Thompson seemed to have the same opinion, for he nodded shortly and continued, “There is one other matter. I believe you are currently neighbors with a certain Sir Jeremy Ashbey?”
Ashbey? Jack’s fingers tightened on his glass, and he sat up straighter. “Yes, we are.”
“We have been watching him for a while now. He is, shall we say, a suspicious character.”
Jack knew that very well—he had been suspicious of the man ever since he had seen him escorting Emma at the reception. But there must be something more to all this if a man like Thompson concerned himself with it. “Suspicious in what way, sir?”
“For one thing, suspicious in how eager he was to gain the position with the Russian embassy. His family has no history of diplomatic service—indeed, his father was a terrible wastrel, and his mother a very odd woman from a very odd family. And he spoke little Russian, though he progressed remarkably well in learning the language. He was told by the Foreign Service that there was no place available, and there was not. Until a certain Lord Travers passed away.”
Jack remembered vaguely hearing of this. A young though already distinguished diplomat had died in his sleep of a sudden illness and been replaced by—Ashbey?
Thompson went on. “Yes, you are thinking that many people die in their sleep, even young people. Yet Travers was perfectly healthy, an active young man. The only thing our people could find was that Travers had taken supper at his club the night before—with Ashbey.”
Jack stared at him in mounting horror, stared as Thompson pulled out a thick sheaf of papers from under the table. Ashbey a murderer? And he was right next door to Jack’s own wife.
“Shocking, I know,” Thompson said. “I would not have called you here if I had not known that young Stone-wich would stay at your home for these few days and keep an eye on things. But I felt you should see these papers. Seeing that you are the man’s neighbor and all.”
Still cold with fear and anger, Jack pulled the documents toward him and began reading. What he saw there was not comforting at all.
He had to go home.
———
The day of Emma’s picnic dawned bright and warm, ideal for alfresco dining, with a blue, blue sky and a sweet freshness in the air. The footmen, under the careful direction of Madame Ana, hurried around the garden, setting up tables and chairs and adjusting canopies for shade. The housemaids followed behind, spreading the tables with freshly pressed cloths in soft tints of pink and blue. Later, they would bring out the china, silver and crystal, but not until just before the guests arrived.
Rich, enticing aromas drifted up from the kitchens as the cook plied her art, delighted to finally have an audience to enjoy her creations.
It would have been perfect, Emma thought, as she watched all the activity from the terrace. Perfect—if it hadn’t been more than a week since Jack left.
She had received one note from him, saying he had arrived safely in Town and would be staying at his old lodgings if she had need of him. That was it. Nothing since.
She had busied herself in that week, and the days had gone quickly. She had supper at Watley Hall twice, and attended her first Altar Society meeting at the vicarage. She planned to attend the dance in the village assembly rooms on Saturday, and arrangements for her “simple” picnic took more time than she had thought they would. She took supper each evening with Bertie and Madame Ana in the dining room, just the three of them at the long table.
Bertie, once he left behind his Town dandy trappings and settled into country life, was an entertaining companion. He told amusing stories and kept them laughing. He went into the village with them when they needed to shop and did not seem to care how long they spent poring over ribbons and hats. He played cards with them in the evening and once even played the pianoforte, at which he was surprisingly adept.
Even Madame Ana seemed to be softening toward him, just a tiny bit. She allowed him to help her sort her embroidery silks and even condescended to smile at one or two of his jokes.
Despite the fact that he had proved to be more amiable company than Emma would have supposed, though, he was irritatingly closemouthed about Jack. Oh, he was free enough with tales of their boyish pranks together and some of their exploits in Spain, but whenever Emma tried to draw him out about Jack’s sudden London “business,” he would adroitly change the topic.
It was maddening! If only she would receive a message from him, or hear something. Things had been going well here—very well, she thought. It was disconcerting, to say the least, to have her husband suddenly vanish.
