Regency Mistresses: A Practical Mistress\The Wanton Bride (20 page)

Emily sensed the old harridan’s grandson was looking her way. She knew Stephen would want to wordlessly convey his chagrin at his grandmother’s shockingly blunt manner. Emily took pity on him and gave him a subtle smile. Immediately he returned her an apologetic grimace that caused his thick brows to disappear beneath his fringe of blonde curls.

‘Miss Beaumont has an exceedingly fine singing voice,’ Stephen nervously told his grandmother. When that praise failed to wring a compliment from the old lady, he added, ‘And I’ve not encountered any young lady who can play the pianoforte so well, and without a piece of music to follow.’

‘That don’t mean she’ll make a good wife,’ Mrs Bond hissed at her grandson in an audible aside.

Emily quickly snatched up her glass and downed an unladylike quantity of wine in one gulp. Oddly she felt an urge to endorse Mrs Bond’s advice to her grandson. Stephen Bond was a nice gentleman but, unless there was no option but to do it, she would not marry him. He deserved to be loved, not tolerated.

Emily’s silver eyes, brimful of laughter, lifted to Stephen’s embarrassed countenance, then darted to her mother’s face. Penelope Beaumont’s expression was a study of furious indignation.

Had Emily been in lighter spirits, she would have more fully appreciated the unexpected entertainment that had arrived punctually at seven o’clock in the stout shape of Mrs Augusta Bond. She might even have entered into the spirit of the game and given the mischievous old biddy a run for her money. But her eyes were drawn to where her papa sat quietly at the head of the table. He seemed to have withdrawn to a world of his own. Even his wife’s frequent glares could not budge him from it.

Emily could guess what was preoccupying her poor papa. He was trying to fathom into what sort of trouble his eldest son had now plunged. Before dinner Emily had thought she would by now have an
answer to that conundrum. But the letter she had received was not after all from her brother. However, it did concern him, and Emily was still pondering on the peculiar message she had received, and why it had come to her at all.

When Tarquin’s creditors gathered, if they could not find him, they usually sought to inveigle her father into paying. But this time she had received the begging letter, albeit couched in covert terms.

A person who remained anonymous had issued her an invitation to meet them tomorrow by the pawnbrokers’ shop in Whiting Street in order that she might learn something important concerning her brother. It also stated that she must keep the matter to herself to avoid a scandal.

Emily had marvelled at the audacity of the fellow. She had quickly concluded that the author must be one of Tarquin’s creditors who hoped to coerce her to honour her brother’s debt. She had also deduced that the likely culprit was the ruffian with the broken nose, who had been loitering about, because the message was poorly written.

Emily was not so naïve to believe that her brother gambled solely in the gentlemen’s clubs with his peers, but the idea that he was consorting with a man sporting a broken nose and a lack of grammar was
indeed disheartening. Nevertheless, she would keep the appointment, and she would keep it to herself. She glanced again at her father as he absently pushed food about on his plate. He was approaching his sixty-fifth birthday and had for too long been encumbered with Tarquin’s problems. Emily had no intention of taking on the yoke and would make that abundantly clear to Tarquin as soon as she again got within earshot of the selfish wretch.

‘Have you ever received a marriage proposal, Miss Beaumont?’

Emily focussed on the present and saw that Augusta Bond had her bright beady eyes on her.

‘Has any man asked you to marry him?’ the old lady insisted on knowing.

Emily glanced at her mother’s hideously shocked expression. Stephen had ceased chewing in alarm and had one cheek bloated with food. Emily compressed her lips to suppress the giggle throbbing in her throat. She took a deep breath before replying calmly, ‘Indeed I have, Mrs Bond. I was engaged when I was twenty.’

‘Cry off, did he?’

‘Umm … no. I think I did, actually,’ Emily said and placed her napkin down on her plate.

‘Emily was betrothed to Viscount Devlin.’ Mrs Beaumont issued that information in a glacial tone.

The old lady raised her lorgnette and peered at Emily with a glimmer of respect. ‘Managed to hook a title, did you? No chance of getting him back now he’s married to the Corbett chit. I hear she’s already increasing.’

‘I’ll see if the next course is ready,’ Penelope enunciated frigidly and surged up majestically from the table.

Emily glanced at her father to see he was now very aware of the tension in the room. He was looking in concern at her as though fearing she was upset. She reassured him with a smile before sending a challenging look at Augusta.

