Rogue Grooms (36 page)

“Good afternoon, Lord Darlinghurst,” Georgina said. “So very good to see you again! And this must be your lovely daughter.”

“Do you have a flying carpet?” Elizabeth Anne asked Anjali, her chin already sticky with strawberry ice.

Anjali’s startled gaze turned from Emily to the other child. “I—no, I’m sorry, I fear none of my carpets fly.”

“Elizabeth Anne! Now, what did I just tell you?” Georgina admonished, taking her daughter’s hand in hers. “I am sorry, Lord Darlinghurst. I fear my child has not yet finished learning her manners.”

“That is quite all right, Your Grace,” David answered, with a smile just for Elizabeth Anne.

“We should take our ices out into the square, if you would care to join us,” Georgina said. “Indeed, if Lady Anjali likes, she could wait with us while you order your own treats. It is a fine day, and I promise that Lady Mischief here will hold her tongue.”

Emily watched as Lady Anjali’s stare darted to her father’s face, and her hand tightened on his. David gave it a reassuring squeeze, and nodded to her. Emily had never before seen a man behave so toward his child—not even Alex, who was utterly devoted to Elizabeth Anne and Sebastian. It was almost as if David and his daughter were an insulated world of two, where words were unnecessary for communication.

How could another person ever fit into such a world?

“Thank you, Your Grace,” David answered. “I am sure Anjali would enjoy that. She was quite enthralled by a man with a music-playing monkey we saw as we were coming in. And I will be out in only a few moments with our ices. Perhaps Lady Emily will be so good as to advise me on the choice of flavors?”

“Of course, Lord Darlinghurst,” Emily answered. She watched as Georgina led the children out the door, Elizabeth Anne still chattering on and Anjali looking like a startled little gazelle. David held his arm out to Emily, and she slid her gloved hand over his soft wool sleeve and walked with him back into the sugar-scented depths of the shop.

His arm was strong and steady beneath her touch, holding her up in this suddenly hazy scene.

“Your daughter is very pretty,” she said, pretending to examine the array of pastries displayed before her.

“Thank you,” he answered. “I, of course, would never dispute that. She is rather shy, though, and still a bit unsure of her new home.”

“Of course she is. Why, I remember the first time I visited London as a child. I thought it wild and a bit frightening, like some strange world in a book. And I was just coming from a country estate, not India! She must be terribly bewildered.”

“I think she was, at first, and she missed her relatives. But she is adjusting. She has enjoyed visiting the Tower, and taking a boat ride on the Thames.”

“And these activities have inspired her taste for bloodthirsty history? Anne Boleyn and such?”

“Precisely! She is always full of questions about the poor queens of Henry VIII—questions I fear I am ill-equipped to answer. I know precious little about any of those ladies.”

Emily laughed. “It is fortunate she met my sister-in-law, then! The duchess is planning a grand painting of the trial of Anne Boleyn, and will be able to answer any questions your daughter may have.”

They took their newly made ices—lemon for David and Anjali and apricot for Emily—and carried them out to the sun-washed square. Emily blinked in the sudden rush of light after the dim indoors, and shielded her eyes with her hand to see Georgina sitting on a bench with the two girls. Elizabeth Anne was still chattering away, and Anjali sat with daintily folded hands and ankles, her pretty face carefully expressionless.

They had not seen Emily and David yet, and, for an instant, Emily was tempted to clutch at his arm, to hold him where he was. They could be alone there, in the shadow of Gunter’s, for a moment, with no families or painfully polite conversation to catch them.

He must have guessed something of her thoughts, for he turned to stare down at her, his expression shaded by the brim of his hat.

“Is something amiss?” he asked quietly.

“I—no, of course not. Not at all. I just—the light . . .” Emily faltered, not at all sure of what she wanted to say.

But he knew. Just as he had always known. “I want to talk to you, too, Emily,” he said, his voice still soft, as if the hurrying masses around them could hear and spoil their moment. “
Truly
talk, not this polite nonsense. Is that what you want, too? If not, just scream at me, slap my face, and I will leave you alone.”

