself quite curious about Mrs. Willoughby, marveling at how the woman obviously enjoyed her notoriety.
“Yes. All of London has fallen under her spell. Crowds follow her and a day rarely passes without mention of her in the gossip papers,” Lord Harwich replied.
How daring, how fascinating, Emma mused, before turning her attention to Mrs. Willoughby’s companion, Lord Monteford. He seemed to take no notice of the crowd’s attention and kept his impassive gaze on the stage.
To be sure, he was a rather impressive-looking gentleman. His pale brown hair was swept back from a nobly proportioned forehead. His features were handsome in the classical mode. The only flaw she noted—saving him from being almost pretty—was his rather thin lips. His build was above slim, though athletic, and his superbly cut evening clothes accented his shoulders.
As for his whole demeanor, she observed, he came off a bit proud, but that may have only been due to having to keep his chin lifted above his high collar, she surmised charitably.
As she did her best to watch Mrs. Willoughby and Lord Monteford inconspicuously, Grandmère and Lord Harwich conversed quietly and turned their attention back to the play.
After another moment, Emma followed their suit only to see that the play had not improved. She allowed her attention to wander again. Most of the crowd attended to their own conversations and gawked at Mrs. Willoughby. The players on stage could barely be heard above the restless din.
Suddenly, the lead actor caught Emma’s attention by doing something quite strange.
He moved to the middle of the stage and remained completely still and quiet even though it was apparent that the next line was his. After a moment, as people began to take notice and quiet down, he turned away from the leading lady and faced the audience.
As the other actors looked at one another nervously, he moved forward to the edge of the stage, finally gaining the full attention of the spectators.
Emma exchanged a curious glance with her grandmother, but the old lady’s shrug showed that she was just as confused by the actor’s odd behavior.
Whatever his intention, the effect was quite dramatic. Emma watched the man, fascinated to see what he would do next.
“Indeed, Gwendolyn,” he suddenly spoke in a tone that carried throughout the theatre, addressing the audience rather than the confused actress playing Gwendolyn. “There are few to rival you in beauty.”
His voice rose as he spread his arms wide before continuing, a mischievous smile spreading across his face.
“Our own Queen Willow has reigned supreme for a Season or two, thrilling us all with the ethereal beauty of her person,” he began in a baritone voice filled with mock gravity. “But the sudden arrival of a true lady from the north—whose enchanting splendor and effortless charm captured our admiration so quickly—may well dethrone Queen Willow from our hearts. We, their humble subjects, can only wait and watch with delight for what may happen next.” He lifted both arms up, gesturing dramatically toward the boxes holding Mrs. Willoughby and Emma.
Collectively, the crowd gasped in shock at this unusual departure from the play, then let out a tremendous roar of excitement.
Astonished, Emma watch as hundreds of heads turned to look up and stare from her to Mrs. Willoughby, clapping and stamping their feet in approval of the actor’s impromptu speech.
Emma froze, unable to look at her grandmother or Lord Harwich, for there was no mistaking that the actor referred to her as the true lady from the north.
After a few choked gasps and splutters, Grandmère finally found her voice and said, “This is an outrage! I shall have a word with the manager about this—sink me if I don’t!”
The rumbling applause grew so loud the very walls seemed to vibrate.
“Please allow me the honor of making the complaint for you, Duchess. I shall know how to deal with such impertinence,”
Lord Harwich stated in an attempt to soothe the dowager’s outrage.
“How dare that turnip place a reference to my granddaughter in the same sentence with that trollop—just to divert the lower classes from this wretched play! Such insolence
is inexcusable!” Grandmère’s outrage could not be assuaged.
In her astonishment and confusion, Emma glanced over to the box Mrs. Willoughby occupied. To her surprise, the woman was looking directly at her. The anger in her gaze was plain even from this distance and the intensity of the glare was startling.
Emma quickly pulled her gaze away and immediately met Lord Monteford’s eyes. The amused twist to his lips showed that he had not taken offense at the actor’s cheeky conduct. His smile widened as he held her gaze, until she lifted her chin slightly and looked away.
To her utter relief, the curtain finally fell on the first act. However, the crowd did not cease its deafening cheer.