The old lady’s eyes narrowed behind the glass, but Emily had the oddest impression that, before she let fall her lorgnette, Augusta winked at her.

‘T
hat woman is the rudest person I ever did meet!’

Emily had barely managed to put a foot over the threshold of the morning room when that exclamation assaulted her ears. She had hoped that a good night’s sleep might dilute her mother’s ire, but it seemed as strong as ever.

When their guests had left at ten of the clock last evening, Mrs Beaumont had needed several draughts of sherry and the ministrations of both her husband and daughter to calm her enough to get her to bed.

‘And her grandson is so …
pleasant,
so …
inoffensive,’
Mrs Beaumont emphasised with a quivering finger. ‘Do you think it is her age? She looks to have reached her three score years and ten. Perhaps she is becoming a little confused.’

‘I think she knows exactly what she is about,’ Emily said with a light chuckle. ‘I imagine Mrs Bond likes to be shocking.’

Penelope Beaumont clucked disgust at that. She pushed the jam pot towards her daughter as Emily sat down opposite her at the breakfast table.

Emily commenced spreading blackberries on to her toast, saying, ‘Mrs Bond might be getting on in years, but she seemed to me to be in robust health and, in an odd way, I quite liked her.’

When Penelope heard that, her chin sagged towards her bosom.

‘Oh, come, Mama, you must admit Augusta has a certain lively spirit, and she plays a mean hand of piquet. Papa lost a crown to her.’

Penelope snapped together her lips. ‘And that compensates for her insults? How dare she speak so! You are a beauty in your prime.’

‘She said nothing that was not true.’ Emily took a fond glance at her mother from under long brunette lashes. Penelope had long harboured hopes that a knight in shining armour would carry her only daughter off to his Mayfair mansion and a life of untold luxury. Emily’s eyes shaded wistfully. The knave had tarried too long. Her mother was on the point of urging Emily to settle for Mr
Bond and a villa in Putney. Emily pushed away her plate and wiped crumbs from her slender fingers. ‘You know I’m too old to successfully compete with the débutantes for a husband. And I do actually take after Papa’s side of the family. The miniature of Grandmama Beaumont could be my likeness.’

‘And what about Augusta’s appalling insensitive remarks about your aborted betrothal?’

‘She did not know of it, Mama, I’m sure. She simply asked if I had received any marriage proposals.’

‘I’ll wager she
did
know of it and was out to be provocative,’ Penelope snorted in muted outrage. ‘Dreadful woman! You might have again burst into tears over it all.’

‘I have not burst into tears over it all for a long while,’ Emily said softly. ‘And I promise I will never do so again. As for Augusta, I think she genuinely knew nothing about it. She lives in the country and the scandal was not so great.’ She paused before reciting, ‘When Tarquin Beaumont gave Viscount Devlin a beating, thereby ruining his sister’s chance of happiness with the Viscount, I imagine it got scant mention in Bath drawing rooms. The gossip in London lasted barely a week, thank heavens.’

‘It was only so soon forgot because that hussy
Olivia Davidson ran off with her sister’s husband and set all the cats’ tongues wagging.’

‘And how grateful I was for poor Miss Davidson’s disgrace,’ Emily reminisced wryly. ‘I still feel a little guilty when I see Olivia’s sour face,’ she added.

‘It’s her own fault she’s ostracised by everyone, including her own kin. Silly fool should have known he’d slink home with his tail between his legs and it would all end in tears.’ Penelope flapped a hand. ‘Oh, enough about them! We were talking of
your
fiasco. I still say you acted too proud and too hasty, Emily. You should have married the Viscount, you know.’

‘Indeed?’ Emily gave a sour little laugh. ‘Nicholas had made it clear by then he regretted an association with our family. I had no intention of binding him to his word and having a husband who might grow to despise me.’

Penelope waved that away, but her further arguments were immediately interrupted.

‘We have been through this before and I refuse to rake it all over again. It is done with.’ The grit in Emily’s tone was at odds with the easy smile she gave her mother. Gracefully she rose from the dining table and went to the window. ‘I am going out early today. Madame Joubert has some fine new silk …’

‘I’ll come too. I need some buttons—’

‘No.’ Emily realised she had declined the offer of her mother’s company far too abruptly. Penelope looked rather taken aback, so she hastened to say, ‘I was going to find something nice for your birthday. It won’t be a surprise if you come too.’

