First Season / Bride to Be (23 page)

Emily couldn't help but stare.

The man raised his eyebrows, waiting.

“Dancing master?”

He gave her a slight bow. “I am a very fine dancer.”

Emily remembered the complicated dances in some of his performances. “Yes, but…how did you come to be teaching?”

The footman holding the front door coughed discreetly. Emily heard her aunt's questioning voice from inside.

“A complicated story,” said Fitzgibbon. He made a gesture indicating that he did not wish to tell it in a public street. “Will you bubble me?” he added with some urgency.

“No. That is… I don't…”

“Emily?” said her aunt, appearing in the doorway.

Bowing once again, Fitzgibbon handed her a card, tipped his hat, and walked quickly away.

“Who is that you were talking to?”

Emily slipped the card into her reticule. “The Talbots have engaged him as dancing master for the girls,” She hurried up the steps and into the house.

“Dancing? Is that the fellow everyone's talking of? Maria Talbot was telling me he's even got Margaret moving with a bit of grace.” She frowned. “But I do not understand why you were speaking with him.”

“I…I was thinking I could use some lessons,” Emily said in a rush. “I have had so little practice dancing.”

“Hmm. Perhaps.” Her aunt turned and started up the stairs. “I am glad to see you taking an interest in your social skills,” she added with more warmth.

Emily kept her head down as she followed Aunt Julia upstairs. She hadn't exactly lied to her. No, she had simply neglected to tell the truth, jeered another inner voice.

In her own room, she took out Fitzgibbon's card, only to discover that the name engraved on it was Edwin Gerrity. What if she had mentioned his name? She sat down abruptly in the armchair under the window. How many of her father's collection of eccentrics were now in London? she wondered suddenly. They included a great many disreputable figures, and a few out-and-out scoundrels. If Daniel Fitzgibbon, thieving actor, could so easily become Edwin Gerrity and enter the houses of the
haut ton
, what else might happen? The possibilities daunted her. Aunt Julia would be furious.

Emily went to the small writing desk in the corner and put the card safely inside. She had to keep her two lives firmly separated. There was no room in this household for characters like Fitzgibbon/Gerrity. Imagining him here was as difficult as picturing her Aunt Julia among Papa's paints. She swallowed. Completely separate, she thought. It was the only answer. Everything would be fine as long as she held to that resolve.

* * *

Richard folded his arms across his chest as his mother's carriage started off along the cobblestones. He glowered at the tufted blue velvet lining the interior. He had tried to forbid this expedition. But his mother had resorted to tears and laments about the incident in the park, and he had had to yield. He had also had to accompany her, wasting his time and spoiling his temper. But he wasn't about to send her alone into the clutches of Herr Schelling.

She sat happily beside him, gazing out the window. When would she recover her spirits? When would she be able to contemplate his leaving London without falling into a despond? This fearful, clinging woman was so unlike the mother he remembered.

A wave of compassion overtook him. He had changed. No doubt she felt the same bewilderment over the son who had returned to her. And she had mourned his death for a long time. She could be allowed more than a week or two to recover. “Are you warm enough, Mother?”

She turned and smiled at him. “Yes, thank you, dear.”

Her expression touched him. He had given her a good deal of pain over the last year. And in the years before that. The old persona was all too easy to resume, but he wasn't going to do that.

“It is so good to have you home again,” she added. “Nothing was the same with you…gone.”

A year ago, he would have dismissed this as maudlin sentiment, Richard thought. But he could see the emotion in her eyes.

“Even the Season seemed a lot of silly posturing.” She looked self-conscious and gave a brief laugh. “How people would stare to hear me say that. Of course, it is all right now that you are back.”

Richard watched her visibly gather the elements of her social self around her. Family connections went deeper than the roles individuals played in the world, he saw. But one didn't always understand that until a crisis struck.

“I'm afraid Herr Schelling lives quite out of the world. In Kensington,” said his mother in another tone entirely. “But he says the vibrations there are good for his work.”

“Indeed?”

She nodded. “There is a rift in the etheric envelope that allows him to reach through to the other realm.”

“A what?”

Lady Fielding gestured airily. “A rift. I don't understand it precisely, of course.”

“Of course.” Because it was gibberish, Richard added silently.

“But it does help Herr Schelling do the most amazing things.”

“Such as?”

His exceedingly dry tone earned him a doubtful glance.

“Besides communicating with my supposedly deceased spirit,” he added.

