David resolutely pushed himself back from the table and stood to leave the breakfast room. He would begin this knight-errant mission with a visit to the florist.
“I beg your pardon, my lady, but these just came for you.”
Emily paused in tying her bonnet ribbons to turn to her maid, Becky. Georgina and Elizabeth Anne were waiting downstairs to depart for Gunter’s, and Emily was in a great hurry to join them, if only the slippery satin would cease knotting so! She yanked hard at them, drawing the hat from her head.
But her fit of impatience faded when she saw what Becky held.
Flowers—but not just any flowers. Emily received posies almost every day, roses and violets and sometimes lilies. But none like these—great profusions of orchids that were creamiest white at the petals’ edges shading into midnight purple in the center. They were arranged in a basket, tied about with purple velvet ribbon. They were exotic and enticing, filling the chamber with rich perfume. Where had they been found, here in London?
Emily reached out for them, cradling them in her arms. They seemed almost unreal, as if they had been blown in from an exotic island, floating on ocean breezes to land in her room.
Tucked amongst the blooms was a note, yet Emily knew who they must be from even before she opened it. None of her usual suitors had the imagination for such flowers.
Lady Emily—they reminded me of you. Thank you for our drive. David
That was all it said, scrawled in a strong hand across the rich vellum. But it was enough.
She did not deserve such flowers. Or such a friend.
But she cherished them nonetheless. Her soul seemed to overflow as she buried her face in the orchids, drawing in all their sweet essence. “Oh, David,” she whispered.
“Shall I put them in water for you, my lady?” Becky asked.
Emily breathed in sharply, and pulled away from the bouquet. She had quite forgotten she was not alone! She could not afford to drift so far from reality—not now.
“Thank you, Becky,” Emily said, and handed back the bouquet, her fingers drifting slowly away from the satiny petals. “Is the duchess still waiting downstairs?”
“Yes, my lady. The carriage has been called.”
Emily nodded, and took up her abandoned bonnet before drifting out of the room. In the foyer, Georgina was putting on her own hat in front of the mirror while Elizabeth Anne fidgeted at the foot of the stairs so that her nursemaid could hardly button her cloak for her. As soon as she saw Emily, the child broke away from the frustrated maid and dashed forward to seize her hand.
“Oh, Aunt Emily! Were those flowers for you?” she asked breathlessly.
“Indeed they were,” Emily answered with a smile, swinging her niece into the air until she squealed with glee. “Are they not beautiful?”
“Bee-yoo-ti-ful!” Elizabeth Anne cried. “Were they from a prince? An Arabian prince?” Elizabeth Anne was reading the Arabian Nights with her new governess, and was now full of questions about myrrh and jeweled turbans and flying carpets.
“I would say an Indian prince,” Georgina said, laughing. “Now, Elizabeth Anne, cease hanging on your auntie like that. You will crease her gown. The carriage is waiting.” She tugged her child away, and gave Emily a wink. “I am sure Aunt Emily will tell us all about it later.”
Gunter’s was crowded at that hour, as it almost always was, with well-dressed hordes in search of fresh ices and delectable pastries. The tables were filled, and customers spilled out into the square to eat their treats on the benches and while strolling the pathways.
As Emily, Georgina, and Elizabeth Anne waited their turn to order, Elizabeth Anne changed her mind at least five times.
No, six. “I want strawberry, Mama. Do they have strawberry today?”
“I thought you wanted apricot, dearest,” Georgina said, straightening her progeny’s lopsided hair ribbon.
“Perhaps I do. What are you having, Aunt Emily?”
Emily sighed. She loved her niece dearly, truly she did, but sometimes her relentless energy was the tiniest bit wearying. As she turned to answer Elizabeth Anne, she suddenly paused, her attention captured by some new sweet-seekers just coming in the door. It was a little girl, not a great deal older than Elizabeth Anne—the most exquisite child Emily had ever seen. She was tiny, like a little doll in her white, fur-collared pelisse and pink frock, a little white fur hat perched atop her head. Long, glossy waves of black hair framed a small, pale oval face, and green eyes peeked shyly around the room. She hung back a bit, as if unsure about being suddenly in such a crowd.