Penelope flushed in pleasure and murmured, ‘Oh, I see …’

Emily felt a little guilty at the excuse, though she had not told a lie. She would call in to the
modiste
’s on Regent Street and would find her mama something special for her birthday. Nevertheless, her real reason for going early abroad this morning was to keep her rendezvous on Whiting Street with the person who had sent the note. And she had certainly no intention of letting her mother in on that.

Penelope Beaumont could become disproportionately agitated over a trifling upset. If a storm was about to break over Tarquin’s debts, it would be prudent to shield her from the worst of it for as long as possible.

‘Mr Bond is here, ma’am.’ Millie had slipped into the room to announce they had a visitor.

Penelope frowned—it was hardly yet the hour to be receiving callers. She gave her daughter a quizzical look.

‘I expect he has come to apologise for his grandmother’s
blunt manner.’ Emily gestured that she had no objection to seeing him.

‘We will receive him in the parlour, Millie,’ Penelope told the young maidservant.

Once in the parlour, and in the company of their diffident guest, Mrs Beaumont proceeded to pour tea while Emily and Mr Bond made polite observations on the vagaries of spring weather. Stephen was handed his cup and saucer and accepted the invitation to sit down whereupon, without preamble, he set about doing his duty.

‘I must apologise for calling on you so early but I wasn’t sure … that is to say …’ His eyes darted between the two ladies as though searching for assistance. He cleared his throat and blurted, ‘I wanted to again thank you for such fine hospitality yesterday and to make sure that you had not … been perturbed by my grandmother’s blunt manner.’

Stephen glanced at Penelope Beaumont. Something in her expression caused him to quickly add, ‘My grandmother does not intend to upset people, but she can be rather too outspoken.’ He took a gulp from his tea, then clattered the cup down to rest.

‘Does she not understand that being too outspoken is likely to upset people?’ Penelope asked stiffly.

Stephen coloured and coughed. ‘I don’t think she does, ma’am. But if you thought any of her remarks offensive I will, of course, unreservedly apologise on her behalf.’

Emily put her tea down on a side table and kindly said, ‘I thought your grandmama was quite a character. I enjoyed meeting her.’ Emily’s smile turned wry as Stephen looked most surprised to hear that. ‘If Mrs Bond is not soon returning to Bath, you must introduce her to Mrs Pearson.’ Emily sent her mother a twinkling look. ‘Do you not think, Mama, that Violet Pearson might benefit from an acquaintance with Stephen’s grandmother?’

Finally that morning Emily had drawn a twitch of amusement from her mother.

‘Do take another cup, Mr Bond,’ Penelope urged amiably and advanced with the pot.

Emily checked the wall clock and stood up. She needed to be on her way if she was to keep her appointment. ‘I’m going out shopping, but do stay and finish tea,’ she added as Stephen leaped to his feet.

‘I’ll gladly give you a ride,’ Stephen volunteered eagerly, raking his fingers through his springy blond curls. ‘Actually I ought to be getting along too. I have an appointment in Holborn.’

‘I accept your kind offer, in that case,’ Emily said.

Despite his noticeably wonky nose, it was not the fellow’s looks that drew Emily’s attention, but his manner. He had the demeanour of a person oblivious to the fact that he was under observation. Back and forth he strutted beneath the brass balls of the pawnbroker’s shop, every so often peering at the passing carts with obvious disappointment. Then, a few yards away, a hackney cab pulled up at the kerb. That sent the fellow darting into the shop doorway, only to reappear a moment later when a stout gentleman alighted from the vehicle and purposefully bowled off up the street.

Emily guessed he had been expecting to catch sight of her before she noticed him. Doubtless he imagined she would arrive at the pawnbroker’s in a vehicle rather than on foot. But Emily had not wanted to be quizzed by Stephen over why she was to be set down in an area so lacking fashionable shops. Instead, she had asked him to deliver her to a salubrious part of town that was within easy striking distance of Whiting Street. Having first declined Stephen’s offer to meet her later to take her home, she had then watched his rig turn the corner before briskly walking east.

It was a fine spring morning, but chilly gusts of
wind made her keep her cloak pulled tight about her. She again sent a discreet look across Whiting Street at the fellow she was sure had sent her the note.