“That was a mistake,” she acknowledged. “But Herr Schelling was wondering… You do not think, Richard, that you received any sort of etheric communications when you were trapped in that awful jungle?”

“No, Mother, I do not.”

“You might not have noticed them, you see, because they are very subtle…”

“Vanishingly so.”

“Richard.”

He subsided. He had promised to keep his sentiments to himself on this expedition. It was going to be even more difficult than he had imagined.

Herr Schelling lived in a respectable looking house on a quiet street in this unfashionable suburb. The maid who admitted them looked quite ordinary, as did the furnishings Richard glimpsed, though they were rather luxurious for a man in his position. Apparently, Herr Schelling paid some heed to the physical plane as well as the etheric.

The upstairs room to which they were taken was different. Its only furniture was a large round table in the center, set on a circular carpet decorated with stars and surrounded by straight chairs. All the walls were muffled with heavy dark draperies. The only light came from a branch of candles set on the table.

A few people stood about the room, talking softly. Herr Schelling surged forward from among them and held out both his hands. “My dear Lady Fielding. How splendid to see you in my humble abode once more.”

Richard almost snorted. What sort of man could actually utter the words “humble abode”?

“Lord Warrington,” said their host. “You also are most welcome.”

Restraining himself, Richard merely nodded.

“I believe we are ready.” Schelling turned and gestured. Richard followed his mother to a pair of chairs and sat beside her. When they were settled, a large weeping woman was led in and seated. Herr Schelling materialized next to her, wearing his bulging turban now. When had he put it on? Where had he gotten it? Richard looked around the room, noting how hard it was to see anything in the shrouded corners. The man was slippery as a barrel of eels.

Schelling snuffed all but one of the candles, then sat in the last empty chair. Those seated next to him took his extended hands and the entire group began to link hands as well. Richard allowed his mother to grasp his hand, but he nearly balked when the other was taken in a limp clammy grasp. Turning to protest, he found a thin, timorous woman who evaded his gaze as if it were a blow. The limp fingers trembled in his. Grimacing, Richard turned away again. He should have forced his mother to stay home. He should have argued much more vehemently.

Their host moaned, and the circle stirred with anticipation. The candle flame fluttered in an errant breeze.

“We call across the great gulf of dissolution to the other realm,” Schelling chanted in a high, nasal voice. “We reach through the mists and darkness that obscure it. We seek Wendel, newly passed over in the prime of his life.”

Some relative of the weeping woman, Richard concluded. His distaste for this farce nearly overwhelmed him.

“Bring him hither, my messengers,” continued Schelling. “Azrael. Phileto. Bring him!”

The draperies stirred. The candle dipped and smoked. There was a creaking sound.

“He is coming!” intoned their host. “He is near.”

A dog began barking somewhere. Richard almost laughed aloud at the intrusion of this prosaic noise. Did Herr Schelling keep a pug?

“Wendel?” cried a tremulous voice. “Is that you, Wendel?”

The barking grew more rapid.

“Wendel!”

A strangled choke escaped Richard, the product of outrage and laughter colliding and being stifled by consideration for his mother's feelings. All this rigmarole for a dead dog? This put him in his place—the group apparently ranked deceased sons and pets about equal.

“He cannot speak,” said Herr Schelling, to Richard's disappointment. “But I sense he is well.”

“Does…does he have enough to eat?” quavered the large woman.

This was unconscionable, Richard thought—playing on the grief of this woman, as on his mother's. He was going to see that Schelling was thrown out of England.

There was not much more. Schelling made a few more moaning sounds and then “came back to himself.” The candles were relit. Clasped hands were released. The maid appeared to invite the group downstairs for refreshment, Schelling pretending to be too drained to act the host. Richard hung back a bit to let the others go ahead, then took his mother's arm firmly. “We're going,” he said.

“But the evening isn't…”

“Now,” he insisted. He led her down to the entry and out into the street. “How can you tolerate that man?” he asked his mother.

“He has abilities.”

“To contact a dead dog?”

Lady Fielding looked doubtful. “It was a little odd, wasn't it? We never had a dog before.”

“I think you should give up seeing him.”

“He was such a help to me.”

“He is a charlatan. Do you imagine that nonsense tonight was real?”

His mother looked thoughtful. “It does seem strange that there are dogs in the spirit realm.”

Richard rubbed his eyes with one hand.

“It might have been a hoax,” she added.