“Shall we leave, Grandmère?” Emma asked. She had never found herself the object of such public scrutiny and felt completely at a loss as what to do.
“We shall not! Indeed, why should we leave? We shall stare this rabble out of countenance and stand our ground.”
Lord Harwich slapped his knee. “That’s the way to do it, Duchess! Just like you to face things out. And I see your granddaughter takes after you. We shall ignore this noisy horde and show them how their betters behave.”
Emma could not help but smile at Lord Harwich’s enthusiasm and felt some of her shock at receiving such unwanted attention dissolve.
Her upbringing had instilled in her a deep abhorrence of any kind of public attention, but that same demanding schooling had given her the effortless ability to keep her composure no matter the inner conflict.
Keenly aware of the staring crowd, she opened her fan and began to use it on her cheeks in a desultory fashion, her expression serene.
To her surprise, the crowd applauded even more vigorously.
Feeling almost painfully self-conscious, she reminded herself that her sole purpose in coming to London was to leave her dull life behind for a while.
Well, she was certainly off to a good start, she mused, keeping her gaze fixed on the stage as the crowd continued to cheer.
Chapter Two
A fine rain misted the tree-lined lane and the crier bellowed half past midnight as Jack Devruex was admitted into Mrs. Willoughby’s elegant townhouse by her equally elegant butler.
“Good evening, my lord,” the thin man intoned as he took Jack’s hat and gloves. “Mrs. Willoughby and his lordship are in the drawing room with the rest of their guests.”
“Thank you, Rivers, no need to announce me.” Long strides took him through the entryway and up the stairs, for he knew his way around Sally Willoughby’s house quite well. He whistled as he strolled along the narrow hallway, feeling quite satisfied with the world this night.
After an arduous harvest and an even more challenging winter, he’d been more than ready to leave the cares of his estates to his managers while he concentrated on his real interests. His plan was proceeding in an exceedingly satisfactory manner evidenced by the raucous evening he had just spent celebrating the success of a promising filly.
The horse, a three-year-old he had sensed was special from the week of her birth, had performed incredibly well today in an informal race against the Duke of Grafton’s favorite new bit of blood.
He slapped his fist into his palm in satisfaction at the memory. By damn, but Circes loved to run. More than that, she could not stand to trail behind any other horse in the field. She had stamina, heart and that indefinable something that told him she could be a winner.
Even Grafton—whose monumental success as a thoroughbred breeder Jack desired to emulate—had been impressed with the chestnut thoroughbred, and lingered after the race to discuss breeding programs and training theories.
Barring the unexpected, and Providence knew that in horse breeding the unexpected was the normal mode of things, Circes had the stuff to win the Severly Stakes next month. If she did, the future of his stud would be secured. Winning the Severly meant everything.
But for now, he would conclude his revelry by spending the end of it with a few old friends at Sal Willoughby’s townhouse.
As he approached the drawing room he could hear loud laughter even from this distance.
A sleepy footman bowed and opened the door to a sumptuously decorated sitting room. Jack stepped in and saw the familiar swags of maroon and gold velvet draping the windows. Braces of candles sputtered low in their sockets and a faintly sweet, musky scent lay heavy in the air. This and the numerous cushions and pillows strewn about gave the room a vaguely decadent, haremlike feel. How like Sally Willoughby to have even her drawing room reflect her sensual personality.
He saw that in addition to Sally and Monteford, Lords Darley and Bellingham and Mrs. Pennyworth also lounged around the room. Jack took note of the empty bottle of champagne on a table next to the beautiful Sally Willoughby. He also saw a number of empty bottles of port discarded near the other guests.
Conversation ceased as everyone turned at his entry and he performed a casual bow to his hostess. “Good evening, dear Sal. It looks as if I have a bit of catching up to do,” he said, with a droll glance toward the spent bottles.
“Devruex!” Sally cried in pleasure. Jumping up, she quickly crossed the room to curtsy to the baron. “I knew you would come! Your friends said that you had no doubt found other amusements, but I knew you would not go back on your promise to visit.”
She put her hand in the crook of his elbow and drew him farther into the room as the others rose from their sprawling poses on the various pieces of furniture.
“Evening, Monteford,” Jack said after greeting the others.
