Every Bit a Rogue

by Adrienne Basso

  “Splendid. Both Jason and I would like to get to know him better.”

  Emma sat in the chair at the dressing table while Gwen settled on the silk-covered chaise opposite her. The casual, cozy atmosphere was comforting, reminding Emma of their childhood and the many confidences they had shared over the years.

  Yet despite that familiarity, Emma was still uncertain how to broach the real reason she had come to London.

  Unable to stand the quiet, she finally asked, “Where did you and Jason go last evening?”

  “The Duke of Havenshire’s ball,” Gwen replied. “It was a mad crush, as usual, but Jason and I enjoyed the dancing and taking a private late-night stroll together in the duke’s gardens. They are magnificent.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Do you have any specific plans for your visit, or will I be able to have you all to myself?” Gwen asked.

  It was the perfect opening, yet for some reason her sister’s curious, penetrating stare set Emma’s nerves skittering. “Actually, I don’t plan on staying long.”

  “Oh? But you’ve only just arrived. I do hope there will be time for you to visit my new modiste while you are in Town. She has a rare talent for simple design and an eye for making her clients look their best. She’s in great demand, but I’m sure with some encouragement she will be able to fit you into her busy schedule.”

  Emma sighed heavily, then forced herself to smile at Gwen. “That sounds delightful.”

  “Does it?” Gwen raised an elegant brow. “Then why do you sound like I am proposing a long hike through a muddy field during a rain storm?”

  “Sorry.” Emma felt the blush creeping up her neck and into her cheeks. “I’m still rather fatigued from the journey yesterday. Philip and Nicole are so inquisitive and energetic. I can understand why Carter did not want them to travel with only his father caring for them. The little scamps would have certainly exhausted the poor duke by the end of the first hour.”

  The subject of children had always been a favorite of Gwen’s and she easily launched into several amusing tales about her own youngsters, though she lamented more than once that they were growing up too quickly.

  “Jason cannot bear to be separated from our brood, so naturally they are with us,” Gwen said. “I haven’t yet told them that you are here, but they will soon find out. I shall try to hold them off until you’ve eaten a fortifying breakfast, but then you must brace yourself for an assault.”

  Emma smiled. “I’d like that very much, but it will have to wait for a bit. I’ve invited Sebastian to call upon me later this morning,” she replied, holding her sister’s gaze. “I hope that you don’t mind.”

  “Sebastian? Are you referring to Sebastian Dodd?”

  Emma nodded vigorously.

  “Why?”

  “I need to see him. ’Tis the reason that I’ve come to London.”

  Gwen stared back at her, confusion glinting in her eyes. “Emma, what is going on?”

  A cold, fragile feeling wrapped itself around Emma’s heart. She nervously twirled the ends of a loose strand of hair and stared back at her sister.

  “There are several things that you don’t know about Sebastian. Things I’ve never told you. Things I’ve never told anyone, really,” Emma said, licking her suddenly dry lips.

  Gwen’s expression turned grave. “I’m listening.”

  Emma nodded and took a deep breath. She started, stumbled, started again, and then suddenly it was as though the floodgates had opened and her words were the water rushing through them.

  She told Gwen about the years of depression and despair she had experienced from Sebastian’s rejection of her love, the searing pain that had stabbed at her heart and eroded her confidence.

  How she had tried to convince herself that it was her pride that had been wounded, but the hurt had gone much deeper than the feelings of a young woman scorned by an older, more experienced man.

  She also spoke about Jon and her confused feelings over a marriage that she had never sought and her deep desire to overcome the hurt and wariness of her past to somehow make it succeed.

  To learn how to expose her vulnerability, to accept the love that her husband had bestowed upon her and return it to him in equal measure.

  An almost eerie silence filled the room when she was done. Drained and exhausted, Emma slumped back in her chair, shutting her eyes. She felt a single tear roll down her cheek, but didn’t bother brushing it away, as no more fell.