He blinked in surprise and pleasure. “Of course it was a…”

“Myra has given him a number of gifts, you know. Perhaps he wished to make some return for her generosity.”

“Gifts?”

Lady Fielding nodded. “He doesn't ask for anything, naturally.”

“Doesn't he?”

“Oh, no. Too proud. But his assistant lets one know how difficult it is for him to sustain his work.”

“Indeed. What is her name?” That would be a place to start, he thought.

“Umm. Sarah, I believe.” She nodded to herself. “I have been thinking of asking him to contact Walter.”

Richard sat bolt upright on the cushions.

“I do miss him, you know.”

He nodded. He could acknowledge now that his stepfather had been a kind and generous man. How much more his mother must feel.

She frowned. “Perhaps you think I should look for your father instead.”

Richard scarcely remembered his father. Even had he believed in Schelling's powers, he wouldn't have thought to seek him.

“But it has been so long…”

“You cannot reach either of them, Mother. Schelling's claims are utterly false.”

“It would be wonderful to hear Walter's voice once more,” she replied, as if she hadn't heard a word. “He always knew just the thing to say. He was so…comforting.”

“He was a good man. But—I'm sorry, Mother—he is gone.”

“Well, I know that.”

Her change of tone gave Richard hopes for a moment.

“I would just like to talk to him, you know,” she went on, deflating them. “I'll send a note round to Herr Schelling tomorrow. He'll know just what to do.”

Staring grimly out into the night, Richard made no reply.

The duchess came into Emily's bedchamber and ran an expert eye over her. Emily shifted a little under that critical gaze, telling herself that her gown of sea green muslin was impeccable and her hair was styled in a most becoming cloud of curls. “Very nice,” her aunt said.

This was high praise from Aunt Julia. Emily gathered her dark green wrap and followed her out to the stairs.

“I think you will like Vauxhall Gardens,” the duchess declared as they walked. “The fireworks are very pretty.” Emily murmured her agreement.

“We have received a prodigious number of invitations. I do believe you are making a hit. And we certainly needn't worry about Warrington any longer after his disgraceful behavior in the park.”

“Disgraceful?”

“Throwing you down in that odious way and positively rolling about on the ground. Everyone is talking of it.” She raised a hand. “No one blames you, of course. It was all Warrington. He was…ferocious.” Her expression showed how shocking she had found the incident.

“He saved me from being crushed by that urn,” objected Emily.

“A gentleman would have done so in quite another manner.”

“How?”

The duchess gave her an admonitory glance. “I don't know, my dear, but he certainly would not have grabbed you so…aggressively and thrown you into the dirt.” She shook her head. “Warrington's unfortunate experience at sea must have upset the balance of his mind.”

“He acted boldly to save us both from being hurt. I don't know what you expected him to—”

“You sound almost admiring. Emily, you must not—
must not
—get some romantic notion in your head that—”

“It is nothing of the kind.”

The duchess frowned at her, looking every inch the outraged duenna.

It took Emily a moment to realize the extent of her transgression. “I'm sorry I interrupted you, Aunt.”

“You must watch your tongue, Emily. We have spoken about this. A young girl does not have opinions, let alone such very…insistent ones.”

Emily nodded. It was rather hard, to have been encouraged for her first twenty years to have strong opinions and now to be told that this was not what was wanted at all.

In the front hall, two of her cousins, George and Philip, were waiting to escort them. Tall and blond, they looked elegant and imperturbable in their evening dress. Did they mind being commandeered to take her about London? She never could tell how the men of this household felt about anything. Her father, the only male she knew well, was such a different creature.
His
feelings were never in doubt.

All such concerns fled when they reached the river and embarked for Vauxhall. The gardens glittered on the other side of the water, and music drifted in the soft spring air when they stepped to shore again. There were colored lanterns hanging in the trees, Emily saw with delight. Paths wandered through the vegetation. She could see a glowing fountain at the far end of one and a small pillared structure down another. “It's beautiful,” she said.

Philip looked down at her. “Mater thought you'd like it.”

Fashionably dressed groups strolled here and there, chattering like exotic denizens of a fairy story. Her aunt was truly making an effort to see that she enjoyed her London season, and she was very grateful.

They walked down the broadest avenue, George and the duchess in front. Emily tried to see everything at once. All the paths looked intriguing. The colored lights through the new green leaves were lovely. The music was growing louder. It was an enchanted landscape. “Can we go there?” she asked her cousin, indicating a particularly enticing walk.

