From London with Love

by Diana Quincy

  “I agree.” Sparrow frowned. “But how does handing Worsely a small fortune protect Emilia?”

  “We shall see how he handles the responsibility.”

  “Ah.” Comprehension filtered through him. St. George was no fool. “It’s a test.”

  “Precisely.” The older man swallowed the last of his drink. “If Worsely proves unworthy, either by squandering the funds or treating Emilia poorly, I shall make alternate arrangements for the remaining seventy-five percent of my wealth.”

  “You’d leave your fortune to someone besides Emilia?” He couldn’t image St. George ever dispossessing his adored only child.

  “Measures must be taken to protect my daughter’s future after my demise,” he said resolutely. “If that requires placing the balance of my wealth in the control of a third party who would be responsible for dispensing funds to Emilia as needed, so be it. No husband of hers will ever have the power to leave my daughter destitute.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it.” Sparrow understood St. George’s caution. English law was not kind to females. Once a woman married, everything she owned belonged to her husband and he could do whatever he wished with it, regardless of his wife’s wishes.

  St. George placed his glass on the desk. “Getting back to Emilia’s immediate safety—besides retaining extra security here at the house, what do you recommend?”

  “I fully intend to investigate this matter. I have some people looking into Dominick Ware.”

  “Do as you must.” St. George crossed his arms over his chest. “But I cannot believe Dominick would ever harm my daughter.”

  “He is in line to inherit a fortune. Many men would go to any lengths to put their hands on the kind of coin Emilia will eventually inherit.”

  “But not you.”

  “No,” he allowed. “Not I.” The irony of his current situation did not escape him. Emilia’s fortune had meant nothing to him back then, when he’d had a true sense of purpose and his work for the Home Office had consumed him. However, now that he’d reluctantly assumed the role of impoverished peer, her wealth would come in very handy indeed.

  “More’s the pity.” A nostalgic half smile curved St. George’s lips. “It is why I chose you for my daughter.” Amusement wrinkled his forehead. “That and your superior stock, of course.”

  A genuine laugh erupted from Sparrow’s chest. “Yes, how could I forget? You selected me primarily because you wanted a strong, strapping young bull for your daughter.” The men in Emilia’s family tended to be sickly youths with asthmatic tendencies. Some did not survive infancy. St. George had hoped the Sparrows’ well-known hardiness would show itself in his grandchildren.

  “That was not the main reason,” he said in all seriousness. “And when I see the lengths to which you’ve gone to protect Emilia, I know I was not mistaken.”

  They were quiet for a moment, each with his own thoughts, sipping their port, until Sparrow broke the silence. “I have another request.”

  “Name it.”

  “There is a servant, a lady’s maid I worked with in Paris. I’d like you to hire her to serve Emilia. She is very enterprising and I believe she could help keep your daughter safe.”

  Interest gleamed in St. George’s eyes. “Emilia is very attached to Mabel, her current lady’s maid.”

  “Perhaps this Mabel could be convinced to take a long holiday, with all of her expenses taken care of.”

  “Yes,” said St. George. “I do think that could be arranged.” He rose to his full height. “Thank you again for protecting Emilia. I am in your debt. If there is ever anything I can do for you, I hope you will let me know.”

  “Well,” Sparrow said. “You could recommend a capable steward. I am in desperate need of an honest and competent man to oversee matters at my estate in Devonshire.”

  “You are unhappy with the current steward?”

  “I don’t like the look of him.” He recalled his first meeting with the unkempt steward, whose eyes kept shifting back and forth. The man seemed unable, or unwilling, to give him a straight answer. “Between you and me, the Vale estate is such a thoroughly ramshackle affair that the steward is either incompetent or he’s helping himself to a little something from the coffers rather than putting it back into the estate.”

  “That bad, is it?” St. George crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “My assistant steward out in Berkshire might meet your needs. His name is Boyd Douglas. I’ll send word and have him present himself to you here in London.”

  “My thanks. I do appreciate it.”

