Rogue Grooms (40 page)

Emily’s heart ached for him. “I am so sorry, David. What a dreadful thing!”

“Are you sure you have no idea where the Star could be now? Where your brother sold it?”

“I . . .” Emily swallowed hard. Her stare dropped to her lap, to the braid trim on her gown. She had been so lost in the tale of the Star in India that she quite forgot her own story was not finished. The hardest part was still to come. “Do you read the London papers, David?”

He gave a rueful laugh. “I do try, but I fear I cannot read too closely when Anjali is at the breakfast table with me.”

“But you do remember Sir Charles and Lady Innis? We met them in the park.”

One of his dark brows arched quizzically. “Yes, I remember them. I received an invitation to some ball they are giving. What does all of this have to do with the Star?”

“Well, you see, Sir Charles has the Star—or at least the false Star Damien sold him. It is the paste copy which will be on display at this ball, which the experts will then examine. But I have no idea where the real one can be. I have wracked my brain trying to recall every pawnshop Damien frequented, every gaming hell he owed money to, but it is no use! I am sorry, David—so very sorry.”

“Emily, I have told you, none of this is your fault. How could it possibly be? I shall just have to—” Suddenly, David’s soothing words broke off. His dark stare veered back to her sharply, and he reached out to clasp her arm. “Did you say experts were coming to examine the paste Star?”

Emily nodded mutely. Her voice seemed to have died in her throat, and she was weary—so very weary. The high tension of the past few days had ground her down, and her very bones were tired. She longed to rest her head against David’s strong shoulder and sleep for a month. She wanted to forget all about her family and the jewel, and everything except David.

But that could not be. She had come this far, she could not stop now, not with everything yet undone and the sword of Damocles still hanging over her head. The best she could hope for was that David would help her, be her ally.

She stared deeply into his eyes, but all she saw there were more difficult questions.

“Yes,” she answered. “And they will know at once that the stone is false—and Sir Charles will remember that it was my brother who sold it to him all those years ago. But I have a plan, you see. Or at least the beginnings of one. That is why I was at that jeweler’s shop in Gracechurch Street this morning.”

Still watching him closely, Emily told of her wild idea to switch out the new Star with the paste one at the ball. How she would contrive to do this, she was not entirely certain. She could only hope there would be a moment when no one else was near the case holding the Star. Then she could employ the old lock-picking skills she had perfected as a girl, when breaking into cases was the only way she could obtain needed coins from Damien. The switch could be done in a trice. If only . . .

Her plan was only half-done, she knew that. And that conclusion was confirmed by the dubious expression on David’s face.

“It is ridiculous, is it not?” she said, pulling away from him.

“Not entirely, Emily. The idea of replacing the paste jewel with a genuine sapphire is a very clever one. But you must not get caught in making the switch. You need a better plan for that part of it.” He stared past her, at the impervious Hestia. Slowly, resolutely, dubiousness turned to calculation. A smile broke over his face, as the golden sunrise after a very dark night. “You will need assistance. From someone like myself, perhaps.”

Emily’s heart lightened, as if on new-sprung wings, and she could not stop herself from leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek. “Oh, David! I was so, so hoping you would say that.”

 

What a fool I am,
David thought, as he left Emily with promises to think on her plans and conceive an idea for the night of the Innis ball. What was he doing, contemplating turning jewel thief (well, jewel
switcher
, which was in a way even worse)? He was an earl now, with responsibilities, a daughter to take care of. He was not a wild youth anymore, free to spend all his time running across the country fields with Emily Kenton.

He was a besotted fool. That was the only answer. One look into the sapphire depths of Emily’s eyes, and he would do anything to make her smile again. Even turn burglar.

But there was no denying the way his heart seemed to skip a beat when she
did
smile. The way his blood surged and heated when her soft lips touched his skin, even briefly. He wanted to help her, to make her life perfect—now and always.