Philip shook his head. “Mater likes to sit in the Pavilion. Nothing down there but trees. George'll order the ham and some rack punch,” her cousin promised her kindly.

“Can't we walk a little first?”

Philip started to refuse. Emily looked for her aunt, who had drawn a good way ahead. A large raucous group surged out of a path on the left and engulfed them in a tipsy, jostling mass. “Here now,” said Philip indignantly, but no one paid any attention. The group went careening around them laughing and gesturing, heading for the gates. They looked like law clerks or shop assistants, Emily thought, and they looked like they were having a very good time.

One of the young men stumbled hard into Philip and clutched his lapels to stay upright. Philip roared with outrage and cursed him. Some of the others began to jeer, laughing more than ever when Philip raised his walking stick and threatened to thrash his assailant.

Emily backed up a step, then another. Philip was red in the face and shouting, but it didn't seem to her that he was in any real danger. She had seen mobs bent on violence, and this wasn't one of them.

She took another step back. The temptation was irresistible. She would just go a little way down the path that had so drawn her and then find Philip when his dispute was settled.

The walk was as enchanting as she'd expected, winding through the lantern-hung trees like a secret path through a magic forest. Emily was lured farther, first by a gazebo that was a fantasy of wrought iron and glass, and then by a series of sculptures that seemed to be Greek gods and goddesses. By the time she remembered that she must get back to her aunt, she had lost track of the turns she had taken and the direction she had come.

Aunt Julia would be livid. She had never meant to stay away so long. Her cousins were probably searching for her, and none too happy about the task.

Quickly, she started to walk. Coming to a place where two paths crossed, she tried to remember which one had brought her here. But she had been engrossed in the sights of the place, letting her feet take care of themselves. She had no memory of this turn.

Taking a breath, she chose a path, telling herself it looked quite familiar.

Ten minutes later, Emily had to concede that most of the paths looked alike. She had not come upon the gazebo or the statues again. She was lost and there was no one to be seen. She had obviously wandered into a deserted area of the gardens, and she didn't need to be told that this was not a wise idea. If she could just find a busy avenue, someone would direct her to the Pavilion. She stood on tiptoe, trying to see over the bushes for the direction that offered the most light. It was impossible to say. She would just have to walk.

She moved down the paths rapidly, her expression set.

But she couldn't seem to find a populated place. Emily was beginning to feel the first tremors of panic when she passed under an arch of branches and into an open space where two men sat at the edge of a dry fountain looking down into it. “Lord Warrington?” she said, astonished.

He stood, as did the other man. “What the deuce are you doing here?”

Emily hurried forward, too relieved to notice his scowl. “I'm lost. Could you tell me how to find the Pavilion, please? My aunt will be so worried.”

A wordless exclamation from the unknown man drew her attention. He looked like a superior sort of workman. His hands were covered with something green and slimy looking.

“Why the devil are you wandering around Vauxhall alone?” asked Richard.

“I…I was just looking at a path, and then I made a turn…”

“Easy to lose your way here,” said the other man.

Richard threw him a look that Emily couldn't interpret. “I will escort you to the Pavilion,” he said stiffly.

“If you just tell me the way…”

“Naturally I will not send you off alone,” he put in, as if she had arranged this whole incident just to inconvenience him. He stepped forward and offered his arm. Since she really didn't want to go alone, Emily swallowed her protest and took it.

They started off along a path that seemed quite the wrong direction to her. Which was no doubt the problem, she thought wryly. It was enormously comforting to hold Richard's arm and watch him choose the way with complete confidence. “What were you doing with that man?” she asked, her curiosity returning.

“Nothing that concerns you.”

There was a fleck of the green stuff on his coat, she noticed. It looked like the scum one found growing in ponds. “Was he working on the fountain?”

Richard nodded.

“But why were you—”

“It is none of your affair,” he interrupted almost savagely.

Emily's chin came up. “I
beg
your pardon.”

A stiff silence descended. He really was an insufferable man.

“I am interested in the waterworks they have here,” said Richard suddenly. “They are very complicated and intricate.”

“Oh.”

“Not a fit pursuit for a man of fashion,” he added with a sneer. “Your new friends among the
ton
will find it vastly amusing.”

She looked up at him. His mouth was tight, his face half turned away. He seemed both angry and humiliated. “Why would they find it amusing?”

