He knew this about himself. He knew the way the world saw him, and in the main, he did not mind.
Sharing emotions was not something he was accustomed to, but there was no gain in lying now.
“I…I think I was half in love with her before this whole thing started, and now…” His voice trailed away.
Glancing at Larnwick, it appeared his companion knew what he was trying to articulate. “I did wonder if it was something like that. I can see why you argued so passionately then at the wedding. She did not return your affections.”
Braedon said heavily, “She did not.”
“If I married you, it would only be for your money. Nothing else.”
The mere memory of those words was enough to pain his soul. How would he ever be able to forget those harsh barbs? How could he even think of offering for another woman?
“I know it hurts now, but I have to say, I am impressed.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Do not take these words in any negative light,” Larnwick said hastily, which hardly made Braedon feel positive about what was to come. “But in the short time I have known you, Braedon, I have liked you. But I didn’t think you had it in you to actually go after her! I mean, you’ve liked her for years.”
Braedon frowned. “How––how do you know that? Does everyone know that?”
Larnwick grinned. “You are not the master of mystery you think you are, Braedon. Every emotion plays out on your face. We all see it. ’Tis quite endearing.”
Braedon could not help but laugh. Yes, he was well aware he was an open book. It was what made it impossible for him to lie––and, it appeared, to keep any secrets.
“Of course, it can backfire in some scenarios, and this is one of them,” continued Larnwick, nudging his horse to the right as their path curved around. “Miss Tilbury knew how you felt about her far quicker than you understood her feelings.”
Surprisingly, Larnwick’s words made sense––and they did bring a little comfort.
“I loved her before I even knew her,” confided Braedon. Why did it feel so good to finally be able to say these things? “The more I knew her, the more I fell in love with her, and now she is off somewhere on the Continent, living a life free from concerns. And here I am, stuck without her, unable to move forward.”
Silence fell between them, and they rode on. Braedon sighed, the tension leaving his shoulders.
Eventually, it was Larnwick who broke the silence. “I admit, I think you are lucky.”
Braedon laughed and then shook his head wryly as he saw his friend was not being sarcastic. “Me? Lucky? Dear God, Larnwick, you must have a very difficult life if you can look at me and think I am lucky.”
Larnwick’s smile was bitter, and Braedon immediately felt guilty. Who was he to judge others, especially new friends who he knew so little about?
“I get married in a few weeks,” said Larnwick lightly, “and I don’t love my bride in the slightest.”
“Has your engagement not been going on for years? I assumed it was waiting for the parents’ consent, for the Lymingtons to agree to it.”
But Larnwick was shaking his head. “No, believe it or not, ’tis the bride who continuously changes the date when I can claim her as my own. Though I suppose it is my fault, in part.”
Braedon could not help his curiosity. “It is?”
“Well, fault is a strong word.” Larnwick shrugged. “I admit, I simply do not encourage her to speed up her resolve. The longer I can go without being married to a woman I have no affection for…”
It was hard for Braedon to decipher who he was more sorry for—himself or Larnwick. Neither were in the marital situation they wished to be, albeit for very different reasons.
“Better to be alone,” he said quietly, “than with the wrong person.”
He had spoken the words in kindness and had not expected his friend to laugh bitterly.
“Easy for you to say.”
A spark of irritation flared in Braedon’s heart. “Well, can’t you do anything about it?”
Larnwick shook his head. “It has been arranged for so long, it would be a scandal if either of us canceled.”
Braedon pulled Thunder to a stop, and Larnwick followed suit. The two gentlemen looked out over the park and the people within it. Ladies were walking in pairs, and there were even a few gentlemen in military uniform who appeared to be walking off stiff legs.
“Here we are,” said Braedon quietly. “What a pair we make. I wish to marry, and you do not. If only we had each other’s problems!”
Larnwick chuckled quietly. “Yes, but I have not been idle with my own concern, I assure you. ’Tis one of the reasons I actually came to London a few months ago. I thought being closer to Miss Lymington would accelerate the process.”
“And?”
“Postponed by two months,” Larnwick said in a painfully cheerful voice. “Which has led me to consider alternatives. I have been spending a great deal of time wondering what I am going to do about my predicament. Sometimes I think I have come close to an answer if…if I have the bravery to do it.”
Bravery? Braedon could not understand what bravery could have to do with a problem like that, but he did not ask. Larnwick did not look as though he would like to share.
“So,” the duke said bracingly. “What are you going to do about your predicament?”
Braedon took a deep breath. “Well, I only have a few options. Emma is leaving for the Continent, if she hasn’t gone already. I can either follow her or leave her be.”
His gaze was caught by a lady rider galloping across the park. With her riding habit billowing out behind her, the same shade of blue as Emma’s, it took him straight back to that encounter. That kiss. That moment when all possibilities were still open to them.
“I am sure she feels something for you.”
“She told me she would only have been marrying me for my money, that she had only sought me for my protection. Nothing more.”
He glanced over at Larnwick, whose eyebrows were raised.
