What a Lady Requires (14 page)

Her husband spread his palms across her back. “Is everything all right?”

Blast. The last thing she needed was another row with him.

“Yes, of course.” She raised her head and forced herself to meet his gaze. If she could hold his attention, she might yet extricate herself.

But he stepped away from her to glance around at the envelopes scattered across the floor. “It seems we’ve made rather a mess of your study, and I know you like things orderly.”

Placing her body between him and the offending missive, she stooped to gather a few letters and invitations. “No need to trouble yourself. I can clean it up.”

To her immense relief, he moved toward the door. “Remember your word for tonight. I plan on holding you to it. And wear your hair down.”

“Yes, of course.” The promise of the pleasure he offered aside, she’d agree to anything as long as it convinced him to leave.

But her reprieve was short-lived. The moment he disappeared into the corridor, she grabbed for Hendricks’s letter. Tearing open the seal, she stared at the stark, black scrawl. Only three words, but they sent a chill creeping down her spine.

You owe me.

Emma was hiding something. Rowan had felt it in her posture when he held her yesterday. Like an idiot, he’d let the moment pass.

For the hundredth time, he berated himself for not demanding an explanation, but he was deuced tired of every single one of their encounters turning into a confrontation.

Not every one.

Not since their interlude in the wine cellar, but that had been due to his not asking questions.

“Not asking questions has given rise to a very pleasurable result.” Indeed, it had. Not only had he avoided another fruitless confrontation, he’d vanquished his demons, at least in the master bedchamber. Last night, Emma had come apart for him just as sweetly and spectacularly as the first time. His back likely still bore the marks of her nails.

And that made for a perfectly satisfactory result even if the only thing present to hear about it was his bottle of brandy. He pushed his glass aside, untouched. Perhaps he should go home and ask her what was troubling her, rather than hide at the club. Whatever the problem was, he could try seducing it out of her.

“For a man so recently wed, you certainly spend a lot of time here.”

Rowan looked up. Sanford had found his way to the alcove where Rowan had chosen to brood alone. “You’ve only noticed because you’re here quite often yourself, and you married not even a year.”

Sanford took an empty seat. “In my case, my wife insisted. According to her, I’m hovering.”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

Sanford gave a pained smile. “Odd, Henrietta says the same thing. We’ve recently discovered she’s in a delicate condition, you see.”

“You have my felicitations.” Rowan said the words because they were expected, but his thoughts lay elsewhere—with Emma, to be certain. She, too, might be in a similar state, even after only two encounters. It was one more than Lydia had required, after all.

“But you haven’t answered my question,” Sanford persisted.

“I wasn’t aware you’d asked one.”

“Implied, then. Why should you spend all your time here when you have a new wife at home?”

Rowan considered his old friend. Ought he admit the truth? “Funny, the sorts of ironies life tosses at you.”

“Don’t I know it. Of all the places on the English coast I might have been shipwrecked, I had to wash up on the beach just below my aunt’s manor.”

“And at just the right moment to run into your former intended.” Rowan had heard the tale the last time he’d encountered Sanford at the club.

“Indeed.” Sanford folded his hands before him and leaned forward, looking as earnest as a newly invested vicar giving his first sermon. “So what has life tossed at you lately?”

“If I give you my current direction, you’d cotton on straightaway. Were you aware Lind had sold his old townhouse?”

“Yes, since he’s staying elsewhere this season.”

“Do you know who bought his old residence? One Mr. Jennings, wine merchant. Who happens to be my new father-in-law. And who saw fit to house his daughter there after her marriage.”

Rowan waited while Sanford drew the proper conclusions. “Shite.”

“Indeed. Since I’m short on funds, I’m obliged to live in the house where I committed my most grievous sin. You might even say where I sent my life straight to hell.”

“Shite,” Sanford repeated.

“You understand why I choose to spend as little time there as possible.”

“Does your wife know?”

“About my history in that house? Good God, what do you take me for? Of course she doesn’t know. Just how does one bring that up in conversation? Over dinner, perhaps? ‘Darling, Cook outdid herself on tonight’s roast. Oh, did I ever mention I made a close friend a cuckold in this very house? Funny how that worked out, isn’t it?’”

“We’ve all made mistakes we’ve lived to regret. Some of us have even had to admit as much to our wives.”

Rowan considered Sanford for a long moment. Yes, Sanford had left for India still engaged to Miss Upperton. But then he’d married another woman in Calcutta. He’d even returned to England with two daughters in tow. For his former betrothed to accept him back into her life, he’d surely had to explain an awkward thing or two. “How did you manage such a feat?”

