by Diana Quincy
She blinked. “Have you?”
“Yes, I should like to reschedule the wedding with all possible haste.” He looked from Emilia to her mother and back again. “With your leave, of course.”
Mama dipped her chin in approval while Emilia said, a bit too quickly, “But of course. You have it.”
“Unfortunately, they are booked until the end of next month.”
“But that is five weeks away.” Emilia didn’t bother to conceal her disappointment. If their wedding had gone off as planned, they’d have already left for Paris. And she would be one step closer to fulfilling Grandpapa’s greatest wish. “Are you not due back at the embassy in Paris sooner than that?”
He grimaced. “There is nothing to be done for it. St. George’s is completely booked. On some days, there are three weddings scheduled.”
“There are other churches.”
“All Worselys must marry at St. George’s. His Grace requires it,” he informed her, alluding to his grandfather the duke.
Sones came in with the tea tray, and Emilia lapsed into silence as her mother poured. She must be patient. Paris and the Louvre Museum would keep. Marriage to Edmund and a world of travel and infinite discovery were still in her future. Her plans were merely delayed, not forever dashed.
Grandpapa’s final words came back to her. “ ’Tis fitting for the Virgin to be our final collaboration.” She remembered his gently satisfied smile when he’d spoken. She wouldn’t disappoint him. One day soon, she would take his half-finished copy of Caravaggio’s Death of the Virgin to Paris and finish the painting, a last gift to an adored grandfather who’d shared his passion for art with her and taught her so much.
“Besides.” Edmund sipped from his tea. “I expect you will want to order a new gown for our nuptials given the…soiled…state of the original.”
“Yes, indeed,” Mama said. “A new dress will take time to order and assemble.”
Emilia forced a sweet smile before biting into her biscuit with a satisfying crunch. Edmund thought she’d been sick on her gown. She wondered what he’d think if he knew the truth: that she’d been kidnapped, shot at, and saved from a killer by a devil-may-care gallant who was as different from her betrothed as the earth was from the sea.
“Then we shall consider the matter settled.” Edmund reached for his tea. “I have spoken with Mr. St. George about setting the new date for the end of next month.”
She nodded, her mind wandering beyond the wedding to the future that would come with her marriage to Edmund. After the Louvre, she would travel to Florence to copy one of the great pieces acquired by the Medicis at the Uffizi Gallery. And then, perhaps she would explore Greece. A contented sigh escaped her. Life as the wife of a diplomat would suit her very well indeed.
After about thirty minutes, Edmund rose to take his leave, and Emilia shook herself from her daydreams long enough to see him out. “Until next week,” he said. Since their betrothal, he’d made a point of calling on her once a week on Wednesdays.
“I suppose it won’t be long until we’re married,” she said as he adjusted his black hat atop his head.
“I shall look forward to it.” His assessing gaze drifted back to her hair. “I despair that we must wait another five weeks.”
She tucked a renegade tendril behind her ear. “As do I.”
Once he was gone, Emilia rejoined her mother.
“Whatever is the matter with you?” Mama asked the moment Emilia retook her seat. “Acting disappointed about having the wedding delayed. It is positively unseemly.”
“But why?” Emilia protested. “We were supposed to marry two days ago.”
“A respectable young lady never acts overly excited about the prospect of marriage.”
“Isn’t bringing a wealthy, titled husband up to scratch the whole entire point of the marriage mart?”
“It is a sign of poor breeding for an innocent girl to show she is eagerly anticipating the marriage bed.”
Emilia’s eyes widened. “I was doing no such thing.” Heat flushed her face. “I am eager to travel, to see the Louvre and finish Grandpapa’s painting, and you know it to be so.”
“Yes, but Mr. Worsely might well misinterpret your enthusiasm and question your gentility. After all, he is the grandson of a duke and is fond of observing the proprieties.”