Emily had to laugh at the image of her screeching and slapping his face, causing a scene right outside Gunter’s. As if she ever could! His face was too handsome to mar with red handprints. In fact, what she really wanted more than anything was to place the tip of her finger right on that enticing dimple . . .

Blast!
Emily turned her stare away from him, curling her gloved fingers hard around her container of ice. The chill was a fine reminder of the reality of their situation.

“I do want to talk to you,” she said. “Very much.” But now was hardly the time. Georgina had seen them and was waving. “I am going to the British Museum tomorrow afternoon—alone, because Georgina has a meeting of her artists’ salon. If you would somehow—by coincidence, of course—appear in the Elgin Marbles room by two o’clock....”

He gave her a conspiring smile. “Say no more, Lady Emily. I will be there.”

Emily nodded, and started across the square toward Georgina and the children. Her attention was caught by the image of a lady leaving her grand townhouse across the square—a lady in an elegant mulberry-colored carriage gown and feathered bonnet. She paused to say a word to a footman, drawing on her gloves.

Lady Innis, going out of the house where they were meant to attend a ball next week. A ball to view the Star of India before it was given to the Mercer Museum.

Emily gasped at this cold reminder of reality—a reality that came around to slap her in the face whenever she dared to enjoy a moment in the sun with David.

A reality that would soon have to be faced, once and for all.

T
he jeweler’s shop was silent and dim as Emily slipped inside the door. At first glance, it would not look terribly promising to shoppers accustomed to the elegance of Bond Street. There were no gleaming chandeliers or enticing window displays, no velvet-upholstered settees or well-dressed attendants offering refreshments. Only if one peered closer, into the slightly dusty glass cases, was its true worth revealed.

Mr. Jervis’s shop carried only the most original, the most breathtaking designs. His workers came from Paris and Venice, refugees from the harsh Napoleonic years, and their necklaces and bracelets had a cunning and an elegant lightness many of the wares of the larger shops failed to possess.

Emily had found it when she was helping her brother look for a special anniversary gift for his wife. Georgina loved jewels, but she was not a lady whose tastes ran to the conventional; the emerald and ruby inlaid cuff bracelets Alex found here suited her perfectly. Emily came back whenever she was in need of an unusual item—or when she was in trouble, as now.

Mr. Jervis’s prices were very reasonable, and it was not likely that anyone of her Mayfair acquaintance would be here in Gracechurch Street to see her. Mr. Jervis was also very willing to barter with her, taking her birthday necklace and earrings in exchange for making a perfect—and authentic—copy of the Star of India.

Her opening the door set off a small, tinkling bell, and summoned Mr. Jervis from the back rooms. He blinked at her from behind his spectacles, obviously unable to recognize her in the dim light. Emily pushed the veil of her bonnet back, and a smile broke across his thin face.

“Ah, Lady Emily!” he said. “You are very prompt.”

“Your letter
did
say it would be ready today, Mr. Jervis,” Emily answered, advancing into the shadowed depths of the shop. Gold and silver, diamonds and porcelain, beckoned to her from the cases, but she did not give in to their siren song.

“Oh, yes, indeed it is! I am sure you will be most happy with it, Lady Emily—it is my very finest work to date, I do declare.” He ducked back behind a counter and, after some jangling and crashing noises, emerged with a small black velvet box. “Though I must say it was not easy working only from sketches.”

Emily touched the tip of her tongue to her suddenly dry lips. She had not been so very nervous to enter a shop since the days of Damien’s debts to every merchant in the village. But this would soon be over. “I do apologize for my poor artistic skills, Mr. Jervis. I am sure you did a superb job, as you always do.”

Mr. Jervis nodded agreeably, and pressed the box open. Emily leaned over to see it better—and gave a small gasp.

It was indeed beautiful work, the oblong sapphire surrounded by smaller diamonds. It shimmered like the very sky. Emily herself could not have told it apart from the real Star—except for some elusive
something
the facsimile lacked. When she had held the true Star in her hand all those years ago, it had warmed and tingled on her palm, whispering of far-off lands and doomed love.

This jewel only whispered of cold beauty.