Emily’s heart went out to her. She understood what it was like to be watched, to be thrust into situations not of her own making.
The child reached up her hand to catch at a man’s dark-gloved fingers. The gentleman bent down to speak to her, removing his hat to reveal his own luxuriant black hair, the same shade as the child’s.
And suddenly Emily perfectly understood the girl’s otherworldly beauty. It was David she was with. David who must be her father. This was the little girl he had spoken of.
Her mother must have been a great beauty, indeed.
Elizabeth Anne turned to see what had captured her aunt’s attention. “Oh!” the child cried out. “That must be an Arabian princess!”
The other child’s green eyes widened at this new attention, and she tensed as if she might flee. David put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and spoke softly in her ear.
Emily made her way across the room toward them, not seeing anyone watching her, not hearing Mr. Carrington calling her name from his table. She only saw David and that glorious bouquet of orchids before her eyes, and she had to speak to him.
He glanced up and saw her, and smiled in greeting, a flash of warmth leaping into his black eyes. That smile could truly have rivaled the bright afternoon, and it coaxed an answering smile from Emily.
But not from the Arabian princess. A small frown puckered her ivory brow, and she drew back against her father.
David’s hand stayed on her shoulder, and that dreamlike bubble around Emily burst like an overly full rain-cloud. They were a family, these two, and she was an outsider. Always an outsider.
She did not want to show any discomfiture, though. She kept her smile firmly in place, and said in her most polite voice, “Good afternoon, Lord Darlinghurst. It is nice to see you again.”
“And you, Lady Emily,” he answered, equally polite. But there was still that smile in his voice. “You are looking lovely, as always.”
“Thank you, Lord Darlinghurst. I fear not nearly as lovely as this young lady, though. Your daughter, I presume?”
“Indeed. Lady Emily Kenton, may I present Lady Anjali Huntington.”
His hand gently urged the girl forward, and she took one small step. Her gaze on the floor, she dropped to give a dainty little curtsy. “How do you do, Lady Emily.”
“How do you do, Lady Anjali.” Emily was not certain what else she could say. The only other little girl she knew anything about was Elizabeth Anne, and her mischievous niece was nothing like this porcelain doll. This Arabian princess. But, somehow, Emily desperately wanted this girl to like her. Or at least look at her. “That is a very pretty name—Anjali. So much finer than dull old Emily.”
Lady Anjali just stared back at her with wide, doubting eyes. Emily found herself more tongue-tied than she had been when presented to Queen Charlotte. What did one say to a silent Arabian princess child?
Fortunately, before she could start babbling about how very much she hated the name Emily, Georgina and Elizabeth Anne appeared at her side, ices in hand.
“Good afternoon, Lord Darlinghurst,” Georgina said. “So very good to see you again! And this must be your lovely daughter.”
“Do you have a flying carpet?” Elizabeth Anne asked Anjali, her chin already sticky with strawberry ice.
Anjali’s startled gaze turned from Emily to the other child. “I—no, I’m sorry, I fear none of my carpets fly.”
; “Elizabeth Anne! Now, what did I just tell you?” Georgina admonished, taking her daughter’s hand in hers. “I am sorry, Lord Darlinghurst. I fear my child has not yet finished learning her manners.”
“That is quite all right, Your Grace,” David answered, with a smile just for Elizabeth Anne.
“We should take our ices out into the square, if you would care to join us,” Georgina said. “Indeed, if Lady Anjali likes, she could wait with us while you order your own treats. It is a fine day, and I promise that Lady Mischief here will hold her tongue.”
Emily watched as Lady Anjali’s stare darted to her father’s face, and her hand tightened on his. David gave it a reassuring squeeze, and nodded to her. Emily had never before seen a man behave so toward his child—not even Alex, who was utterly devoted to Elizabeth Anne and Sebastian. It was almost as if David and his daughter were an insulated world of two, where words were unnecessary for communication.