  Gradually, Emma lifted her eyelids, fearing her older, wiser sister would have a great deal to say that Emma lacked the strength to hear at the moment. But Gwen had the perfect response. She merely opened her arms and offered Emma a comforting, greatly needed hug.

  * * *

  The front door of Ravenswood Manor swung open before Jon even had the chance to knock, making him wonder if Atwood’s butler had exceptional hearing or a driving ambition to do his job better than any others in his position.

  “Good afternoon, my lord,” the butler said as he took his hat and greatcoat. “The marquess is awaiting you in his study.”

  “Very good.” Jon straightened the cuffs beneath his jacket and followed the servant through the familiar hallways.

  “Lord Kendall,” the butler announced.

  Atwood closed the ledger he had been reading and rose from behind his desk. After shaking hands and accepting a glass of wine, Jon sat across from his host, relishing the warmth of the blaze in the fireplace.

  “There’s been news from the Bow Street runner,” Atwood announced. He shifted several stacks of correspondence on his desk, pulling a parchment from the bottom of a pile.

  “Has he located the missing footmen?” Jon asked.

  “He has.” Atwood raised his glass in a silent salute before taking a sip.

  Jon joined him, allowing the smooth, robust flavor of the wine to settle on his tongue before swallowing. “Have they told him of the payment Hector Winthrope made to them in exchange for their false accusations against me?”

  Atwood frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. “Did you also receive a report from the runner?”

  “No. I saw Dianna yesterday morning. She told me everything.” Jon kept his gaze steady as he fielded a speculative glance from the marquess.

  “Christ, she’s a part of this too?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Atwood stared at him a moment longer, but let the cryptic answer stand without further questions.

  “The runner reports that there are few leads as to the identity of Brayer’s killer and reiterates what you and I have already concluded—he might never be found. Not surprisingly, the baron had plenty of enemies, leaving a wide number of suspects.

  “In order to ensure that you shall always remain off that list, Kendall, I recommend that we have the runner bring the footmen back here to tell their tale to the magistrates and obliterate any suspicions against you once and for all.”

  It was a prudent, sound plan and precisely what Jon had also concluded needed to be done. Yet he hesitated, remembering how hearing the dullness of Dianna’s voice and witnessing the pain in her eyes had flooded him with feelings of empathy.

  “Since there is no urgent need, I want to wait to reveal this information,” Jon said firmly. “Dianna will be leaving within a few weeks and I would spare her this additional humiliation. She has suffered enough. None of this was her doing. Hector bears this burden alone.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Jon nodded, aware that Atwood didn’t know what to make of this strange request. “I’ll deal with Hector later,” Jon assured him. “Though I’ll admit that ever since I learned of his treachery, anytime I hear Winthrope’s name I imagine myself wrapping my hands around his neck and choking the life out of him.”

  Atwood grinned. “An understandable sentiment, but please do try to restrain yourself. We have only recently found the means to fully clear your name of one murder charge. I don’t relish the challenge of having to get you o
ut of another.”

  A deep chortle escaped from Jon’s lips. “I too have had my fill of criminal accusations and am more than ready to resume the simple life of a boring country gentleman.”

  “Country life is hardly ever simple or boring.” The marquess’s look turned considering. “Are you still working on that farming machine of yours? The reverend has Squire Hornsby and half the congregation convinced ’tis an unnatural calling to be building such contraptions.”

  Jon gave a snort of exasperation. “Small-minded men have difficulty accepting the concept of progress and innovation. But I will not be deterred.”

  The marquess’s face lit with curiosity. “I’ d like to see it. I might even want to purchase one or two for my estate.”

  “When it performs as I expect, I will gladly give you a demonstration.”

  “Has anyone seen it?”

  “Only Mr. Norris, my assistant, and Emma. She’s made several sketches of it and plans on doing a painting once the design is refined and complete. Honestly, I don’t understand how a lifeless machine of metal and gears can inspire her, but as long as it makes her happy . . .”

