What a Lady Requires (4 page)

Sparks nodded his understanding of the situation but his smile didn’t fade. Not so much as a twitch. “In that case, I think Miss Jennings is exactly what you need.”

Outside the breakfast room, Aunt Augusta cornered Emma and brandished a paper under her nose. “What is the meaning of this?”

Emma froze. Drat it all. Her letter. In her turmoil and confusion yesterday, she’d forgotten to retrieve it from her corner of the sitting room and tuck it somewhere safe. “That is my private correspondence.”

She reached for the letter, but her aunt snatched it from her grasp. “Private, is it? Does your father know what you’re about?”

He did not, but Emma wasn’t about to admit as much. “As it is business, he should have no objections.”

Aunt Augusta lowered her brows. “Business? We’ll see about that.” She scanned the opening lines. “Who is Mr. Hendricks? I certainly don’t know anyone by that name.”

That was the problem. Emma didn’t know him, either, not with any certainty. Reclusive old Lady Pettifer had written, begging Emma to help out a friend of hers. Emma was ninety-nine percent sure
Mr. Hendricks
was a pseudonym. He was most likely Lady Pettifer’s man of affairs, if not Lady Pettifer herself. Mr. Hendricks’s direction certainly corresponded to the address of Lady Pettifer’s townhouse.

None of which Emma wished to admit to her aunt. If a respected member of the
ton
was in financial difficulties, that was no business of Aunt Augusta’s. People of Lady Pettifer’s status did not like to advertise their financial situation, after all. “He’s merely asked me for business advice.”

Aunt Augusta sniffed. “Indeed? And why would he turn to you for such counsel? It’s all so unladylike.”

Emma cast her gaze downward. “Yes, Aunt Augusta.”

It was much easier to let her aunt think she’d won. The sooner she dropped this incident, the sooner Emma could pen a new message to Mr. Hendricks. She’d just have to be more careful this time.

“I ought to have a serious discussion with your father. Corresponding with strange men.” Aunt Augusta shook her head. “Someone needs to keep a closer watch on you.”

“What?” The question popped out of Emma’s mouth unbidden. She knew quite well her aunt considered herself the perfect candidate to oversee all of Emma’s doings.

Not only that, the woman was angling for an excuse to remain in this townhouse. Its Mayfair address was far more fashionable than her father’s lodgings over his wine shop. He’d purchased it at Augusta’s insistence that it was a better spot from which to launch Uriana and Emma into society. As Aunt Augusta had proclaimed to her brother often enough,
Nobody with the proper connections would dream of calling on us in Cheapside.

That much would remain true for Uriana after Emma’s marriage, which was enough for her aunt to insist on staying. So far, the family’s removal to Mayfair had not stood them in better stead—no one important called on them here, either, but an heir presumptive to an earldom in the family changed their circumstances, at least to Aunt Augusta’s way of thinking.

“You heard me. You’re to be married into a titled family.” Aunt Augusta leaned closer, her cheeks taking on a pinkish tinge as she wound herself into a fine dander. “Your reputation must remain perfectly spotless. Should anyone discover you’ve been allowed to write to goodness knows whom, you can be certain they’ll cast you into the worst possible light. Business or no, they’ll make it into something entirely different. Instead of…of…”

She shot another glance at the letter, doubtless casting for an example. “Good heavens, what is this?”

What on earth was Aunt Augusta misinterpreting? That letter was perfectly innocent, all investment advice and wine imports and…A finger of doubt traced a cold path along Emma’s spine.

“Joint ventures? Mutual benefits inherent in a partnership? Funds exchanged for services rendered?” Her voice rose on every syllable until the final word echoed through the narrow passage.

“Those are all perfectly reasonable business expressions.” But even to Emma’s own ears, the protest sounded weak. Voiced with the proper—or rather, improper—intonation, compounded with a lack of understanding, her aunt could well conclude Emma was undertaking something of a disreputable nature.

But all Mr. Hendricks wanted was to import salable goods at the best profit. Nothing wrong with that.

“Indeed. I can just imagine the sort of services an unscrupulous man might be in the market for.”

“He hasn’t insinuated anything of the kind,” Emma insisted.

Aunt Augusta held up the sheet. “Why should he need to insinuate anything when the words are here on the paper? At any rate, I intend to ensure he never does. You will cease this correspondence immediately.”

Blast it, Emma was going to have to say something. “Lady Pettifer introduced us.” It wasn’t a complete lie, even if the introduction had taken place on paper. “And didn’t you, in fact, insist we pay her a visit? As I recall, that’s how it went.”