  “With your estate in such dire circumstances, I gather you plan to return there posthaste.”

  “I had planned to return directly after the wedding. There is much to attend to.” Sparrow’s serious gaze met the other man’s. “And I shall do so, as soon as Emilia’s safety can be assured.”

  St. George’s relief was evident. “I thought you might say that. And I am more than happy to pay you for your time.”

  Sparrow bristled. “What nonsense. You insult me by offering.”

  St. George smiled. “I expected you to say that as well. Shall I pour us another drink?”

  —

  That evening, Sparrow paid a call on Amanda Harrington, the widow he’d been keeping company with for the last few weeks. She received him in her upstairs sitting room, which was situated adjacent to her bedchamber. She rose and came toward him, her long fair hair flowing behind her, her impossibly sheer negligee revealing every intimate shadow and curve of her delicate form. She was finely made, with round breasts, a long neck, a tiny waist, and a subtle flair of the hips.

  “Darling.” She approached and pressed a long, languorous kiss against his lips. “You have neglected me. I have been very lonely without you.” Her tone was slightly mocking, but he sensed the reproach behind it.

  “My apologies. I was detained.” Although he enjoyed bedding Amanda, theirs was not an exclusive arrangement. He would not be surprised if another man had warmed her bed in his absence.

  “Where have you been?” she asked with a certain conversational lightness, but he detected the hint of accusation.

  He made his way over to the small punch bowl on her marble-topped sideboard. It was filled with his drink of choice, a flavorful combination of arrack mixed with juice and sugar. He’d discovered this particular brand while on a short assignment in the West Indies. Amanda always made certain to have the spirits on hand when he visited. She paid handsomely for the import but, as a wealthy widow, could afford it. Her late husband had left her a fortune. “Urgent matters took me to the coast.”

  She moved nearer, which brought her directly into the soft light emanating from mirrored ormolu candlesticks on the wall. The gleam illuminated everything beneath her sheer gown, particularly her peach-sized round breasts and their pointed tips. He suspected the position and pose were deliberate, designed to tempt and beguile.

  He swallowed some of the fiery sweet liquid. “I’m afraid I cannot stay.” He hadn’t come to end the affair, but he sensed a sort of longing in her that necessitated it. He never stayed long enough for his lovers to form an attachment to him. It avoided unnecessary hurt. Deep emotional entanglements were beyond his capability. Especially since Paris. These days he found it best to move on before a woman convinced herself she’d be the one to change his wandering ways.

  Disappointment washed over her face before she quickly arranged her features into a neutral expression. “Surely you can stay for a little while.”

  He bottomed out his glass before setting it down with a decided clunk. “You won’t want for company for long.”

  “This is the end, then.”

  He leaned forward to press a gentle kiss against her forehead. “You cannot have expected more from me.”

  “Your reputation does precede you.” Wistfulness tinged her smile. “But I had hoped for more than a few weeks.”

  He worried she wished for more than that and had no desire to encourage false expectations. �
��The fault lies with me, not you.” It was true. In addition to her beauty, she was charming company and an enthusiastic lover. But something had severed inside of him after Marie.

  She picked up his empty glass and refilled it.

  “Amanda—”

  “Stay. I have a business proposition for you.” She pressed the crystal into his hand. “At least do me the courtesy of hearing me out.”

  Restlessness rustled through him, but he took a seat on the pale chintz sofa, thinking of the moment he would make his escape, as quickly and cleanly as possible. “You have my full attention.”

  She reached for her dressing gown and pulled it on, making herself decent before settling at the opposite end of the sofa. “You’re a viscount now.”

  He poured some arrack down his throat. “Indeed.”

  “You will need to marry and beget an heir.”

  He saw where she meant to go with this line of conversation. “I am in no hurry.” Before assuming the title, he’d expected never to marry. Now he understood it was required of him. Someday. But his bride would know not to expect a romantic entanglement. “Marriage can wait.”

  “But you have debts that cannot.”

  Irritation bristled through him. “I see you have been busy in my absence.” Busy poking her nose into his private matters.