  Jon shrugged. Most people wouldn’t understand that he was risking the secrecy and integrity of his designs by allowing his wife to sketch them. Especially while the work was in progress. But it brought her joy and that in turn delighted him because, above all, he wanted Emma to be happy.

  “Emma is drawing again?” Atwood quirked a smile. “That’s splendid! Dorothea will be pleased to hear it, though she has chosen a most unusual subject. I’ve seen her still lifes and landscapes, but she has always insisted that her favorite subjects are people.”

  Jealousy reared and Jon tightened his jaw at the memory of the emotional portrait of the Earl of Tinsdale. “Has she accepted a lot of commissions for portraits over the years?”

  Atwood looked pensive for a moment. “As far as I know, she’s never earned any commissions. Her subjects have all been known to her—family members or close friends. I believe the last portrait that she completed was one of my father. She presented it to him at Christmas two years ago. It was quite magnificent. Slightly flattering, while at the same time, true to life. He adored it.”

  Jon’s gut lurched. Emma only paints family and close friends? Which is the earl?

  “We stayed overnight at the Earl of Tinsdale’s home after our carriage wheel accident,” Jon probed, apprehensive at clarifying the relationship between his wife and the mysterious earl. “Emma never mentioned that she was related to him.”

  “Tinsdale? Oh, you mean Viscount Benton. Or rather, Sebastian. I always forget that he is now an earl. It takes me a moment to make the connection between his older title and new one.” Atwood took a sip of wine. “But no matter what he’s called, Sebastian is not related to Gwen, Dorothea, and Emma. He’s one of my oldest and closest friends. We were at Eaton and later Oxford together, getting into more trouble than we ought, especially when we were bachelors. Sebastian is a capital fellow, with a wicked sense of humor. He caught the bouquet at my wedding. Ah, well, that’s another story entirely.”

  The marquess chuckled. “Emma has known him for years. I’m surprised she didn’t say anything about it.”

  This was hardly the news that Jon was hoping to hear. He shifted in his seat, feigning a casual indifference that he was far from feeling. The portrait had revealed Emma’s deep emotional connection to her subject. Though a part of him had doubted it was true, he had clung to the hope that her contact with the earl had been limited to the time she painted his portrait.

  ’Twas a blow to discover the pair had known each other for many years—and even more disheartening to find that Emma had felt the need to hide this relationship from him.

  “Thankfully, Emma wasn’t injured in the carriage accident, but she was rattled,” Jon revealed. “I’m sure telling me about the earl slipped her mind in all the confusion. Besides, we didn’t see him as he wasn’t in residence.”

  Atwood nodded. “His earldom came with a large estate located in the wilds of Yorkshire. I still find it hard to imagine Sebastian flourishing in such a rural environment, but he has assured me it suits him very well.”

  “He wasn’t in Yorkshire,” Jon replied. “The servants informed us that he was in London.”

  London. Where Emma had rushed off to in such haste yesterday. Coincidence? Or was this the perfect opportunity for them to meet in secret?

  A prickly tingle ran down Jon’s spine and a rushing noise roared between his ears as Emma’s sudden, unplanned trip took on a sinister bent.

  What is she hiding?

  The possibilities swirled through his brain, all of them hurtful, all of them messy, all of them unacceptable.

  Stop it!

  Jon tried to tell himself that he was being illogical, jumping to conclusions that had little or no facts to support them. It was the Season—there were hundreds of nobles in the city right now.

  Trust. He had to trust her. He had to take her at her word that she had gone to London because her niece and nephew needed a chaperone for the trip. He had to believe that she was with her sister, enjoying a long-overdue visit.

  He had to do that, or else he would rush to Town like a lovesick fool, too blinded by his own jealousy to act in a rational, civilized manner.

  His breathing gradually slowed. They would talk when she returned. He would ask her for the truth about her relationship with the earl—past and present. Wondering, speculating, assuming, would eat at him, wound him, and jeopardize the love that he had for her.