He didn't appear to understand the question.

“Why shouldn't you be interested in how things work?”

Richard stopped walking. He stood there looking down at her. “It isn't…done. A nobleman doesn't care about machinery, or new inventions.” His lips turned down. “Or the future.”

“You are a nobleman, and you do.”

“
I
am…” He stopped and looked perplexed. “I have never let it be seen. Not even by…”

Emily waited for him to go on. When he didn't, she said, “It was very interesting about the balloon. Far more interesting than hunting and horse races and silly wagers in the clubs.”

He gave a short laugh. “You have been talking to the bright young sprigs.”

“It is all they talk about. What is so intricate about the waterworks here?”

Richard hesitated.

“My aunt said they have a great many fountains.”

Enthusiasm struggled with doubt in Richard's expression. “A huge number. They pump water from the river and run it through pipes under the entire garden. There is a marvelous system of valves to move the water from place to place. Finch oversees it all.”

“The man you were with just now?”

He nodded. “He knows a vast amount about machinery.”

“How did you meet him?” It seemed reasonable to her that Richard should be interested in the subject, but she couldn't imagine how he had become acquainted with someone like Mr. Finch.

“I sought him out,” was the defiant reply. “Since I have been back in London…” He stopped, his jaw set. Deeply interested, Emily waited for him to say more. But he didn't.

“That was clever of you,” she offered finally.

“Clever?” He looked baffled. Richard's gaze bore into hers. He seemed to be searching for something in her face. Emily couldn't look away. She realized that she wanted him to find whatever it was he sought.

The lanterns and leaves and strains of music seemed to recede. She was conscious of nothing but Richard and the wary amazement that had crossed his face. Emily was suddenly very aware of his height, of the strength of his arm under her fingers. She could hear her heart beating.

He continued to gaze at her as if she were some fantastic creature that he couldn't quite believe in. Emily found herself longing for that belief. Lost in the timeless moment, she leaned closer.

Richard's head bent. His lips touched hers, and something glorious flamed into life, astounding her. The touch sent a tremor through every nerve in her body. It ignited her, made her want to melt into his strength.

The kiss deepened. Richard's arms slid around her and drew her tight against him. His hands moved, exciting and dangerous, along her back. The hard angles of his body enticed her toward total surrender.

Emily had never imagined anything like this. She hadn't known that she could catch fire, go up in a conflagration of sensation that promised worlds. She gave herself up to it, letting his touch guide her in this fabulous, unfamiliar universe.

Richard pulled away, and Emily nearly cried out with disappointment. He let his hands drop to his sides. He was breathing hard, and his eyes looked wild. “I beg your pardon,” he said thickly. “I…” One of his fists clenched on the word. He fell silent.

Emily suddenly remembered all her aunt's strictures. What was Richard thinking of her? Did he imagine she habitually kissed men she scarcely knew? She drew away from him, trying to show that was the furthest thing from the truth.

He responded by taking a step backward.

She wanted to say something to ease the tension that vibrated between them, but she couldn't find the right words.

Richard turned away. Her hand reached out without conscious volition, then dropped again.

“This way,” he said, starting off. He didn't offer his arm again. Emily followed, and in a few minutes, they emerged from the trees onto a broad, brightly lit avenue full of fashionable strollers. Richard's expression became more even distant. “The Pavilion is down here.”

They walked side by side along the crowded pathway. Emily wondered if she looked as self-conscious as he did. She fumbled for something to say. Her aunt was wrong about Richard. He was not the supercilious, malicious man she described. He was…she couldn't say precisely, but she knew she wanted an opportunity to find out.

The Pavilion loomed ahead. When would she see him again? Her aunt was unlikely to arrange another outing with Lord Warrington. Something she had heard at a party popped into her mind. “Have you seen the steam locomotive on Hampstead Heath?” she blurted out.

Richard looked startled. “Not yet.”

“I should so like to. It is quite amazing, I believe.”

He gazed down at her. She couldn't decide if he was apprehensive or bemused.

“Perhaps you would escort me?” added Emily breathlessly.

“I…if you like.”

“Thank you. Thursday?”

He nodded just as Emily heard a sharp exclamation up ahead. In the next instant, she was swept up by her aunt and being questioned and scolded for her heedlessness. Somehow, Richard was dismissed in the midst of the explanations. And from the remarks made in the carriage going home, Emily was very glad she had made her own arrangements.