A hint of a smile lurked in the corner of his old friend’s mouth as he returned the greeting. “How like you to arrive just when we are about to broach another bottle of brandy.”
“Indeed!” Lord Darley agreed before Jack could respond. “I was just saying that it was too bad that Devruex’s not here to enjoy this fine vintage—and in you walk!”
“Must be clairvoyant, Darley,” fat Lord Bellingham declared from his place next to the blond Mrs. Pennyworth.
“Clairvoyant!” Mrs. Pennyworth screeched and went off into gales of giggles for no apparent reason.
Sally, looking exquisitely beautiful in a claret-and-cream-colored gown that flattered her pale complexion, handed Jack a snifter filled with a generous portion of brandy and gestured to the chair next to hers.
The expression in her dark eyes as they held his told him more than words could how pleased she was to see him. The smile he sent her in return was polite but subdued. He certainly had no desire to poach his friend’s mistress, no matter how many sultry looks the lovely Mrs. Willoughby sent him.
He leaned back in the comfortable chair, crossed his ankles and took a satisfying swallow of the amber liquid.
Sally sent him another smile. “We missed your company at the theatre tonight. The play was quite unexceptional, but it would have been ever so much better to have had your sharp and amusing observations to divert us.”
“It’s nice to be missed,” Jack said, acknowledging the compliment by lofting his glass in her direction.
“Yes, you should have been there, Devruex. One of the demmed actors got some maggot in his brain and diverted from the script.”
By the amused look Monteford shot Sally as he spoke, and the sour look she sent him in return, Jack suspected there was much more to the story.
With an angry wave of her hand, Sally said, “That wretched creature! How dare he suggest some oddly garbed woman could rival me in any way.”
A flash of annoyance crossed Monteford’s features, but he remained slouched on the sofa, rolling his glass of brandy between his hands. “Well, my love, that oddly garbed woman is the Lady Fallbrook, and she is an extremely wealthy widow, as well as strikingly beautiful.”
Sally sent the viscount such a look of vexation that Jack raised a brow and Lord Bellingham and Mrs. Pennyworth exchanged knowing glances.
Monteford grinned at his mistress’ mute fury. “But of course, yours is a beauty that has no rival, my love.”
> Jack saw with amusement that Sally did not seem at all mollified by Monteford’s halfheartedly offered olive branch.
He was about to offer his own compliment when Monteford’s words suddenly sank in.
Lady Fallbrook. The words seemed to reverberate through his body. He tightened his grip on the glass before it could slip from his suddenly lax fingers.
“Did you say Lady Emmaline Fallbrook?” Even to his own ears his tone sounded sharp.
Monteford raised his brows at Jack’s question. “Yes. She has not been to Town in ages even though she was widowed five or six years ago.”
Emmaline Fallbrook. For an instant, the last thirteen years vanished and a vision of sea blue eyes, thick light brown hair, a swanlike neck, and the sound of deep, bubbling laughter besieged Jack’s senses.
“Lady Fallbrook?” Mrs. Pennyworth slurred the name from her half-prone position on the sofa. “Someone pointed her out to me in the park t’other day. Everyone was commenting on the striking style of her habit.”
Lord Darley uncrossed his legs, sat up, and pushed his flaxen hair off his forehead. “I too saw Lady Fallbrook in the park. Exquisite creature! You will think me incredibly clever when I tell you that I ferreted out the information that the perfectly perfect Lady Fallbrook will be attending Lady Colhurst’s ball tomorrow night. Make no doubt that I shall make it my business to be there. And I shall have no problem gaining an introduction, for her granny and mine have known each other since they were babes.”
Sally Willoughby gave a loud sniff. “I grant you that she is an attractive woman, but I did not notice anything out of the ordinary way.”
Darley pushed himself further up in his chair and a beatific smile spread across his features. “Attractive? My dear Sally, I would describe Lady Fallbrook as magnificently elegant, incomparably graceful, with a visage that may be more hauntingly striking than classically beautiful, but I would never use such a weak word as attractive.”
“Lady Fallbrook, you say? I don’t believe I am acquainted with any Fallbrooks,” Lord Bellingham said as Mrs. Pennyworth refilled his glass from the half-empty bottle next to her chair.
Lady Emma's Dilemma (9781101573662) Page 2