“Well, I think it is ridiculous.” Emilia looked skyward. “Every girl is groomed to try and bring the wealthiest or highest-ranked peer to bended knee. Yet, once we succeed, we’re supposed to act indifferent to the marriage itself.”
“Yes, that is the way of things and you’d do best to follow them.” Mama reached into her workbox for her embroidery frame. “No more unseemly displays.”
“Unseemly displays?” Papa’s roaring voice sounded from the corridor before he appeared. “What exactly are my two best girls discussing?”
“The ton’s silly rules,” Emilia said.
“Proper comportment,” her mother answered at the same time.
Papa’s amused glance bounced between her and Mama. “Ah, I see.” He sat on the settee next to Mama, settling a long arm along the back of the sofa. “I understand the nuptials have been scheduled for five weeks hence.”
“I gather Edmund spoke to you,” Mama said.
“Indeed.” His fingers played with a dark tendril of Mama’s hair that had escaped her silk cap. “What do you think, daughter?”
Watching her parents sitting opposite her on the sofa, something panged in her chest. For as long as she could remember, it had been just the three of them, and now she would be leaving them. “I think it is past time I married.”
Papa chuckled. “For a moment there, I wasn’t sure.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you vanished from the vestibule, I thought you’d changed your mind and run off.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You believed I’d willingly abandoned Edmund at the altar?”
“I thought perhaps you’d come to your senses.”
Mama shot him a sharp look. “Stop talking nonsense, Mr. St. George.”
“Come to my senses?” His words sank in, leaving a bitter aftertaste. “You think my marrying Edmund is evidence that I’ve taken leave of my senses.”
“He thinks no such thing,” Mama put in.
She stared at her father. “What is wrong with him?”
“Nothing, nothing at all.” He shrugged. “He just didn’t seem your sort.”
A faint sense of betrayal spiraled through her. “How long have you doubted my choice?”
“He doesn’t doubt your choice, dearest,” her mother soothed. “Pay your papa no mind.”
Papa nodded. “There’s no denying Edmund Worsely is a respectable young man with a brilliant diplomatic future ahead of him.”
“But you don’t think he is my sort,” Emilia persisted. “Who do you think is?”
“I thought Hamilton Sparrow would suit you admirably.” He shrugged. “But clearly I was wrong and have no idea what type of gentleman appeals to you.”
Pain twisted in her chest. “No, you do not.” She came to her feet anxious to escape. “Edmund is my choice, not Sparrow.”
Never Sparrow.
Chapter 5
“What do you make of it?” Sparrow asked Will Naismith, his friend and former superior at the Home Office, after relaying the events of the past forty-eight hours.
Will pulled off his spectacles and methodically shined the lenses with a cloth. It was a familiar habit that signaled his mind was shuffling through the information. “I think you are correct to look at the cousin, if only to be able to rule him out as a suspect.”
Sparrow had stopped by the opulent Palladian-style mansion on Curzon Street where Will stayed while in Town. The home belonged to the Marquess of Aldridge, Will’s father in marriage. Sparrow and Will were now ensconced in a small parlor decorated in heavy velvets, which Will had appropriated as his study.
“What have you been able to learn?” Sparr
ow suppressed a yawn. He hadn’t slept well. These days a good night’s rest was as rare as a sunny January day in London. It had been so ever since the catastrophic events in Paris. “I know Dominick Ware’s parents died when he was young.” He’d sent word to Will from the cottage, asking him for information regarding Emilia’s cousin.
“They were murdered, in fact.”
He almost choked on his brandy. “I beg your pardon?”
“Murdered in their beds at their Devonshire estate.”
He let out a low whistle. “Where was the son when it happened?”
“Ware claimed to have been out. But the servants all believed he’d been home the entire evening.”
Sparrow leaned forward in his chair. “Are you implying that Ware dispatched his own parents?” Perhaps the cousin had a history of doing away with people who got in his way.
Will shrugged. “The rumors have dogged him ever since, but no one was ever charged in the case. Their deaths remain unsolved.”