How could another person ever fit into such a world?
“Thank you, Your Grace,” David answered. “I am sure Anjali would enjoy that. She was quite enthralled by a man with a music-playing monkey we saw as we were coming in. And I will be out in only a few moments with our ices. Perhaps Lady Emily will be so good as to advise me on the choice of flavors?”
“Of course, Lord Darlinghurst,” Emily answered. She watched as Georgina led the children out the door, Elizabeth Anne still chattering on and Anjali looking like a startled little gazelle. David held his arm out to Emily, and she slid her gloved hand over his soft wool sleeve and walked with him back into the sugar-scented depths of the shop.
His arm was strong and steady beneath her touch, holding her up in this suddenly hazy scene.
“Your daughter is very pretty,” she said, pretending to examine the array of pastries displayed before her.
“Thank you,” he answered. “I, of course, would never dispute that. She is rather shy, though, and still a bit unsure of her new home.”
“Of course she is. Why, I remember the first time I visited London as a child. I thought it wild and a bit frightening, like some strange world in a book. And I was just coming from a country estate, not India! She must be terribly bewildered.”
“I think she was, at first, and she missed her relatives. But she is adjusting. She has enjoyed visiting the Tower, and taking a boat ride on the Thames.”
“And these activities have inspired her taste for bloodthirsty history? Anne Boleyn and such?”
“Precisely! She is always full of questions about the poor queens of Henry VIII—questions I fear I am ill-equipped to answer. I know precious little about any of those ladies.”
Emily laughed. “It is fortunate she met my sister-in-law, then! The duchess is planning a grand painting of the trial of Anne Boleyn, and will be able to answer any questions your daughter may have.”
They took their newly made ices—lemon for David and Anjali and apricot for Emily—and carried them out to the sun-washed square. Emily blinked in the sudden rush of light after the dim indoors, and shielded her eyes with her hand to see Georgina sitting on a bench with the two girls. Elizabeth Anne was still chattering away, and Anjali sat with daintily folded hands and ankles, her pretty face carefully expressionless.
They had not seen Emily and David yet, and, for an instant, Emily was tempted to clutch at his arm, to hold him where he was. They could be alone there, in the shadow of Gunter’s, for a moment, with no families or painfully polite conversation to catch them.
He must have guessed something of her thoughts, for he turned to stare down at her, his expression shaded by the brim of his hat.
“Is something amiss?” he asked quietly.
“I—no, of course not. Not at all. I just—the light . . .” Emily faltered, not at all sure of what she wanted to say.
But he knew. Just as he had always known. “I want to talk to you, too, Emily,” he said, his voice still soft, as if the hurrying masses around them could hear and spoil their moment. “Truly talk, not this polite nonsense. Is that what you want, too? If not, just scream at me, slap my face, and I will leave you alone.”
Emily had to laugh at the image of her screeching and slapping his face, causing a scene right outside Gunter’s. As if she ever could! His face was too handsome to mar with red handprints. In fact, what she really wanted more than anything was to place the tip of her finger right on that enticing dimple . . .
Blast! Emily turned her stare away from him, curling her gloved fingers hard around her container of ice. The chill was a fine reminder of the reality of their situation.
“I do want to talk to you,” she said. “Very much.” But now was hardly the time. Georgina had seen them and was waving. “I am going to the British Museum tomorrow afternoon—alone, because Georgina has a meeting of her artists’ salon. If you would somehow—by coincidence, of course—appear in the Elgin Marbles room by two o’clock....”
He gave her a conspiring smile. “Say no more, Lady Emily. I will be there.”
Emily nodded, and started across the square toward Georgina and the children. Her attention was caught by the image of a lady leaving her grand townhouse across the square—a lady in an elegant mulberry-colored carriage gown and feathered bonnet. She paused to say a word to a footman, drawing on her gloves.
Lady Innis, going out of the house where they were meant to attend a ball next week. A ball to view the Star of India before it was given to the Mercer Museum.
Emily gasped at this cold reminder of reality—a reality that came around to slap her in the face whenever she dared to enjoy a moment in the sun with David.