Aunt Augusta had wanted Emma to make a good impression on as many members of the
ton
as possible. Even the more reclusive ones wielded some influence.

Aunt Augusta cast a suspicious glance at the sheet of paper. “Lady Pettifer encouraged this?”

“She told me she was impressed with my intelligence. She said she’d never met another young lady who knew so much about making money.” More vicious tongues would have turned a statement like that into an insult, but in Lady Pettifer’s case, Emma believed it to be a compliment. “When she contacted me about helping out a friend of hers, I naturally said yes. You yourself told me I ought to treat ladies of her standing as agreeably as possible. I was merely following your advice.”

Her aunt lowered her brows. “I still do not like it.”

Clearly further argument was futile, especially when Aunt Augusta had the letter in her hand, crumpling the sheet of paper into a ball ready to lob into the nearest fireplace. Emma bowed her head in submission, even as she planned her next move. “As you wish.”

A footman coughed politely, and Emma sent up a silent prayer of thanks for the interruption.

“These were just delivered for you.”

The servant thrust an enormous bouquet of flowers into her arms. Orchids, lilies, roses spread their heavenly perfume through the passage, their bright oranges and pinks and purples set off by greenery.

“Good heavens!” Aunt Augusta exclaimed. “That must have set someone back a small fortune.”

Unfortunately, her aunt was right. Nothing was in season this time of year. The blooms all would have come from hothouses, at inflated prices. Suspicion surging in her chest, Emma reached for the accompanying card.

Rowan Battencliffe.

Naturally. Such an extravagance, and completely unnecessary. It wasn’t as if the man had to court her, with the settlements already agreed to and signed. If he possessed such spending habits, Emma was going to have to keep him on a tight rein. Still, she could not resist running her finger over the fragrant softness of an orchid petal.

“Happily, the sender can afford such. Or he will be able to shortly.” Emma spared a thought for the poor florist who had agreed to lend Battencliffe the credit. Dash it all if Papa hadn’t been right.

Aunt Augusta glanced at the card and nodded. “Hurry along, then, and set those in water. We have calls to make. And we might stop and have a look through the shops on Bond Street. Your father wants to see you married as soon as possible.”

Social calls. Blast. The last thing Emma wanted to do was spend a few hours moving from one fashionable house to the next and passing the requisite fifteen minutes sipping weak tea and making stilted conversation. No doubt her aunt wished to take advantage of the ritual to get the word out—Emma was about to marry into a title. Once the news circulated, the Jennings family might receive a less frosty welcome in the houses of the privileged.

With a nod, she strode for the sweeping staircase that dominated the main passage. In the privacy of her bedchamber, she might steal a few moments to rewrite the beginning of her letter to Mr. Hendricks before she prepared herself. But at the top of the steps, she paused. A door stood ajar, one that had remained firmly closed and latched since Papa had purchased this property.

One of the main bedchambers, intended for the lady of the house. The maids must be opening it up, airing it out, preparing it for her. For on her marriage, she would become that lady, since Papa had decided to throw in the townhouse as a wedding gift.

Curiosity prompted her to cross that threshold. The heavy air carried the musty scent of years. White sheets covered the silhouette of a writing desk, a chair, the bed itself. Wooden posters soared to a canopy bereft of bed hangings. One of the maids ran a damp rag over the wall, showing a distinct line where years of dust and grime fell away to reveal a pale blue paper patterned with tiny flowers.

On Emma’s entrance, the maid bobbed a quick curtsey. “Suppose you’ll wish to redecorate if it pleases you.”

Emma hadn’t considered anything of the sort. “Why don’t we have a look at what’s already here and see if we can make do for the time being?”

If she was expected to teach her intended frugality and wise spending, she may as well start with herself. She lifted the sheet from the writing desk and ran a hand over the marquetry inlays set in the pale satinwood finish. Her imagination completed the picture of the chamber as it must have been in its heyday, feminine and airy, like its previous occupant.

Nothing like Emma herself. But no matter, she needed no ostentatious show to prove who she was. These furnishings would do just fine. Her gaze traced the fine lines of the carved legs to settle on several drawers. And beneath the slats of the tambour top, there must be a few pigeonholes. Just perhaps, she might find a good hiding spot for her future correspondence.

She lifted the writing surface and tried to adjust the angle to suit her height, but the sheet of wood stuck. How odd. She tried again, but something seemed to be blocking the action of the levers. What on earth?

She slipped a hand beneath the surface and struck a small, flat object. A book, by the feel of it. She pulled it out. The gold inlay on the red leather binding revealed the owner to be Lydia Lindenhurst.