“It wasn’t easy. I was obliged to reveal a few details I’d sworn to keep secret, but when it came down to it, I owed her the explanation. It was the least I could do after what I’d put her through.”

“And when my sin has nothing to do with Emma?”

“It still stands between you.”

Damn Sanford’s perception, but Rowan wasn’t about to admit his shortcomings in the bedchamber. He wasn’t close enough friends with
any
man to confess that. Besides, he’d seemingly overcome that obstacle. “And yet…how do I explain a night I have no clear recollection of myself?”

Every time Grundy answered the door, Emma tensed, only for disappointment to invade in the ensuing moments when the butler admitted another caller. Didn’t these young ladies know she was expecting an important letter? Yesterday Emma had written directly to Lady Pettifer to clear up the issue of Hendricks’s identity. Not that Emma expected Lady Pettifer to admit to being her correspondent, especially given the tenor of the most recent missive. On the other hand, if Mr. Hendricks really was Lady Pettifer’s man of affairs, at least his employer would know he might be up to something unsavory.

She refused to entertain a much darker possibility that lurked at the back of her mind, one where Mr. Hendricks was someone else entirely, but the idea niggled away, like a mouse at a wheel of cheese.

In the meantime, Emma sat back in her chair, a rapidly cooling teacup perched on her lap, and tried to pretend interest in the latest gossip. Her callers were all a-twitter about the upcoming masquerade at the Posselthwaites’. They spent their allotted fifteen minutes deep in speculation over who might attend and what gowns the grandes dames would sport.

“And what have you decided on?”

Emma eyed her interlocutor, a young lady who a month ago would have barely nodded acknowledgment in the street, let alone come to visit. In fact, every one of the
ton
’s daughters present would have cut her over her humble origins. Tainted by trade, oh, yes, indeed.

Come to think of it, perhaps the girl was still trying to make her look bad—she might well hope Emma would describe an inappropriate ensemble, something she might report to her friends behind their fans.

“I haven’t decided yet.” In fact, Emma hadn’t yet worked out what earthly reason she had to attend this function—other than her aunt’s insistence. Thank goodness, Aunt Augusta was conspicuously absent this morning, although the woman would no doubt be ecstatic over the number and quality of callers. “Perhaps you’ve a suggestion, though.”

The girl nattered on about silks and ribbons and ostrich plumes while Emma wished she were anywhere else. On the occasion of the ball itself, at least, she could hope to engage some of the gentlemen in conversation. A few might know more about the railway project. If she could discover who was backing it, she’d have a clearer idea of whether the investment was sound.

The noise of a clearing throat brought the sitting room to silence. Emma looked up to find Grundy hovering in the entrance. She sat straighter, tightening her fingers on her teacup to mask their sudden trembling, and eyed his salver. It bore a single white card. Not the expected letter. Drat.

Tomorrow, Emma decided. She’d give Lady Pettifer until tomorrow to reply to her letter before going in person to demand an explanation.

“Miss Emily Marshall.” At Grundy’s announcement, the silence became louder, and something akin to a fist twisted in Emma’s belly.

Like all the other young ladies, Emily Marshall had never once deigned to pay Emma a social call. Somehow Emma didn’t get the impression today’s visit was intended to make up for previous occasions. Whatever had motivated Miss Marshall’s decision to come now, today, it wouldn’t be pleasant.

Emma’s current guests seemed to sense the same thing, for as one, they watched the newcomer enter the room, like they were expecting some unvoiced instruction. The order wasn’t long in coming. Miss Marshall presided over the sitting room, her very bearing proclaiming her importance to all and sundry. One by one, the others bade Emma good day and signaled for their wraps. Once they had gone, Miss Marshall settled herself into the best chair, arranging her pale yellow muslin skirts about her in elegant flounces.

Emma eyed her with a healthy dose of suspicion. Miss Marshall never had anything nice to say to her, when she condescended to speak at all.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Emma kept her tone as neutral as possible.

Miss Marshall held herself as regally as any queen. “I thought I’d come to see this place for myself.”

“You came to see the townhouse?”

“When I learned you were staying at such a fashionable address, I could scarcely believe it.”

“I’ve lived here for over a year,” Emma pointed out carefully, although Miss Marshall had to know that. The facts didn’t matter, though, as long as she could get her digs in.

