“Morgan, is that you?”
It was three o’clock in the morning. Who the bloody hell did she think it was?
He raised his shielded candle. The shadows parted to reveal statues of martyred saints bleeding stone tears. Maybe Ingrid was expecting St. Peter. She lay rigid on the bed like the lid of a sarcophagus, flannel gown buttoned to her chin. Sure as hell wasn’t waiting for young Lochinvar. “It’s terribly late. Did you want to ... ?”
Not by half, he didn’t, not in view of the reproachful saints. “No, no. Sorry I disturbed you. Go back to sleep.” He looked around again. No, not even a pound note left out to tempt a burglar. His wife’s evening devotions were well-established: mirror, safe, prie-dieu. Heaven alone knew the combinations.
“What’s that you’ve got, Morgan?”
“This? Oh, it’s just a pillow. I, ah, thought you’ve been looking peaked lately. Fellows at the club recommend elevation, uh, that’s it. Raise your head so blood don’t pool on your brain. I can see you’ve plenty of others there, if you need, so I’ll just toddle on.”
“How thoughtful. Are you sure you wouldn’t ... ?”
If he couldn’t hold a blasted pillow over her head while she was awake and staring at him from those gimlet eyes, he damned sure couldn’t do
that
either. He left.
Stokely was minded to pursue the discussion with his wife. Actually, he meant to discuss the pursuit of his wife, with seduction in mind. Lady Stokely was equally as resolved to avoid the assault on her senses and defenses.
The heavy artillery was on Stokely’s side. He was the master tactician, the wily campaigner, and, if not a practiced seducer, at least a veteran of the boudoir battles. Women might not find him irresistible, but they did a fine job of pretending. Emilyann, on the other hand, was practically a Johnny-raw at this type of heart-to-heart combat, and predisposed to hero-worship her adversary anyway. She did have her indignation for armor, however: if he wanted to be her husband so badly, he could sell out and stay home. Otherwise, well, she was managing very nicely without him, thank you.
Smoky was rolled up, horse, gun, and saddle. Outclassed, outmaneuvered, and out in the cold.
“A bachelor party, Geoff? That will last all night? I’m sure Smoky would love to go with you.”
“That’s just capital, Ev. I told Old Chadwick you’d stand buff. He wanted all the fellow benedicts he could find.”
Stokely started to demur, but his wife generously thought he should have the fun of a night on the town after so many months away. “I intend to make an early evening of it anyway, after all the excitement yesterday.” She yawned delicately.
“I thought I would stay in tonight, actually,” the major ventured. “I’m a bit done in myself.”
“Oh, in that case I’ll have to invite Aunt Ingrid over. You know she is looking forward to seeing you again.”
This was after a day cooling his heels outside government offices, and fruitless speculations inside them about the chances of war breaking out again. Then there was dinner with his brother Thornton and his wife. At least Thorny was still the same top-lofty, sanctimonious prig. No surprises there. But an evening with Ingrid before he could get his wife alone? He surrendered, and raised his coffee cup in a toast to superior forces. There might be time for a cozy chat before breakfast anyway, if he could ditch little brother. The image of Emilyann at daybreak, warm and rosy with sleep, would cheer him through the night.
Unfortunately he and Geoff were set upon by Mohocks outside the club where the party was being held. There were only four of the footpads, so Stokely could not work off all of his frustrations, just enough to impress his brother past belief, and leave Stokely himself in no condition to grace his wife’s bedchamber.
The next day he had to call on his banker, his tailor, and a crippled officer cashiered home. He also had to converse with the magistrates concerning his strewing the city streets with injured bodies. He was not amused, on returning home, to find that his wife was riding in the park with some French émigré aristocrat, prior to dinner and a musical evening at the home of one of Nadine’s fellow debutantes. They couldn’t miss the occasion, Emilyann regretted, because his sister was scheduled to perform.
“It is already listed on the program. Nadine showed me, and she was so proud. She’s been practicing her piece for weeks, you know, and I cannot disappoint her. I’m sure you have much more interesting things to do, for I don’t expect you to accompany us to these dreary affairs, nor will I hang on your sleeve. Married couples don’t need to live in each other’s pockets, you know.”