Sparrow sat back in his chair, absorbing the information. “And then he joined the fight on the Continent.”
“Indeed. And by all accounts, he served honorably.” Will carefully resettled his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Afterward, he returned to his estate in Devonshire and rarely ventures to Town.”
“Thus, the question becomes: Is there a way to connect Graves to Ware?”
Will nodded. “Graves is one of the best and he doesn’t come cheap.”
Sparrow absentmindedly reached for an ivory paper knife on the edge of Will’s desk. “Did Ware have the opportunity and the means to hire someone of Graves’s caliber?”
“That, I cannot say as of yet. We are still examining the man’s finances and trying to retrace his steps for the last several months to see where the two might have crossed paths. Oh, and another thing.”
“Yes?”
“Ware tends to vanish from his estate for weeks at a time. No one seems to know where he goes.”
Sparrow tapped the flat side of the paper knife against his open palm, striking as methodically as a metronome. “That could be interesting.”
“I have my men looking into it, and I’ll inform you if they learn anything further.” Will settled back in his chair, regarding Sparrow with that intense stare of his. “So, how goes it…with your new role and all?”
“The viscountcy, you mean?” Sparrow grimaced. “I know I’m supposed to be grateful, but the truth is it’s all a pain in the arse.”
Amusement quirked the corner of Will’s lips. “You’re not taken with polite society.”
“I’m learning a bunch of asinine rules. My valet is valiantly trying to make a nobleman out of me.”
Will eyed Sparrow’s forest-green tailcoat and expertly tied matching cravat. “I see he’s already succeeded in making a dandy out of you.”
Sparrow returned a wry smile. “Gibbs does like to make a fuss about my sartorial choices. He believes a viscount should keep up appearances.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “I let him dress me as he pleases. I have much graver concerns.”
“More important than how your cravat is knotted?” Will quipped. “Imagine that.”
“Cousin Barclay, the late viscount, had extravagant tastes and indulged them quite often. He’s left me with a mountain of bills and no way to pay them.”
“Is the estate not profitable?”
“No. At least, not the way Cousin Barclay managed things. I’m going through the estate ledgers now, trying to learn what I can and to see if there is a way to make the estate prosperous again.” He tossed the paper knife on the desk. “I miss being an agent. Life was so much simpler then.”
“If you consider being shot at, stabbed, kidnapped, and swimming all night to reach the shore after escaping the enemy to be simpler, then I guess you’re correct,” Will said. “But do not underestimate yourself. You are a man who rises to the challenge, whatever it might be, and you will rise to this occasion as well.”
Sparrow barely had time to contemplate Will’s words before the door burst open and an exuberant little girl with honey-colored curls and enough energy for all three of them bounded over to him and threw herself into his arms. “Uncle Hamilton!”
He smiled, delighted to see the child, and returned her embrace. “Hello, Susanna.” He wasn’t one for children, but he’d once helped save this little girl’s life, and that experience had resulted in a deep attachment between them. “I see you are becoming as pretty as your mother.”
“Come with me.” She grabbed his hand with her plump, tiny one and began pulling him toward the door.
“I see you are also becoming as bossy as your father.” He rose, following her. “May I ask where we are we going?”
“Mama said I am to bring you and Papa to supper.” He’d met Will’s wife, Elinor, in Paris under somewhat dire circumstances, well before the two had married, and liked her very much indeed. He glanced back to find Will following along behind them.
Will shrugged. “We cannot defy both Elinor and Susanna.” Not that he seemed to mind. A blind man could see that Will, who’d once seemed quite the cold fish, was utterly charmed by his wife and daughter.
“No indeed.” Sparrow grinned. “I see we have no choice but to take this matter up later.”
—
Sparrow reclined comfortably in his chair as the blade glided up his neck. Gibbs, his valet, was outfitting him for supper at the St. George house on Berkeley Square. It would be his first opportunity to meet Dominick Ware, the mysterious cousin.