Emma sighed and peered down at the guest list propped on the table beside her glass of lemonade. Almost everyone she had invited had accepted and been checked off the list. Including Sir Jeremy and Miss Maria Ashbey—the one other thing that kept the day from complete perfection.
It was a minor matter, of course, especially compared to Jack’s absence, but one that was disquieting still. She simply could not be comfortable in the presence of Sir Jeremy. She could not forget the strange, heated way he had stared at her on their drive in the park or the way he watched her from a distance whenever they had met since.
Fortunately, they had only met twice since Jack left, once at Watley Hall and once by accident in the village. Bertie had been present both times and had neatly kept Sir Jeremy at a distance from her. It had been so neat as to be unnoticeable that that was what he was doing, but Emma had been very grateful. It was as if he guessed at her discomfort and did what he could to help.
There was nothing she could do to avoid asking Sir Jeremy and his never seen sister to the picnic, though. It was a very small community, and they were a part of it. She hoped all would go well, though. It had to.
Emma laid aside the guest list and looked at her to-do list. It was quite short, thanks to the formidable efficiency of Madame Ana. The tables and canopies were set up, the wine fetched up from the cellars, musicians hired to serenade the guests as they feasted on pate and spinach tarts. Really, all she had to do was change her gown and wait to be the gracious hostess, greeting her guests.
She drank the last of her lemonade and smiled as she wondered if her mother was looking down on her now, happy to see her beloved home coming to life again.
It was a comforting thought, and one that distracted her from Jack and Sir Jeremy. She was even further distracted when Natasha came out onto the terrace, holding the morning’s post on a tray.
“Letters for you, my lady,” she said, putting the tray down on the table. She wandered over to the balustrade to watch the flurry of activity in the garden. “It does look lovely, doesn’t it? Like something in a storybook.”
“Yes. It is all coming together very well,” Emma answered, shuffling through the post. “Ah, a letter from Aunt Lydia! I did wonder when we would hear from her.” She put the neatly penned, pale blue letter aside to read slowly and savor later. There were notes and invitations from her new local friends, and at the very bottom of the stack, the thing she had been waiting for. A missive addressed to her in Jack’s strong, black scrawl.
There was no waiting for this one. She broke the wax seal and read it right away.
“News from Lord St. Albans?” Natasha asked.
Emma smiled at Natasha’s teasing tone. “Perhaps.”
“It must be, my lady, for you to seem so pleased! It is good news, then?”
Emma scanned the short message again, then folded it up carefully. She smiled at the sweet words there. “Good enough. He says his business is soon to be concluded, and he will be arriving back here at Weston Manor on Friday evening. So he will be able to attend the assembly on Saturday!”
“Oh, that is good news, indeed! Is that all his lordship says?”
Emma could feel herself blushing at the thought of the short, but intimate, postscript. “Yes. That is all. Now, I really must go upstairs and dress! The guests will be arriving soon.” She gathered up her letters and hurried back into the house, Natasha following.
&
nbsp; In the foyer, just as she put her foot on the staircase, a footman rushed up to her.
“Oh, my lady!” he said breathlessly. “Cook says you must come to the kitchen at once. There is a dire emergency with the strawberry trifle.”
“A trifle emergency, is it? Well, we cannot have that! Of course I will come at once.” Emma turned to Natasha and said, “Natasha, can you just lay out my blue muslin, and I will change into it as soon as everything is set in the kitchen.”
“Of course, my lady.” Natasha ran up the stairs, as Emma turned toward the door that led to the kitchens.
She put her letters down on one of the tables in the foyer, intending to fetch them as she went to her chamber.
But after the kitchen dilemma was solved, there was a question about the wine and a problem with some of the tablecloths. By the time she was able to attend to her attire, she had quite forgotten the letters and did not fetch them until much later, after the picnic was already over and done.