He also knew that those musicales never lasted long, there being a limit to what even the most doting mama’s ears could take. So he visited a few of his clubs, then went over some papers in the library until he heard Mr. Butler welcome the ladies home. He clocked an hour after hearing Emilyann’s cheerful good-nights before he, too, went upstairs. He donned his robe and gathered the bottle of wine and two glasses he had set out earlier, and tapped on her door.
“Come in,” she called ever so sweetly.
His heart doing a fandango in his chest, he pushed through the door. Emilyann was sitting up in bed in that same sheer blue gown, her lovely shoulders bare—and brown glop slathered all over her face!
“It’s for my complexion. I told you my maid knew a lot of secrets.”
She was gone by the time he came down for breakfast the following morning, on a myriad of errands, her note said, getting ready for their party. They were promised to the Seftons’ ball that evening and it wouldn’t do to offend such an influential hostess, but Emilyann would be pleased with his escort if he cared to go.
At least Stokely got to dance with his wife. Twice. Then he got to watch every puppy in London drool over her hand, and every rake and Redcoat, every silver-tongued park-saunterer, try to turn her up sweet. And she laughed up at them, and twinkled her blue eyes and floated in their arms like a rose in the breeze—until Stokely went on the offensive.
“Ah, Lady Bramby, how nice to see you.”
See her? You could see
all
of her, Emmy raged, her gown was so transparent. And her cheeks were rouged, and her toenails were painted, and “I’m very tired, Smoky, would you mind terribly if we went home?”
He did not mind at all, delighted with his strategy—until his lady wife pretended to fall asleep in the carriage. His hand, under cover of the lap robe, inched up her thigh, but the minx whimpered drowsily and curled up in her corner of the seat, all snuggled in her cape. Outflanked again!
One more day before he left for Stockton, and Emilyann agreed to a drive in the park.
“What, no excuses, appointments, prior engagements?”
Lady Bramby wouldn’t be busy either, not for the most handsome man in London. In addition to being out of evasive maneuvers, Emilyann felt she deserved Smoky’s company, with all the subterfuge she’d been through. After all, it was daytime and she would be safe. Excepting, of course, the runaway carriage that thundered down on them after they got out to stroll along the track. They heard the shouts and cries, the neighs of frightened horses, and then there was no time to think. Smoky shoved her off the walkway and turned. Emilyann scrambled up to see him standing in the path of four frantic horses and a heavy carriage careening behind it. She screamed just as Stokely leapt for the back of the nearest leader and reached down for the fallen traces.
Aunt Adelaide was so upset by the tales of the day’s events that Emilyann decided she better sit up with her that night, in Aunt Adelaide’s room, of course. Of course.
Stokely left for Northampshire with his brother in the morning, but he was not going to be good company.
* * * *
The trip to Stockton was uneventful, if you discounted the wheel coming off the carriage. Geoff was thrown clear as the coach tipped, luckily onto a grassy verge. Stokely, who was driving, managed to grab the seat rail with his left hand and hang on to the reins with his right, pulling back with all his force to halt the plunging horses.
White-faced, he came back to find his batman Rigg stumbling out of the carriage. “Knocked me head over horsefeathers, sir, but nothing’s broke. I’ll survive.”
Geoff was dusting off his buckskins when Stokely reached him. “I’m beginning to think civilian life is not as dull as it’s cracked up to be,” Smoky told him, using his handkerchief to dab at a trickle of blood on his brother’s forehead. “Footpads, runaway horses, flying coachwheels. The front was never this dangerous.”
“And you ain’t even been to Almack’s yet. At least you don’t need to worry about getting into the Four-in-Hand Club when you get back. I never saw driving like that! Wait’ll I tell old Rem.”
“I, ah, don’t think we’ll mention this around town, Geoff. Wouldn’t want to upset the ladies, you know.”
“Lord, after the dust-up yesterday, I can’t blame you. Still ...”
The two brothers rode bareback to the nearest inn on the coach horses, leaving Rigg with the carriage while they fetched help. Later, when the carriage was righted, the wheel restored, fresh horses put back in the traces, Rigg took the major aside.
“Found this when I was walking around a bit, sir,” he said, holding out a beefy hand with a bent piece of metal on the palm. “Linchpin from the wheel, Major.”
Bent was to be expected, fresh file marks on the ends were not. Stokely rubbed the old scar on his chin. “Remind me to hire some new grooms when we get home,” he told the other man quietly, outside Geoff’s hearing. “I’m sure you can find a few of the lads from the old battalion in need of a position.”