“If you ask me, not that you have,” his friend said, “that sounds like a woman in pain, not one who doesn’t care about you.”
Braedon opened his mouth but hesitated. It was an intoxicating thought. What if Emma had merely spoken those words to convince him of her dislike of him––not because she was actually repulsed by him, but because she wished to prevent him from asking again?
“Whatever the truth is, I am still faced with an insurmountable problem.”
Larnwick sighed. “Let me know if you ever find a solution. I could do with one myself.”
Chapter Seventeen
Emma had never believed she would ever be forced to do this. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and she had…procured it precisely for this situation.
Taking a deep breath, she pulled the ring box from her reticule. “This is the item I told you about in my letter. You will find it exactly as I described.”
The man standing behind the till at the pawnbrokers looked over lazily. It could not be plainer that he was promised treasures almost every day of the week.
“This had better be as good as you promised me, Miss Tilbury, or I shall be mighty disappointed.”
Almost despite herself, Emma smiled as she handed over the box. There were few things in life she could be truly sure of, but this was one. She was about to become very rich.
“My dear Mr. Newman,” she said sweetly. “I think even you will be impressed by this one.”
The man reached out a hand for the box, and Emma found her breath caught in her throat. This was it. The moment she discovered whether she had been banking on a myth, rather than something tangible.
Her insurance. Her safety net, the one thing she owned of value. If she was wrong, she was about to find out. She was down to her last shilling as it was, and that would hardly pay the meagre rent for her rooms.
If she were wrong, she would be forced to the one choice
before her. She would have to return to selling herself, this time perhaps on the streets. She did not know how she could bear the shame of it. At least Fitz would never have to see her like this.
Mr. Newman opened the ring box and gasped, his eyes wide and full of greed. “Oh, my…” he breathed.
Only then did Emma’s frantic heart and twisting stomach calm down.
She had been right. It was going to save her. She should never have doubted herself. When had she ever been wrong?
“I do not understand why we cannot just ignore the world, and be happy.”
Emma drew herself up a little taller.
“B-But this is––it cannot––never before have I seen…” The pawnbroker’s splutters eventually faded into silence, and Emma watched him collect himself. When he spoke, it was in a hoarse whisper. “This is a royal signet ring!”
Emma smiled broadly. “I know.”
Of course, she knew that. There was no possibility it could be a fake, not considering where she had…found it.
She had never stolen before. It was not in her nature, and she had always had other skills and qualities that people were willing to pay for, in times of hardship.
Still, when she and Marnmouth had discovered they would be attending a dinner with the Regent––nay, hosted within St. James’s Court, she had known she would be sorely tempted.
A prize that could be tied to the Regent would be the perfect insurance.
Now Emma came to think about it, a small part of her must have known Marnmouth would throw her off one day. Why else take something of such immense value, if she truly believed she would be with Marnmouth for the rest of her days?
“I…I…where did you get it?” Mr. Newman asked her.
Emma merely smiled. It was probably best not to tell him that it was stolen. She was hardly a pickpocket and would never have acquired it if she had not been left alone in a corridor while the gentlemen drank port and the ladies made pointed suggestions that she leave.
The first door she had tried had revealed such richness she had barely known where to start. The ring had been easy to secrete on her person, and here she was, years later.
“Priceless, priceless!” muttered the pawnbroker, examining it closer, turning it in the light. “A piece of royal history, something we thought lost for––”
Only then did he remember himself and stop speaking, but the damage was done.
“Priceless, you say?”
The pawnbroker smiled broadly, his teeth yellowing. “When I say priceless, I mean in its beauty, naturally. Nothing is actually priceless. That would be ridiculous.”
“But it is valuable.”
It could not be clearer to Emma that the man was attempting to backtrack as fast as he could. Allowing his emotions to get the better of him had told her one important thing: she should expect a large payout for handing over the ownership of such a jewel.
“Well, only to the collector, not to anyone else,” Mr. Newman said hastily. “Though you may like your little jewelry, Miss Tilbury, I might find it difficult to––”
“Oh, I quite understand, please do not trouble yourself,” said Emma sweetly as she held out a hand. “In that case, let me take it from you and save you the trouble.”
Before her fingers got even an inch closer, Mr. Newman snapped the box shut. “No, no, I think we can come to some sort of arrangement.”
His face told her he was willing to barter. She had chosen Mr. Newman purposefully—a man with few morals and an excellent eye for value. Most pawnbrokers would have halted this conversation––they would have already clapped her in irons and awaited the authorities.
Others would not have even known this was one of the Prince Regent’s signet rings. They would have considered it only for its value in gold, nothing like what she was owed.
What she was owed. Emma almost laughed. She would never receive the true value of the signet ring, but she knew that. Stolen goods were always undersold.
“An agreement, you say?” she said lightly, returning her hand to her side. “That sounds like something I would be interested in. Name your price.”
The haggling began in earnest, something Emma was well-versed in. One could not sell oneself over and over again without having some idea of worth, of arguing someone down, of spotting their tells and guessing just how high they were willing to go.