Emma ran her finger over the lettering, while casting back in her memory. Papa had acquired this house from Viscount Lindenhurst via his man of affairs, after the property had lain vacant for several years. According to Aunt Augusta, the woman had died on the viscount’s Cornwall estate. Hints at a deeper scandal had circulated, but Emma hadn’t bothered retaining the details. Whatever the woman had done in her lifetime, it was over now, and Emma was far more concerned with learning to manage her father’s affairs than worrying over the wrongs of a deceased member of society.

No doubt the woman would have treated Emma the same as any other
ton
lady did—to them she was an interloper from whom the stain of commerce would never wash clean.

She was about to shove the book into the back of a drawer when a new idea struck. No one would think to search for her private correspondence within the pages of this volume. Instead, she tucked it under her arm and made her way toward the stairs. The letter to Mr. Hendricks could wait, for her aunt certainly would not.

As soon as possible, her aunt had said. That meant the wedding was likely to take place within a week. At most, Emma had seven days to make peace with the idea of marrying a perfect stranger. And why should that notion intrigue her so?

The cart standing by the servants’ entrance of Higgins’s townhouse did not look the least bit promising. Not when the rough conveyance was piled high with what appeared to be much of Higgins’s worldly possessions. Or those of his servants. Still, Rowan hunched his shoulders against an icy wind and mounted the front steps. At least the knocker still hung on the cheerily painted door.

He let the knocker fall before shoving his hands beneath his armpits to wait. The cold penetrated even the thick wool of his caped overcoat and the leather of his gloves. A few fitful rays of sun poked between the clouds but did little to prevent the damp of the river from penetrating his bones. His breath expelled in rhythmic plumes while he stood shivering.

He was at the point of knocking again when the door swung open. Higgins’s butler thrust his nose into the frigid air. “Might I be of some assistance?”

Rowan reached into his overcoat for a card. “I’m here to see Higgins.”

The butler didn’t even bother taking the bit of cardstock. Instead, the man shook his head. “I’m afraid that is quite impossible. As you can see, we are in the process of removing.”

“To where?”

“Mr. Higgins has ordered his personal belongings sent to his country lodgings in Derbyshire.”

Rowan craned his neck toward the foyer beyond. “Do you think we might? It is rather cold out.”

The butler stepped aside, and the thuds of Rowan’s Hessians echoed through the space. Bare black and white tile gave way to polished wood, none of it covered by the expected carpeting. Pale walls revealed lighter spots where portraits had once hung. To the left, the entrance to an empty sitting room yawned.

“Derbyshire,” Rowan repeated. “Is that where Higgins took himself off to?” Given good weather, he could make that trip in a day or two and still be back in Town for his wedding.

“Oh, no, sir.”

Naturally. When one has just absconded with a great deal of money, one does not expect to hide on one’s country estate. “You wouldn’t happen to know where he’s gone?”

“Mr. Higgins was called to the continent suddenly. I do not know if you were aware, but he has relatives in Italy. On his mother’s side, I believe. Not two days ago, he received a summons. Quite urgent. He was needed immediately.”

“Indeed.” Rowan studied the other man—balding, hawkish nose, rather stoop-shouldered, bags under the eyes. Possibly covering for his employer—or not. Without any personal experience with this servant, Rowan couldn’t tell if the butler was lying or if Higgins had fed his man a line about a family emergency. In Italy, no less, doubtless at some cypress-surrounded villa or other where Higgins could expect to pass the colder months soaking up the sun in relative comfort. Damned convenient. “I don’t suppose he informed you of the exact nature of this urgency.”

“It is not my job to ask, sir.”

Damn. “And you say he left yesterday.”

“The day before.”

Damn it to hell. Not much hope Rowan might take his brother’s carriage and catch the man in Dover, even if the Channel crossing was less than certain in this season. If Higgins was already on the continent, he was well and truly gone. Rowan didn’t have the ready funds to chase him all the way to Italy.

Not before his marriage. Not after, either, for that matter. If his wife kept a tight hold on the finances, she’d want an explanation of his haring off so soon after their wedding. He doubted she’d agree to back such a venture.

“It would cost more to chase down the man than what he took me for,” Rowan muttered under his breath.

“I beg your pardon?” Deuce take it, the butler was probably wondering how to get rid of the madman lurking in the foyer.

“Nothing.” Rowan eyed the man. Perhaps there was still some valuable information to be had. “I suppose with Higgins off so suddenly, he’s had to let some of his staff go.”

“A few of us are staying on to close the house properly, but after that…” He trailed off, as if he realized he’d overstepped. “Not that that’s any of your concern, of course.”

“Oh, of course. Has he let so many of you go, then?”