———
Despite the last minute flurry of small difficulties, the picnic seemed to come off beautifully. Talk and laughter, the clink of heavy silver against delicate china, the strains of the string quartet’s Mozart divertimento, mingled in the warm summer air. There was an atmosphere of great conviviality and gaiety, becoming even more so as the afternoon moved on and more and more wine was consumed. Tiered china trays filled with beautifully decorated cakes and pastries, slices of glistening fruit and wedges of plump, pale cheeses were brought out and passed around to many exclamations.
Lady Watley took two tiny cream cakes, then a lemon one decorated with a sugared violet. “Oh, my dear Emma, I should not be so greedy, but I cannot seem to help myself! These cakes are an utter delight.”
Emma laughed and helped herself to a cake topped with slivered almonds. “No, Aunt Amelia, you must take as many as you like! It is a party, after all.”
“And a most enjoyable one,” Lady Watley said. “I must say it is wonderful to see Weston Manor looking so very full of life again.”
“I hope you are enjoying your stay here, Lady St. Albans,” the vicar said.
“Oh, yes, very much,” answered Emma. “My husband and I hope to spend a great deal of time here in the future.”
The vicar’s wife nodded. “Such additions you have been to the neighborhood! It is just too bad that Lord St. Albans had to miss this lovely day.”
Emma opened her mouth to explain yet again the reason why Jack missed this picnic, when someone behind her said, “Indeed it is a pity Lord St. Albans is not here. So derelict of him to leave his lovely bride.”
Emma peered over her shoulder, startled to see Sir Jeremy there. She had been so enjoying her day that she had not even noticed him leaving his own table and crossing the garden to hers. She darted a glance over there and saw that his pale, quiet sister still sat there. She also saw Bertie Stonewich leaving his companions and edging closer.
Emma gazed at Sir Jeremy, who stared back at her with that odd, intent stare he always seemed to wear. He stood closer than he should have, and his hand moved shghtly, as if to touch her. Though Emma found this all to be most disconcerting, she had no fear, as she might have before. Not here in the bright sunlight, with all these people around her. Not with the knowledge that Jack was coming home soon.
Sir Jeremy could do nothing but stare at her, really. He could not hurt her.
She stood up and reached for her parasol, which was furled and leaning against the table. Despite the absence of fear, she still liked the solid feeling of its heavy, carved ivory handle in her grip. “Lord St. Albans had urgent business to attend to, or else he never would have missed this picnic. He will be back very soon, though.”
“Indeed?” Sir Jeremy said.
“Indeed,” Emma answered emphatically. “Now, if everyone here will excuse me, I would so much like to speak with your sister, Sir Jeremy. I have not had the chance to converse with her since you arrived.”
“Of course, Lady St. Albans. Maria would be delighted. Shall I escort you to her?” Sir Jeremy offered her his arm.
Emma hesitated, but finally placed her hand on his green wool sleeve. It would be too odd to refuse him here at her own home, and the last thing she wanted to do was cause a scene with him. The man seemed so tightly wired, as if any small thing would be likely to set him off into—something. Like the way the muscles in his arm clenched when she touched him.
She walked off with him along the rose-bordered path toward where his sister sat. Emma tried to smile and chatter as if this was a perfectly ordinary situation. “Such a very fine day! I am so glad it did not rain and spoil things.”
“A fine day,” he agreed. “Just like that day when we were children. It was so—perfect then.”
That blighted day again. Emma wished her mother had never thought of having a picnic then, so she would not have to talk about it now. “I do not remember that day,” she said, as gently as she could.
Sir Jeremy stopped walking, pulling her to a halt on the pathway. “I am sure you could remember, if you just looked about! It was just like today, except now you are even more beautiful. I dreamed we would come back here, have our own picnics, watch our own children walk here…”
“Sir Jeremy!” Emma stepped away from him, clutching at her parasol. “You must not speak to me like this. I am a married woman.”
He turned his back to her, his shoulders heaving with the force of his deep breaths. “You were meant to be married to me,” he muttered, but Emma was not entirely sure she heard him correctly, his voice was so muffled.