But no one else would ever know that. And the jewel in the Innis mansion was not the real Star, after all. It was just paste. The real Star was . . . no one knew where. At least this way the Innises’ experts would find a genuine sapphire when they examined it.

“It is exquisite, Mr. Jervis,” she said. “You are an absolute artist.”

Mr. Jervis beamed. “Thank you, Lady Emily! You do have quite the eye. As you see here, I turned the facets just so, in the Indian manner . . .”

It was the better part of a half-hour before Emily could leave the shop, with Mr. Jervis’s assurances he would not say anything to her brother or sister-in-law if he should see them again and the new Star tucked into her reticule. She stepped out into the sunlight, breathing deeply of the fresh air.

Oh, this was all so maddening! She was not cut out for intrigue at all. Her hands were shaking and her mouth was dry, just from traveling to the shop today. At least it was nearly over. Or it would be after the Innis ball, where she would have to find a way to exchange the paste sapphire for the genuine one.

How she would do
that
, she had no idea. Not yet.

“You are a complete widgeon at this, Emily Kenton,” she muttered to herself, looping her reticule ribbons securely over her wrist. “You would have made a terrible spy in France!”

She had to return home now, and have a quick luncheon and change her gown before meeting David at the museum....

David!
At the thought of him, her hands shook all over again. Meeting him by the Elgin Marbles would be at least as frightening as coming to this shop this morning. Probably much more so. Somehow, every time she saw him, he grew more handsome, his dark eyes more enticing. They watched her as if they could see her soul, all her secrets. They beckoned to her to tell him everything.

But she could not do that. This was
her
burden, hers alone. David would surely hate her if he knew she had allowed her brother to sell the Star and then accepted gifts of the ill-gotten gains. Then the warmth of his gaze would turn to ice.

Emily could never bear that.

She stepped to the pavement to look for the hansom that was meant to be waiting for her—and froze. A dark blue carriage with a familiar crest painted on the door—the Darlinghurst crest—came around the comer and drove slowly past her.

David—
here!
How could that be? It was as if her thoughts of him summoned him in the flesh, right at the worst moment.

She shrank back into the shadows of the building, reaching up to snatch her veil down. But it was too late. From the half-open carriage window floated a sweet, childish voice.

“Papa! Isn’t that the yellow-haired lady we met at Gunter’s?”

 

David had thought this morning would be a good time to find gifts to send back to Calcutta for his grandmother and female cousins. Lengths of pale English muslins, with their light colors and dainty prints, would amuse them, and Lady Wilton had suggested this warehouse to him. She had given him the address in a whisper, as if it was a great secret. And, of course, Anjali had insisted on accompanying him.

As he settled her into the carriage, with the window half-open so she would not become ill from the lurching, swaying motion, he told her, “Now, we cannot be long at the shops. I have an appointment I must keep this afternoon.” A very important appointment indeed, with Emily at the British Museum. He could feel himself grinning like a fool just thinking about seeing her again.

Anjali leaned forward, and said, in her solemn voice, “Is it an appointment with that lady we met in Gunter’s? The one with the yellow curls?”

David stared at his daughter in surprise. He had thought she barely took notice of meeting Emily at Gunter’s, she had been so very quiet. Even when they returned home, she retreated into the silence of a book. He certainly had not told her of this planned meeting. Anjali watched him closely with her large green eyes, as he concealed his surprise behind a light smile. He reached out to tweak at her hair ribbon.

“Do you mean Lady Emily,
shona-moni?
” he said carelessly. “I may see her there.”

Anjali nodded slowly, her gaze never leaving his face. She looked so much like her great-grandmother when she was in such a mood, stern and all-seeing. At such times, he could hardly fathom that he had fathered such an otherworldly little creature. “Lady Emily is very pretty,” she said. “But she is not very much like Mama.”

That was certainly very true. Rupasri had been lovely, with her fall of black hair and smooth, honey-colored skin, but she had been quiet, submissive as she had been taught to be. She had no secrets behind her dark eyes, as Emily held in the sky color of hers. Rupasri did not seem to spring as she walked, the way Emily did. Emily seemed almost as if she would break into a dash every time she moved, as if she danced even while standing still. The power of the sun almost burst from her bright hair, from her very fingertips.