From her throne, she waved away the comment before making a show of inspecting the sitting room. “And in surprisingly good taste, if several years out of style. Egyptian motifs went out with Napoleon, you know.”

Ah, so here it was. She was planning on blasting Emma’s sense of style. The verbal darts might even sting, if Emma cared for such things and if she weren’t already distracted. How odd, though, that Miss Marshall had dismissed a ready-made audience to deliver her salvos. “I’m afraid I’ve better things to do than toss away good money on décor.”

From the top of her patrician nose, Miss Marshall sniffed. “How very like you cits.”

“I wasn’t aware you were acquainted with a great many cits.”

“Of course I am not. The very idea.” Miss Marshall folded her hands precisely in her lap. “Given the circumstances of your marriage, I suppose your husband would prefer you to pay off his debts.”

“I already have.” At least those someone like Miss Marshall would consider important—the so-called debts of honor. Yes, and she’d have collected those attitudes from her family. As the niece of the powerful Earl of Redditch, Emily Marshall’s relations would expect her to make a brilliant match. In fact, it was rather surprising such an event had not already come to pass, but perhaps that had something to do with the scandal Aunt Augusta had hinted at.

“Well, thank heavens for that. Your husband is far too handsome to deprive society of his presence for so tedious a reason as debtor’s prison. A great many ladies will no doubt wish to thank you.” Miss Marshall spoke with a light enough tone, but the ghost of a smirk played about her lips. She
wanted
Emma to ask for clarification.

Emma refused to play the game. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Surely Miss Marshall wouldn’t overstay her expected quarter hour. Someone so important must have better places to be.

“How
is
marriage treating you?”

“Perfectly fine.”

“Really?” Miss Marshall arched a pale blond brow. “And here I was certain you were one to prize intelligent conversation.”

Clearly, I don’t hold this one to be of much value.
Emma chewed on her reply. She must rise above Miss Marshall’s barbs. “I do.”

Miss Marshall shrugged. “Ladies don’t seek Mr. Battencliffe’s company for his witticisms, in any case. According to what I’ve heard, he is quite knowledgeable when it comes to certain aspects of the conjugal relationship.”

“I am afraid I don’t have any basis for comparison.” Not that an unmarried lady ought to have any, either. And given Aunt Augusta’s hints at what had befallen the Marshall cousin, Miss Marshall would make doubly certain her reputation was spotless.

The knowing smile playing about Miss Marshall’s lips dropped away, as if she’d removed a mask. No, she hadn’t liked Emma’s implication, not one bit. “I certainly hope you’re not entertaining any bourgeois notions of fidelity—not from a man like Battencliffe.”

“Not that it is any of your affair—”

“Oh, spare me the protests. I’ve heard the most interesting tidbit about your husband, but no doubt he’s already told you, since it involves his financial position.”

Emma’s hands turned to blocks of ice. No, she should not encourage this conversation, but she had to ask. If Battencliffe’s finances were part of the question, she needed to hear whatever Emily Marshall had come to say. No matter how ugly. “What have you heard?”

“You mean he hasn’t told you the story? You do know how he got into this mess in the first place.”

“He’s said he has no head for business.” A vague enough statement, one Emma had never thought to question. Plenty of people lost their heads when it came to figures and finances.

“Oh, it goes much further than that. Viscount Lindenhurst set out to ruin him. In fact, he nearly succeeded. That is how Battencliffe lost most of his personal fortune to begin with. And I hear…” Miss Marshall leaned forward and dropped her voice to a gleeful whisper. Without doubt it was the tone she reserved for the most delightful
on-dits.
“I hear it was over the first Lady Lindenhurst. If I were you, I’d ask what went on between those two while Lord Lindenhurst was in Belgium. His heir was born shamefully soon after Lord Lindenhurst’s return from the war. Perhaps
too
soon…”

The declaration hit Emma as hard as a sudden slap and just as shocking. The teacup in her lap jittered dangerously, and with a shaking hand, she set it aside.

“No, it isn’t true.” She had no idea why she felt the need to defend her husband, not any more than she knew why the news upset her. But it did.

“Why don’t you ask about it, then? Or are you afraid he’ll lie?”

“If you’ve nothing better to do—”

“Oh, I most certainly do. I’ve more calls to pay. One hears the most delicious gossip, you know.” With a shake of her skirts, Miss Marshall stood. “I can see myself out.”

Emma waited until she heard the front door close before she allowed herself to react. Then she shot out of her seat and stalked to the window. In the street below, a footman was handing Miss Marshall up into a well-appointed carriage.