The butler cleared his throat. “He didn’t even take his valet with him.”

“Really?” Rowan drew out the first syllable of the word in perfect imitation of the broad drawl so many men in his social circles affected. “You wouldn’t happen to have the man’s direction? It so happens I’m in the market for a valet.”

On his marriage, he’d be able to afford someone to look after his wardrobe. If Higgins’s valet could cough up a few details about his former employer, so much the better.

Rowan did not have the funds for a trip to Italy now, but come summer, perhaps he could talk his wife into a honeymoon of sorts. He’d simply make the trip do double duty and ensure he paid Higgins a surprise visit.

Back in his brother’s carriage, Rowan directed the driver to Bow Street. The Runners might not take on his case, but they could direct him to someone who would, someone desperate enough to accept payment after the fact.

Rowan nearly laughed at the idea, a harsh derisive bark.
No
one
was that desperate, not even the gin guzzlers of St. Giles—and one of them would take whatever coin he could spare to prove he was in earnest and promptly spend it on a bottle of blue ruin.

Still, it cost him nothing to ask, and in the meantime, he might discover something of Higgins’s ultimate destination. Perhaps the story about Italy was all a ruse and the scoundrel had gone elsewhere. Hell, perhaps he was even holed up in Derbyshire, hiding in his carriage house. In other words, hiding in the first place people would write off for being too obvious.

The coach rumbled to a halt in front of number four, and the driver let down the steps. As Rowan ascended the stairs to the front door, he noted a man leaning against the entranceway, one foot propped on the pale stonework. Creases lined the man’s rough clothes, as if he had slept in them for several days. Knots of grayish rags protected his knuckles, leaving his fingers prey to the cold.

The tip of a cheroot glowed red as he pulled in a lungful of smoke. “Wot choo lookin’ at?”

Rowan halted a safe distance away. In his youth, he’d been involved in all manner of drink-fueled scrapes in the less respectable parts of town. This man would have blended in perfectly at one of the dockside taverns known for their grog, wenches, and ready fights. “I didn’t realize there’d be a guard.”

The man’s gaze took in Rowan from head to toe, before slipping past to the carriage. “Ye come looking for help on Bow Street? Wot’s a cove like you need wit’ the likes o’ us? Like as not, ye can afford an entire army t’ do wote ’er needs doin’.”

“Listen, Mr.—”

“Dysart.”

“Mr. Dysart—”

“Just Dysart. And who do I have th’ honor of addressing?” As he spoke, his accent smoothed into something far more elegant—a mockery, no doubt, of fashionable manners. “Should I call ye
yer lordship
?”

Yes, Dysart had noted the crest on his brother’s carriage. “
Battencliffe
will do.
Mr.,
if you insist. Now, are you going to let me go about my affairs, or will I have to remove you?”

The man’s attitude called forth a few more muzzy memories of Rowan’s younger days, times when he’d defended and been defended against similar toughs.

Lindenhurst. You saved him. Does he remember that night?

Rowan pushed that particular thought aside. Now was hardly the time, when he’d have to deal with Dysart on his own. He might be out of practice in the boxing ring, but he reckoned he recalled enough to take this fellow on.

“Ye won’t have t’ remove me. Not that ye can unless I’m of a mind to let ye. Not that I am.” He took a final drag on his cheroot and tossed the stub into the street. “Ye come lookin’ for help on Bow Street, ye can deal wit’ me.”

Rowan took in the man’s grizzled face beneath his mop of unruly reddish hair. A day-old beard peppered his cheeks with stubble. Had Rowan just been considering hiring someone from the stews of Seven Dials? He’d seemingly found one, a man doubtless after some quick coin to spend in one of the four gin shops on this very street.

“I’m looking for a Runner.”

“Ye’ve found one, though I’m no coward. I don’t run.”

Right. If this man was a Bow Street Runner, Rowan was next in line for Chancellor of the Exchequer. “Prove it, then. Take me into your office, or wherever you conduct your business.”

Dysart pushed away from the wall and swept a mocking hand toward the entrance. “After ye, yer lordship.”

Under other circumstances, Rowan would have hesitated, but what could this man do? Attempt to rob him inside the magistrate’s court? Thus, he followed Dysart past the spacious but empty hearing room through a maze of corridors to a windowless, cramped spot in the back. Sparks’s dressing room was larger than this, for heaven’s sake, but Dysart eased himself through the doorway and plopped himself down on a battered desk. With no chair in evidence, Rowan stood facing him.

“Now, wot d’ ye need me for?”

Rowan launched into his account of Higgins’s thievery and subsequent flight to Italy. Before long, Dysart held up a hand.