And there was also no denying the excitement that simmered in his soul at the prospect of intrigue. Life in England was quiet and staid in comparison with the hot, bright drama of India. Only with Emily did he feel himself come truly alive again, did he hear the distant call of wild birds tempting him onward.

He swung up into his phaeton, turning the horses toward home. Emily’s carriage, a proper one this time, with the Kenton crest on the door, had already moved onto the next street, out of his sight.

The thought of the shameful way her brother had treated her made his blood burn hot in his veins. His heart cried out for revenge—yet that could never be. Damien Kenton was dead, forever beyond an earthly reckoning for his dishonorable deeds. He had been dead for many years, and still Emily was cleaning up his messes. Beautiful, sweet Emily, whose young days should have been filled with music and gowns and suitors, not money and farms and family honor.

What was wrong with Alexander and his vivid, clever wife, that they could not see the unbearable pressure their sister was living under?

But that was unfair. Emily had not gone to them for help, insisted they not be “bothered” in anyway by this debacle. He, David, was all she had. He could not disappoint her.

The loss of the Star was a great one, and he felt it keenly. His grandmother had charged him with its recovery, and he never wanted to disappoint her, either. He would give his left arm to release her from her “curse” and ease her old age.

Yet, even more strongly, with a force greater than any he had ever encountered before, he wanted to see Emily laugh again—really laugh, as she had when they were children. Free of all worry and care. He would do anything for that. He would die for it.

Oh-ray-baba.
He was a besotted fool, indeed.

“
W
ellwell,” Georgina murmured, sotto voce, as they left their wraps with the waiting footmen and melded into the throng flowing into the Innis ballroom. “It would seem that even the highest sticklers of the
ton
have allowed curiosity to get the better of them. They have all deigned to enter the house of a ‘vulgar Cit.’ ”

Emily adjusted her kid gloves over her arms and gave her sister-in-law a wry smile. She was trying her hardest to appear cool and amused, as she usually was at such events. She even laughed a bit, but she could see that she had not entirely fooled Georgina, who watched Emily with a tiny frown puckering her forehead.

Before Georgina could say anything, Emily turned away to snatch a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman. As she sipped, or rather gulped in a most unladylike fashion at the bracing, bubbling liquid, her gaze scanned the crowd.

It was just as Georgina said—everyone who was anyone in Society was there, despite the fact that many of them declared their intentions of never setting foot in such a “mushroom’s” dwelling. Obviously, the burning desire to see the interior arrangements of one of London’s largest houses had overcome even snobbery. Emily couldn’t help but be a bit glad, despite the anxiety that made her heart pound and her hands tremble. She rather liked Sir Charles and his stylish wife, and if not for the unfortunate circumstance of the Star she would have enjoyed knowing them better. Perhaps in the future—far in the future....

Lady Innis, clad in a very fashionable and stunning gown of a cloth-of-gold tunic over an ivory satin slip, was in radiant form. She greeted and laughed, and gestured with her gold-colored feather fan, trailed by her bemused husband. Lady Innis’s diamond necklace and earrings, as well as the large ruby brooch that fastened her gold silk turban, were the grandest Emily had ever seen.

No wonder they can afford to donate the Star,
she thought. They obviously wanted the philanthropic prestige of patronizing a new, highbrow museum more than they needed money.

She exchanged her empty glass for a full one and drifted along the edges of the white and silver ballroom, trying to stay out of sight of any of her friends or acquaintances. She saw Mr. Carrington over by the tall windows, but he did not spot her.

The dancing had not yet started, but the orchestra, hidden behind a bank of potted palms, played a soft melody. Mozart, perhaps, or Haydn. Emily could hear it well, because, despite the great size of the gathering, the crowd was strangely hushed. People stood in clusters and knots, whispering and murmuring and staring. She found a quiet corner, half-hidden behind a palm of her own, and scanned the faces carefully.

But the one face she wanted to see above all others was not to be glimpsed. David had obviously not yet arrived.