“Yessir, men that can keep their eyes open.”
“And their mouths shut.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, Major, but it wouldn’t be a devil’s divorce, would it?” The grizzled little soldier had never gotten over the ragged stableboy who married his master. The chit had come on a piece, true, but a body never could trust a woman, much less one in britches.
The furrow on Stokely’s brow smoothed, and he laughed a rich, hearty laugh. “You mean Sparrow? She was with me yesterday in the park, for one thing, and she doesn’t hate me enough, for another. She mightn’t be content on a short lead, but I pray it is nothing as personal as this. Then again, if I did happen to incur my lady’s displeasure, her style leans more toward putting a bullet between my eyes. No, Sparrow would never resort to something underhanded like this.” He laughed again.
The bewhiskered batman just grunted. Women, bah!
* * * *
Nothing much happened in London while the Earl of Stokely was away, except his wife realized how much she missed him, and how foolish she had been to deny herself his company. She went about her duties getting ready for the ball, but kept seeing his gray eyes laughing, his mouth quirked up in a smile at her. Her knees still threatened to give out when she recalled him jumping in front of those galloping horses—and the quick kiss he had given her after.
She consulted with the chef, she stood for another endless fitting for her dress, and she counted the days till his return. Oh, yes, and the wheel came off her phaeton.
Luckily Nadine had gone with Aunt Adelaide to match some ribbons while Emilyann conferred with Gunther’s again, reconfirming her order of ices. Luckily a vegetable cart was delaying traffic, so she was driving at less than her usual up-to-the-bits pace. One moment she was perched daintily on her seat, the next she was sprawled on the pavement, but with the reins still in hand. Her man Jake, riding behind as groom, shouted a commanding “Whoa,” and the lovely grays pulled up instantly before Emilyann could be dragged beneath the coach.
Her horses were high-bred, fast, and showy, but steady as bricks, well-mannered, and schooled to the inch. She wouldn’t raise them any other way; Jake wouldn’t let her drive any he hadn’t trained. None of those high-strung, unreliable prads for Lady Em, who hugged each of her matched grays and told them what dears they were. Her knees were scraped, her gown was ripped at one sleeve, and her bonnet was missing altogether. Perhaps she would visit Gunther’s tomorrow.
“Oh, and Jake, there is no reason to mention this back at home. Aunt Adelaide would have conniptions, you know, and Smoky would ...”
Jake already knew the master’s opinion of the phaeton, thank you. He didn’t allow as he needed his ears warmed again. Not that any of it was his fault, mind. Jake misdoubted even the earl could have sweet-talked Lady Em into a ladylike chaise, and he
had
convinced her that a red and gold racing curricle was too flashy. As for this accident ...
Jake left a street urchin to hold the horses while he and Emilyann went to see the damage. The wheel was in perfect condition. The shaft was fine. The linchpin was missing altogether.
“I think we’ll hire a few more grooms, Jake. You know, for the party and all the coaches there will be in the street.”
Jake allowed as how that sounded like a fine idea to him. He knew a few likely chaps from the Black Dog Inn. So what if they did not know a horse’s hock from his hindquarters, they were handy with their fives.
Then Lady Stokely whirled around. “But where is Pug? My goodness, I forgot all about—” She flew to the tiny, still figure at the curb. “Jake, do something!”
* * * *
Two days after Stokely’s return from the country there were more grooms than horses in the stable behind the house. They had to draw straws to see who would wear the livery until more could be delivered. Jake scratched his head and kept mum.
After a go-around between the military types and the locals, he sent some of the latter out as groundskeepers with instructions not to set foot on the grounds, not knowing Aunt Adelaide’s roses from rutabagas. What they kept was watch on every entrance to the house. The tack gleamed, the stalls were swept thrice a day, and no one came or went without Jake knowing about it. And Pug had round-the-clock nursing.
“I thought that with the ball tomorrow, and you so recently back from the country, we might stay in and have a quiet night tonight.”
Stokely would have given his right arm and his favorite horse to hear those words from his adorable wife, looking fetching in a low-cut, high-waisted gown of emerald lutestring. She was trying to sound so blasé, propositioning her husband in front of his family at afternoon tea, with her lower lip caught between her teeth in an effort to hold back her blushes.