  “I prefer to call it being enterprising.”

  “I assume there is a point.” Ice coated each word. She’d overstepped. She had no business interfering in his private finances.

  “You have many who depend upon you. Your tenants are suffering.”

  His fingers tightened around his glass as frustration filtered through him. His tenants were in need; roofs required patching and the mill on his property was long overdue for repair. The list of needs grew longer each day.

  “I am a wealthy woman and I would like to marry again.”

  He studied her. “Is this a proposal?”

  “Yes.” She rose and went to pour herself some sherry. She didn’t care for arrack. She stocked it exclusively for him. As his wife, he imagined she would continue to see to his comfort. “I believe it would suit us both. Surely you can see the advantages of such a match.”

  “I can.” Intellectually, her proposition held some appeal. Her fortune would allow him to see to his tenants’ needs and meet his other financial responsibilities. In addition, she possessed great beauty and he knew from experience that she was a willing and exuberant bedmate.

  And, at her essence, Amanda was a cold woman who kept part of herself hidden away. That remoteness could be an asset. She would not expect an emotional attachment and he had none to offer.

  Keeping her crystal-blue gaze fixed on him, she settled the subtle curve of her hip against the sideboard and sipped from her sherry. “What do you think?”

  “You flatter me greatly by asking.”

  “Does that mean you accept?”

  He hesitated. “I stand to gain an exceptionally beautiful wife and a considerable fortune to set my estates to rights. How do you benefit?”

  “I’ll have you by my side.” She smiled as though it was obvious. “And in my bed.”

  “You expect fidelity.”

  “Not necessarily. I know you better than to anticipate that. But I would hope for discretion on your part.”

  “Naturally.” Actually, she didn’t know him at all. He intended to keep his vows once he married. Yet she proposed to give him carte blanche. Another man might rejoice, but Sparrow just couldn’t envision Amanda as his wife, no matter how generous she intended to be. At a visceral level, in his gut, the entire scheme struck him as distasteful.

  Amanda took another dainty sip of her drink. “I hope you’ll take some time to consider my proposition.”

  “It is a generous offer.” He resisted the urge to reject the idea outright; he at least owed it to his tenants to give the matter some thought. He came to his feet. “I will think on it.”

  “Can I not tempt you to stay?” she asked as he made for the door.

  “Not this evening.” He made a bow and left her.

  —

  “But I don’t want a new lady’s maid,” Emilia protested to her mother the following afternoon. She paced the plush geometric-patterned carpet. “Where is Mabel and why did she not inform me of her departure?”

  Mama did not look up from her needlework. “Do stop stomping about, Emilia. You are a well-bred young lady, not a racehorse readying for Newcastle.” Perched straight-spined on the lemon-colored settee, Mama was a vision of serene beauty and grace, attributes Emilia knew she hadn’t had the fortune to inherit. Next to her elegant mother, she often felt like an overburdened mule plodding beside a high-stepping Thoroughbred.

  Emilia plopped down in a stuffed chair that matched the lemon settee. They were in her favorite sitting room, an airy, inviting space with high ceilings, sun-colored walls, cut-glass chandeliers, and tall windows overlooking their walled garden. “Who will assist me once we reschedule the wedding?”

  Mabel was Cook’s daughter and she and Emilia had played together as children in Berkshire. Once Emilia was old enough to require a lady’s maid, she’d insisted that no one would do but Mabel. She depended on her longtime friend, and they’d never really been apart.

  “Don’t slump so, my dear.” Mama poked a needle through her embroidery frame. “Mr. St. George has seen to it.”

  Emilia straightened. “Seen to what?”

  “A new lady’s maid to take Mabel’s place while she’s gone.”

  “Why would Papa trouble himself to hire my lady’s maid?”

  “He wanted to assure himself of her character.” Mama reached into her tortoiseshell workbox and withdrew a larger needle. “Given what occurred the day before yesterday, he wanted to make certain you are surrounded by people who can be trusted.”