A reality that would soon have to be faced, once and for all.
Chapter Seven
The jeweler’s shop was silent and dim as Emily slipped inside the door. At first glance, it would not look terribly promising to shoppers accustomed to the elegance of Bond Street. There were no gleaming chandeliers or enticing window displays, no velvet-upholstered settees or well-dressed attendants offering refreshments. Only if one peered closer, into the slightly dusty glass cases, was its true worth revealed.
Mr. Jervis’s shop carried only the most original, the most breathtaking designs. His workers came from Paris and Venice, refugees from the harsh Napoleonic years, and their necklaces and bracelets had a cunning and an elegant lightness many of the wares of the larger shops failed to possess.
Emily had found it when she was helping her brother look for a special anniversary gift for his wife. Georgina loved jewels, but she was not a lady whose tastes ran to the conventional; the emerald and ruby inlaid cuff bracelets Alex found here suited her perfectly. Emily came back whenever she was in need of an unusual item—or when she was in trouble, as now.
Mr. Jervis’s prices were very reasonable, and it was not likely that anyone of her Mayfair acquaintance would be here in Gracechurch Street to see her. Mr. Jervis was also very willing to barter with her, taking her birthday necklace and earrings in exchange for making a perfect—and authentic—copy of the Star of India.
Her opening the door set off a small, tinkling bell, and summoned Mr. Jervis from the back rooms. He blinked at her from behind his spectacles, obviously unable to recognize her in the dim light. Emily pushed the veil of her bonnet back, and a smile broke across his thin face.
“Ah, Lady Emily!” he said. “You are very prompt.”
“Your letter did say it would be ready today, Mr. Jervis,” Emily answered, advancing into the shadowed depths of the shop. Gold and silver, diamonds and porcelain, beckoned to her from the cases, but she did not give in to their siren song.
“Oh, yes, indeed it is! I am sure you will be most happy with it, Lady Emily—it is my very finest work to date, I do declare.” He ducked back behind a counter and, after some jangling and crashing noises, emerged with a small black velvet box. “Though I must say it was not easy working only from sketches.”
Emily touched the tip of her tongue to her suddenly dry lips. She had not been so very nervous
to enter a shop since the days of Damien’s debts to every merchant in the village. But this would soon be over. “I do apologize for my poor artistic skills, Mr. Jervis. I am sure you did a superb job, as you always do.”
Mr. Jervis nodded agreeably, and pressed the box open. Emily leaned over to see it better—and gave a small gasp.
It was indeed beautiful work, the oblong sapphire surrounded by smaller diamonds. It shimmered like the very sky. Emily herself could not have told it apart from the real Star—except for some elusive something the facsimile lacked. When she had held the true Star in her hand all those years ago, it had warmed and tingled on her palm, whispering of far-off lands and doomed love.
This jewel only whispered of cold beauty.
But no one else would ever know that. And the jewel in the Innis mansion was not the real Star, after all. It was just paste. The real Star was . . . no one knew where. At least this way the Innises’ experts would find a genuine sapphire when they examined it.
“It is exquisite, Mr. Jervis,” she said. “You are an absolute artist.”
Mr. Jervis beamed. “Thank you, Lady Emily! You do have quite the eye. As you see here, I turned the facets just so, in the Indian manner . . .”
It was the better part of a half-hour before Emily could leave the shop, with Mr. Jervis’s assurances he would not say anything to her brother or sister-in-law if he should see them again and the new Star tucked into her reticule. She stepped out into the sunlight, breathing deeply of the fresh air.
Oh, this was all so maddening! She was not cut out for intrigue at all. Her hands were shaking and her mouth was dry, just from traveling to the shop today. At least it was nearly over. Or it would be after the Innis ball, where she would have to find a way to exchange the paste sapphire for the genuine one.
How she would do that, she had no idea. Not yet.
“You are a complete widgeon at this, Emily Kenton,” she muttered to herself, looping her reticule ribbons securely over her wrist. “You would have made a terrible spy in France!”
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