Although his burly figure didn’t intimidate her, she did feel nervous. This was an area generally populated by gentlemen. They came to these premises to meet their men of business and pore over contracts and unintelligible papers. A lone female loitering about was likely to incite curiosity. Emily knew that her own papa often had assignments on this street with his attorney. Fervently she prayed that he had not arranged a meeting with Mr Pritchard today.

‘Emily? Emily Beaumont?’

That cultured voice, once so well known to her, made Emily freeze, then pivot slowly about.

Viscount Devlin had been about to get into a crested carriage, but now he hesitated and sauntered, with much use of his ebony cane, along the pavement towards her.

Emily had wondered how she would feel if ever she and this man were to meet, alone. Of course, since the end of their betrothal many years ago, they had met socially. But that had been in polite company when they both were mindful of etiquette and speculative stares.

Notwithstanding the fact that Emily knew the love of her life was now a husband and prospective father—for she had heard that his wife was increasing before Augusta mentioned it—she wondered if the Viscount’s roguish charm would still impress her. The closer he came, the more she feared the potency of his attraction. He was still youthfully good looking and could have passed for a man half a decade younger than his thirty-one years. His fair hair was artfully dishevelled and his hazel eyes warm as they settled on her face.

‘Are you waiting for your father?’ he asked, surprise leavening his tone, as he took a glance along the street. Emily imagined he expected to spy Mr Beaumont emerging from a nearby portal.

‘No … I’m not,’ Emily answered too quickly and truthfully. She sought for an excuse for her odd presence on Whiting Street. But she need not have worried over any further interrogation from the Viscount—he now seemed distracted by her small tongue as it trailed moisture over her full pink lips.

Emily felt her heart begin to race beneath his languid appraisal. The heat smouldering in his eyes brought instantly to mind images of things they had done together that she thought she had buried deep in her past. A burst of knowledge brought
with it a guilty exhilaration: Viscount Devlin still desired her.

‘When was it that last we met?’ the Viscount asked huskily, his tawny eyes moving to her body. ‘It must have been a year ago. I swear that every time I see you, Emily, you have grown more lovely.’

Emily sensed her heart increase tempo, but flashed him a cool look from silver eyes. ‘And I swear, sir, that I think you must be still recovering from a night of roistering to say such a thing to me.’

‘Can I not compliment you?’ he asked gravely. ‘Why are you so prickly, Emily? Has the hurt not yet healed?’

Emily blinked. Part of her wanted to laugh scornfully at his terribly inappropriate remarks, but there was also a shameful part of her that would rather listen to more of his flattery. Mentally she shook herself and took a step away. He might tell her she was lovely, and look at her as though he wanted to kiss her, but her memory was not so short. A few years ago, after Tarquin had thrashed him, there had been nothing but disgust and anger in his eyes when he saw any Beaumont, including her.

‘What you are referring to belongs to the past, sir,’ she said stiltedly, ‘and there is certainly nothing
more to be said about it.’ She bobbed and made to whip past him, but a hand shot out, arresting her.

‘Don’t fly away, Emily,’ he softly pleaded. ‘I have long thought that there
is
more to be said. I have wanted to see you alone; have hoped we might meet by chance like this. I think of you often. I think of what might have been …’

Emily twisted her wrist from his restraint and took two crisp backward steps. She darted a look here and there to see if they were under observation and was annoyed to notice that they were. The bruiser who had summoned her to this dratted neighbourhood in the first place had now spotted her! Emily frowned and sighed softly. The situation had become farcical. She was not now likely to discover Tarquin’s whereabouts.

‘Do you know him?’ Viscount Devlin asked.

‘Who?’ Emily blurted and her eyes darted quickly to the Viscount’s face.

‘The fellow across the road who appears to be staring at you.’

Emily spontaneously shook her head. It was not a lie; she did not yet know him, but she was certain she had been within a few minutes of remedying that when Nicholas Devlin had turned up. In a way it was fortunate that the Viscount had come along when he
did. A moment or two later and doubtless he would have seen her talking to the fellow and that would certainly have given rise to awkward questions.

Emily was aware that her brother and her erstwhile betrothed still shunned one another. Whereas Nicholas might show
her
a little sympathy and kindness, Tarquin would receive no such consideration. If her brother was again in bad trouble, she was certain that Nicholas would revel in knowing it.