“Italy, ye say? Can’t follow no one there. At least, not without th’ proper incentive. In any case, wot makes ye think he’s left England?”

Rowan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “The thought did cross my mind that he hasn’t. The butler may have been feeding me a story. But they were clearing out the townhouse.”

“Right. So that’s the first thing we need to establish—whether the nob’s actually left. Wot does this Higgins look like?”

Like any number of the
ton
’s gentlemen. Ordinary size, ordinary height, brown hair and eyes. Well dressed, naturally. That was the problem. Rowan couldn’t recall a single thing that would distinguish the man from anyone else.

As Rowan struggled to describe the mundane, Dysart’s brows lowered. “Wot about his mannerisms?”

“Mannerisms?” Surely those could be suppressed.

“Does he have any tells at the card table? Does his left eyelid twitch when he’s lying?”

“Good Lord, I don’t know that.”

Dysart muttered something that sounded strangely like “Save me from idiots.”

“Aren’t you going to write any of this down?”

“Ain’t nothing worth setting out.” He tapped his forefinger against his temple. “It’s all in here for when I need it. Wot about his weaknesses?”

For some reason, Rowan felt obliged to stand with his hands behind his back and his feet a precise six inches apart, like a schoolboy reciting his lessons. It might have been Dysart’s penetrating stare. “What are you getting at?”

Dysart sighed. “This Higgins chap has just come into a fortune. He’s like to spend it on somethin’. But what somethin’? Gamblin’, drinkin’, or whores?”

“About the same as any other gentlemen.”

“So all three in great heaps.”

“Yes, possibly. I couldn’t say which. Crawley knows him better.”

Dysart straightened. “Who’s Crawley?”

“An acquaintance. He introduced me to Higgins and brought me into the scheme.”

“And where’s he gone off to?”

“Nowhere. I saw him yesterday when he told me Higgins had swindled us.”

Dysart cocked his head. “Crawley told ye?”

“Yes—you don’t think he’s involved, do you?”

“I think what I think. Where’s this Crawley live? I wants t’ talk to him.”

“I can give you his direction, but I’m not sure what good it’ll do. He’s lost his part in this scheme, too.”

“So he says, but he can also tell me more about Higgins.” Dysart pushed himself off his desk. “Now there’s just the matter of my—what do ye nobs call it? Right. My retainer.”

The Pendleton ball was alive with color. Unmarried hopefuls in pale shades, their eager mamas in darker tones, offset by gentlemen in evening black. To Emma, the scene looked like an ever-changing kaleidoscope of vaguely blurry patterns, since Aunt Augusta insisted she leave her spectacles at home.

Little did her aunt know Emma had spirited the offending eyewear in her reticule. She’d never get away with donning the things, but the act was a small bit of rebellion nonetheless. How ridiculous that fashion insisted a young lady be robbed of her eyesight in order to attract a husband. Clad in their social uniform, they all looked the same from this vantage.

“Pray, do not squint so,” Aunt Augusta admonished out the side of her mouth as she nodded at an acquaintance. Not that Emma could see which acquaintance.

“It isn’t as if I need to impress anyone tonight.” None of the gentlemen, at any rate. With the matter of her marriage settled, Emma would have been just as content to remain at home.

“Do you want the ladies saying Mr. Battencliffe agreed to marry you for your dowry alone?”

“They will say that no matter if I squint or not.” They’d say that and worse. “What’s more, it’s the truth.”

Emma snapped open her fan and made a show of waving it in front of her face in hopes that would discourage Aunt Augusta from pursuing the current thread of conversation.

“Still, we wouldn’t want to give the impression shortsightedness runs in the family.” Aunt Augusta craned her neck to see past the towering ostrich plumes on some dowager’s headdress. “Now that you’re settled, we can hope Uriana makes a match.”

Emma scanned the dancers for a smudge of sea-foam green, but the patterns of the reel shifted too quickly. It was early in the year for a proper crush. The true Season wouldn’t begin until the weather became more clement in April.

Shepherded by her aunt, Emma continued her turn about the edge of the ballroom, smiling and nodding blindly at anything resembling a face, until the music ended on a flourish. She suppressed a groan. Uriana threaded through the guests on the arm of Lord Allerdale. Following in their wake came a few other young people, among them Miss Emily Marshall—heaven forbid Emma even think of her as anything else. Miss Marshall would not hesitate to voice a polite yet embarrassing reminder that they were not on a first name basis.

“You’ll never believe who I saw dancing together.” Uriana flapped her fan in front of her face, aglow from the vigorous set. “Lord Chuddleigh and Lady Wexford.”