  * * *

  “You have a visitor, Lady Kendall.”

  Emma looked up from the book that she had been pretending to read and stared down at the silver tray Gwen’s butler held out to her. A white card, facedown, rested in the middle.

  Though she knew the name that was engraved on the other side, she did as the butler expected, lifting and then turning it over. Her breath squeezed in her lungs, her fingers trembled, and the letters seemed to swim together before her eyes, yet somehow she kept her composure.

  Barely.

  “Please let the earl know that I am at home,” Emma commanded.

  The butler inclined his head respectfully and withdrew. Left alone, Emma had several agonizing moments to question her sanity and brace herself for a torturous ordeal. Fortunately, before she could crowd her mind with any additional upsetting thoughts, the drawing room door opened and Sebastian stepped through.

  She stood, swallowed hard, and linked her fingers together. He had aged, of course, but magnificently. His hair was still thick and dark, with but a few streaks of silver at the temples that gave him a mature, distinguished air.

  Small lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes, but they sparkled with the same life and humor she remembered. His shoulders were as broad, his legs firm and muscular, his stomach flat. The power and strength within him had not diminished with age, nor had the rakish swagger she always admired.

  “Hello, Emma.”

  He smiled and Emma felt her heart melt. She opened her mouth to greet him, but found that she was too choked with emotion to say anything.

  “Shall we sit?” Sebastian finally suggested.

  Emma bobbed her head and wordlessly led him to the matched set of settees. He waited politely for her to sit and then took a seat opposite.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” Emma said, looking down at her still clasped hands.

  “Nothing could have kept me away,” he replied. “I’ve been waiting many years for this summons.”

  “I behaved rather badly the last time we were together,” Emma said softly, wincing at the scalding memory.

  “You were in pain,” he said gently. “And for that I blame myself. Hurting you has been the biggest regret of my life. It has torn at me for years. Through my friendship with Carter I was able to find out where you were, what you were doing, and it eased my guilt a tad knowing that you were safe and with your loving family. But I was nev
er able to discover if you were happy.”

  Emma’s heart began to beat rapidly. He had thought of her. Worried about her. Hoped for her happiness. She had meant something to him.

  There was another long pause.

  Emma crossed her arms and stared at the carpet. “What happened between us was not entirely your fault, Sebastian. You never encouraged me, you were never forward or inappropriate, you never gave me any reason to expect more from you.

  “You didn’t flirt—well, perhaps a bit, but I’ve come to understand that is so ingrained in your character you don’t even realize that you are doing it.”

  He shook his head vigorously. “I confided in you, came to you when I needed comfort, teased and joked with you. I treated you as a grown woman, but you were a young, impressionable girl. That was wrong.”

  “You thought of me as your friend. What we shared was uniquely ours. But then I spoiled it all by falling madly in love with you,” she said sadly.

  “God, Emma, it hurts me now to hear you say it. I never deserved such devotion,” Sebastian replied, the pain behind the words easily heard.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything,” Emma lamented. “Yet I was determined not to take my unrequited love to the grave without speaking of it. Of course, the scenes I played out in my mind ended in a very different way than the reality.”

  A muscle pulsed in Sebastian’s jaw. “I was an arse to you that day.”

  “You were hungover and nursing a broken heart. My timing was not the best.”

  He looked skeptical. “I should have handled it with more finesse, more compassion.”

  Emma felt the edges of a smile tug at the corner of her mouth. “I’m not sure that’s possible under those circumstances.”

  “I would have spared you this pain if it had been within my power.”

  “I realize that now.” Emma raised her chin. “The worst part was that you were the one I needed, you were the one that I wanted to turn to for comfort. And I couldn’t. ’Twas an impossible situation that I unwittingly allowed to fester for years. Thinking of your rejection made my insides ache, so I tried to ignore the pain, to run from it. It was my form of protection.