“Lady St. Albans!” she heard Bertie call, and she turned to him gratefully as he came hurrying down the path to her side. “I am sorry to tear you away, but I fear Madame Ana has a question for you that cannot wait.”
Emma could have hugged the man in her joy at not being alone with Sir Jeremy any longer. Ashbey was really the outside of enough, and she could not stand his creeping behavior a moment longer. It was too strange. No one stayed obsessed with a girl he had met as a child, for heaven’s sake. No sane man. “Of course, Mr. Stonewich, I will come immediately.” She glanced once more at Sir Jeremy’s back before she turned away. “Sir Jeremy can have nothing more to say to me.”
———
Sir Jeremy slipped into the house once Emma had been carried away by that damnable Stonewich man. He did not want to see anyone at the moment, did not want to speak to anyone, especially Maria with her silent, questioning glances. The fire of anger, of fury, was in his blood, and it had to come out or burn him alive from the inside! He feared that if his sister came too close, he would take out his fury at Emma on her and strangle her with his very hands.
He had been a fool. He saw that now. A fool who had carried the dream of love in his heart for so long that he had not been able to see that the sweet and tender girl child he loved had grown into a cold, scheming harpy.
She said she did not remember that long-ago picnic, but he knew that she must. No one could have forgotten its sweet perfection. She just did not care. She had the chance to marry a great title, and she had abandoned their love, the love that had been growing for so long, without a second thought. Just to become a viscountess!
Jeremy stared up at the portrait above the fireplace, of a dark-haired woman and the very child he had loved. Innocence and joy shone from those painted eyes, not the avarice they held now.
He whirled around and ran from that portrait, out into the foyer. It was so far from the party that no sound penetrated there. There was no one to look at him, to laugh at him. There was only a table there, decorated with a large vase of garden roses.
Even they seemed to mock him, with their pink and white beauty. With a furious cry, he dashed it to the marble floor, shattering the crystal vase into a thousand pieces. Flowers, water and shimmering shards scattered everywhere.
He also knocked a pile of letters to the floor, and one landed on his boot. He bent and picked it up, and even read it when he saw that
it was from him, from the demon who had stolen away Jeremy’s lovely girl.
The tender postscript written there was like another sliver of crystal driven into his wounded heart. But there was more there than his lying love words. Much more.
He dropped the letter and ran out the front door, forgetting that his sister waited for him, forgetting everything but a new plan that was forming in his mind. A plan to help him retrieve everything that had been stolen from him.
Everything.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Her husband was coming home this evening! Perhaps. Her shoulders slumped at that thought. Perhaps wasn’t good enough. She wanted him beside her now.
Emma stood by her bedroom window and watched the rain that poured down outside, steady, silvery sheets of it. Evening was coming, and the only way she could tell was that the thick clouds overhead were slowly changing from gray to black.
“The roads will be muddy,” Madame Ana observed, from the small table where she was going over household accounts. “I hope his lordship doesn’t become stuck somewhere in the mud.”
“Stuck,” Emma murmured, and sighed. That was the one thing she had not yet worried about. She had thought he might have to shelter at an inn or perhaps had not even left London. But it was true that if he was traveling in a carriage there was every likelihood that he could get caught in the mud. It would probably be tomorrow before he arrived. And after they had planned a special supper to welcome him home, and Emma had asked Natasha to press her loveliest evening gown!
Oh, well, she thought. The weather could not be helped, and the supper would still be delicious. She tried to push the disappointment away, but it still sat there, cold and hard, in her stomach.
Emma pushed away from the window and went back to sit at the table with Madame Ana. She was supposed to be going over the accounts with her, not sighing at the window like some silly girl in a romantic play!
“The rain appears to be easing a bit,” Madame Ana said. “I am sure Lord St. Albans will be home tomorrow, if not this evening.”
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