Besides, any amount at this point was literal treasure. The workhouse was not an enticing prospect.
“Done!” said Mr. Newman triumphantly.
Emma smiled, making sure to put a little sadness into her face to make it clear to the pawnbroker she believed herself to be robbed. His smile broadened.
It was hard not to laugh, really. She had been prepared to accept one hundred guineas for it, if she was really pushed to it, but instead….
“Two hundred guineas,” the pawnbroker said with a shiver. “I do not think I have paid as much as that for anything before. You are very fortunate, Miss Tilbury.”
Emma’s smile stiffened. She had never felt so unlucky in all her life.
“Remember, my name is not attached to this,” she said in a warning tone. “You found it, came across it, secured it some other way. Whatever story you have to tell, tell it without my involvement.”
Mr. Newman was barely listening, his gaze focused on the ring now in his possession as though it was an island in a storm––and, thought Emma wryly, it probably was.
“Your money,” he said distractedly. “Give me one moment, Miss Tilbury, and I shall write you a receipt for––”
“No receipt,” Emma interrupted. “Remember, no paper trail. I am not involved in this whatsoever. Just the money, if you would be so kind.”
Mr. Newman nodded and started counting out fat gold coins into a small leather bag. “Two, four, six, eight, ten. Twelve, fourteen…”
Emma watched his fingers carefully. She knew Mr. Newman of old; she knew he would be more than happy to rob her––another way to make more money from their deal.
Because she knew precisely what he would do as soon as she left this godforsaken pawnbroker’s. Mr. Newman still had just about enough social standing to be believed, after he concocted his ridiculous story. He would go through the official channels, of course, anything to gain greater credence to his tale.
Emma smiled wryly. Two hundred guineas? He would be given thousands. He might even end up with a knighthood. The world was not fair, but then she had never thought it was.
“And I will take off a guinea for the leather bag which I am so generously––”
“No, you will not,” said Emma sharply. “You will pay me the full two hundred guineas, and give me the leather bag as a token of your appreciation. I could have gone to Chapmans, you know, or Martins. I chose to come to you.”
The man glared but seeing her resolve, put the last coin into the now bulging leather bag and thrust it out.
“Much good may it do you, Miss Tilbury,” he spat. “I am always here if you have any more of those pretty silk gowns, though I would say you’re down to your last.”
His insolent gaze took in the fraying edges of her gown.
Emma held her head up high. “Good day to you, Mr. Newman.”
When she stepped out into the fresh air of a wintery London, her reticule no longer contained the ring box but was instead stuffed with guineas. She felt the reassuring weight on her arm as she made her way down the street.
It was difficult not to feel as though she had sold herself. Handing over––no, selling her only trinket of value was not a decision she had taken lightly.
A woman with few choices always had to sell something, Emma thought wryly as she stepped over some horse droppings, which had found their way to the pavement. She should be grateful, she supposed, that in this instance it was jewelry and not herself which had been exchanged for gold.
With any luck, that would be the last thing she would have to sell for a while. Two hundred guineas were a significant sum, far more t
han she had expected, and if she was careful, she could live off such a sum for…
How long? Emma tried not to think about too closely. If she started to calculate the number of days she now had to relax, she would start to worry, her eyes start to wander to the newest set of foolish gentlemen in Almack’s. She was her own woman, at least for the moment. All she needed to do was return to her rooms.
As Emma walked down the streets on her path to her rooms, she kept her bonneted head down and her gaze downcast.
Fitz. He was still in London, she was almost sure, and the last person she wished to speak to in this moment was the man who had stolen her heart. And it was because of her focus on the pavement that Emma bumped into someone.
“Oh, I do apologize,” she said, lifting her gaze to see which lady she had offended.
Not lady, but ladies. The two Miss Lymingtons, the twins, stood before her.
“Please do not worry yourself,” one said with a smile. “’Tis so busy in London, it can be difficult to––”
“You should look where you are going, Miss,” said the other, with a sniff. “Then you would not walk into your betters.”
Emma swallowed down her angry retort. The insolence of this––this welp! She was at least ten years younger than she, perhaps more, and the way she spoke to her!
But she could not. No longer under Marnmouth’s protection, unable to gain Fitz’s, she had no one to stand by her side and ensure she was treated with respect.
It was not possible for her, a mere Emma Tilbury, to go about doing what she wanted or saying what she wanted. She had to be polite. She had to ensure she adhered, as much as one could, to the rules of society.
“Do not be surprised that I am treating you with disdain,” said the second Miss Lymington, who, now Emma examined them, she could tell was the elder, Isabella. “That is all you deserve!”
Her twin looked scandalized. “Isabella, you cannot say such things! Really, Miss Tilbury, it was an honest mistake anyone could have––”
“I can say what I want, Olivia. I am going to be the Duchess of Larnwick one day, and people should treat me with some sort of respect!”
Always the Mistress (Never the Bride Book 11) Page 16