“I beg of you,” intoned his valet. “Whatever you do, please do not commit the same impropriety you perpetrated at the Duke of Sunderford’s supper party.”
Sparrow reluctantly cocked one eye open, allowing Gibbs’s stridently courteous tone to disrupt the relaxation of his shave. “By impropriety, I surmise you refer to my addressing the footman while at the table?”
Gibbs suppressed a shudder. “Behavior most unbecoming for a viscount.”
Sparrow closed both eyes again. “Being a viscount can hang for all I care.”
“You were born to this station, my lord.” He heard the affront in Gibbs’s voice.
“Only after the entire male line of my father’s cousin’s family was extinguished under tragic circumstances.” He cocked open an eye again. “And I wanted more wine. How the devil is the footman to know that I desire something if I don’t ask for it?”
“You simply request what you want in a serious, but courteous, tone.” The razor slid down his cheek with a deft touch. Gibbs might be a pain in his arse, but he gave an exemplary shave. “And then you wait patiently until your order is obeyed.”
“So I should speak into thin air rather than actually addressing the other human being in the room. That is what the ton considers to be polite?”
“Precisely.” Gibbs put the razor down. “Now you comprehend perfectly.”
Sparrow sat up and accepted the warm wet cloth Gibbs handed him. “It’ll be a miracle if I manage to make it through this evening without committing a dozen faux pas.” He scrubbed the cloth down his face. This business of being a viscount was laden with rules and proprieties that made little to no sense. Navigating the cutthroat society of the ton was dicier than sparring with the fat little Frenchman’s agents. At least with Napoleon’s factors, he’d known who the enemy was and what his opponent’s ultimate goal was.
Sparrow eyed the dark paisley waistcoat, aubergine tailcoat, and matching cravat the valet had laid out for him. Never in his life had he ever worn a neck scarf the color of a ripe eggplant. Gibbs reveled in dressing him as he pleased, with the same relish as a child outfitting a doll. Sparrow didn’t care enough about clothes one way or another to argue with his valet but, given his precarious financial situation, he did take a personal interest in the price of things. And the fabric looked expensive.
He frowned. “How much did that rum rigging cost me?”
“Pardon?”
“Those clothes.”
“I will be sure to do so,” Sparrow called after him.
“However,” Gibbs continued upon his return, “although one must look after a lady’s needs, one must endeavor to do so without paying too much attention to her plate. A person who watches while another person eats is considered ill bred.”
“Allow me to see if I understand you correctly.” Sparrow pushed to his feet and shrugged out of his dressing gown. “I should pay close attention to the lady, but not too close. Too little regard is considered ill bred, but so is too much regard.”
“Exactly.” Gibbs handed him a freshly laundered white linen shirt. “Quite simple, is it not?”
—
“Your hair is ravissant.” Emilia’s new lady’s maid pronounced as she readied her mistress for that evening’s supper. “You must show it to its best advantage.”
“Ugh.” Emilia eyed the long, bright curls with a sigh of resignation. “Hardly ravishing.” Sitting at her dressing table, she watched Sophie through the mirror’s reflection. Her new lady’s maid was not at all what she’d expected. Instead of an older Frenchwoman with a superior attitude to go along with her prune-shaped mouth, she’d been presented with a sprightly, gamine girl roughly her own age, with a canny brown gaze and take-charge personality. “The color is too much.”
“Mais non!” Emilia was still getting used to the girl’s manner of speaking, an odd mix of common English tinged with a lilting French accent, the result of living in London for many years with her aristocratic French mistress. “Gentlemen, they are very much attracted to a ginger.”
“Maybe French gentlemen,” Emilia retorted. Certainly not Edmund. He’d never even kissed her properly, and they’d been betrothed for six months. “Just pull it tightly to my head with no wisps or curls.” The less attention she drew to the lavish shade, the better, especially since her betrothed would be in attendance this evening.