  A chill ran through Emilia. She hadn’t thought of the danger she still faced. A lady’s maid would certainly have complete access to her at her most vulnerable.

  She contemplated her mother. Although Mama retained her usual tranquil composure, Emilia had seen the very real concern on her parents’ faces after she’d returned home and Sparrow had detailed their run-ins with Graves and his ruffian.

  The wedding guests, however, were apparently none the wiser. Once they’d discovered her missing, Papa had announced to everyone at the church that she had suddenly been taken very ill and, regrettably, the nuptials would have to be postponed. Any of her friends who’d come to call in the interim were informed that Miss Emilia was still indisposed and not at home to callers.

  “How does Papa know this lady’s maid is trustworthy?” she asked.

  “It is not our place to question Mr. St. George’s decisions.” Mama threaded the new needle. “Sophie is French and I daresay she will do quite nicely.”

  “A French lady’s maid?” Emilia groaned. “She’s likely to be a snobbish old crow who will look disapprovingly on all I do.”

  “Language, please,” her mother admonished. “And don’t speak nonsense; you are her mistress and she is here to serve you.”

  Their butler appeared and waited patiently for her mother to acknowledge him. “Yes, Sones?”

  “Mr. Worsely is calling, madam.”

  Nervous energy swirled in Emilia’s belly at the mention of her betrothed. She sat up straight. “It’s Edmund.”

  Her mother calmly returned her embroidery frame to her workbox. “Very well,” she said in her pleasant lyrical voice. “Ask him to join us, if you please.”

  Once Sones had withdrawn, Emilia jumped to her feet.

  Mama ran a critical eye over her. “Do sit down.”

  “I need to get my cap.”

  “Nonsense. You are not married yet. Nor are you a spinster. Your head should remain bare,” Mama said firmly. “Be seated.”

  Running a nervous hand over her hair, Emilia sank down into the chair. She hated for Edmund to see her head completely uncovered. He was too polite to mention it, but she sensed he
found her red hair to be crass. She straightened in her seat, perching on the edge, and struggled not to squirm.

  “Don’t hunch, dear. And remember, you’ve had a fever and chills.” Mama cleared her throat softly. “And Mr. Worsely might be under the impression that you cast your accounts at the church.”

  “I what?” Mortification flooded her.

  “There was nothing to be done for it,” Mama explained. “The story had to be persuasive.”

  “But that is a very disagreeable image for my future husband to have of me,” Emilia protested. “You cannot expect me to face him!”

  “Your father was of the opinion you needed a most convincing reason not to meet Mr. Worsely at the altar.”

  Edmund appeared on the threshold, and she had no choice but to face him. She smiled tentatively.

  “My dearest Emilia.” He crossed over to her, his lean, elegant form practically gliding across the carpet. Concern marred his fine-boned features as he took her hand into his cool grip. “Are you well?”

  “Yes, I am much better. Truly.” She passed a self-conscious hand over her upswept hair and fought a grimace. If only she’d had time to don her lace cap. “I do beg your pardon for any upset my…illness…has caused you.”

  “None at all.” His gaze swept over her hair. “It relieves my mind to see you looking so well.” His words were perfectly appropriate but she noted the small crease of doubt between his well-groomed brows. “Were you taken ill very suddenly?”

  “Yes, it was all quite unexpected.” She knew she was a terrible liar, so she avoided his gaze, fearful he might be able to read the truth in her eyes. “It was awful.”

  That much was true. If anything, it was an understatement of the truth. Being hunted by a hired killer was far beyond awful. Edmund made some sympathetic noises before turning to greet her mother with courtly flourish. Emilia gratefully sank back into her chair.

  “Do sit, Edmund,” Mama said with a sweep of her arm. “Sones will bring a tea tray.”

  Flipping his coattails behind him, Edmund lowered himself onto the seat closest to Emilia. For a few minutes, he and her mother exchanged the customary niceties about the weather before Edmund directed the conversation back to the wedding. “I have just come from St. George’s.”