“Please, do not let him forget,” she whispered, half in prayer, half to reassure herself. He would not forget, how could he? Her tale had been one of the oddest he had surely ever heard, and the Star was almost as much his concern as it was hers. But maybe he had decided she was an utter lunatic and he wanted no part in her schemes.

Perhaps he was on his way back to Calcutta even now! And, really, Emily could not blame him if he was. But she needed him. Not just on this evening, but on every evening to come.

The champagne glass almost slipped out of her hand at this revelation, which had come out of the darkness not as a lightning bolt, but as a whisper of music on flower-scented air. The thought of David going back to India did not give her such a sharp pang because she needed his help with the Star—but because she loved him. Not as a child loved her friend, but as a woman loved a man.

Emily took another deep gulp of her champagne, and it helped to clear the sudden misty haze at the edges of her vision. Yes—she did! She
loved
David. In truth, she had never ceased to love him, not over all the years they were parted. But since he had first come back, since she had first seen him at the Wilton ball, her feelings had been so very different. The dark, mysterious depths of his eyes, his elegant hands, so strong when they held hers. The way he laughed at her foibles, the echo of his voice as he told her of the exotic mysteries of India . . .

She wanted to clasp all those things to her and never, ever let them go. When she was with him, she never felt that aching restlessness that had plagued her of late. With him, she was always at peace, even in the midst of all this turmoil over the wretched Star. When he sat beside her and held her hand in his, she knew nothing could go wrong.

When she was alone, as now, her stomach tied itself into knots, and she was certain her schemes could only go horribly awry.

He surely did not feel the same about her. He had been married, had known the serenity of a beautiful Indian wife—a wife lovely enough to produce the doll-child Anjali. Emily was not a serene woman. She never had been. And the Star was still lost to David’s family, no matter what happened here tonight. Her own family had caused that, and even David’s understanding could not erase it.

After all this trouble was over, David might try to distance himself and his daughter from her—or he would if he was sensible. But maybe, just maybe, once they were all settled in the country, away from London, she could show him that there was more to her than trouble and wild schemes. She could show him how much she knew about farming, could perhaps advise him on his fields or teach Anjali how to ride.

“One plan at a time, Emily,” she whispered.

Oh, horrors!
Now she was talking to herself. This would all have to end soon, or she would surely have to be sent to Bedlam.

And her champagne was all gone. She turned her head to see if perhaps there was any more to be had, any tray-laden footmen nearby. As she peered around fruitlessly in search of refreshment, a low, hissing murmur floated through the potted palm to her ears.

“Look, there is the Indian earl!” a voice, which Emily recognized as that of the draconian Lady Linley, said. “How very dark he is. I see nothing at all of his father in him. How handsome that man was in his youth! We could scarce believe he made such a
mesalliance.”

“Perhaps the new earl’s father was really the punkah boy!” her companion said, with a nasty little snicker. “One does hear such things about native women . . .”

How dare they!
Those shrill old harridans. Emily’s face flamed, and her mouth turned dry and sour. If only she truly was the Boudicca David named her. She would run them over with her chariot. Skewer them with her sword.

But she was not Boudicca. She was simply Lady Emily Kenton. And that title might stand her in better stead here in this ballroom than a spear would. There was only one thing she could do.

She deposited her empty glass at the base of the palm, made certain her hair and gown were tidy, and marched out with her head held high. She swept past the two witches without even glancing at them, her gaze searching the crowd for David. Her Indian earl.

He was speaking with their hostess, too far away to have heard the old gossips’ comments—but surely he had heard it before, and worse. It was just such cuts, small but bleeding, that had driven his father back to India.

But they would not drive David away. Not if Emily had anything to say about it.

My brother is not a duke for nothing,
she thought resolutely. It was high time she used that title to its full advantage.

She marched up to David, laid her hand lightly on his arm, and said, loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear, “Lord Darlinghurst! Such a pleasure to meet with you again. My brother and sister-in-law were just asking about you.”