Let the Lady Decide Page 4

  "Six. Yes, that's right."

  "Of those six I can already discount…" James paused, considering. "Let's be conservative and say two. The first, the Earl of Corden."

  "Corden? He's the highest ranking of all of them!"

  "And the only one who did not ask you to dance." In the candlelight, James's eyes were a deep, oceanic blue. He nodded meaningfully. "Believe me, Lady Emily. If a man were truly interested in you, he would not be able to resist asking you to dance."

  Emily made a mental note to be suspicious of the Earl's intentions in future. "And the second?"

  "It seems young Henry Digby has not been entirely honest with the ton about the state of his fortunes," said James airily. "My suspicions were first aroused when Lady Sarah and Lady Harriet both claimed to have received a visit from him in the past week. He told each of them that they were the only one he was gracing with his attentions. Naturally, my interest was piqued, and over the course of the evening I made some research and discovered another four young ladies who had received a call from Digby this month. All of them had one thing in common: a very large fortune." James paused for effect. He was clearly enjoying his role. "You have a mathematical mind, Lady Emily. I'll let you draw your own conclusions."

  "But how frightful!" cried Emily. "I would never have guessed it of Lord Henry. Courting so many different women at once!" She clenched her fist. "How dare he!"

  "If it pleases you," said James, "I have come up with a little scheme to give Digby his just desserts. But we'll come to that later. Don't you want to hear whose side I favour in the war for your heart?"

  "I would love to," said Emily. She perched on the table to listen, drawing a disapproving look from Jacob. Their father would have been most put out to see her behaving so casually in front of a gentleman.

  But it was only James Marsden. She was in no danger of a proposal from him.

  "Viscount Tilbury," said James decisively. Emily could not help a little flutter of disappointment at the name.

  "Tilbury?"

  "He is spoken of as the most handsome gentleman in London."

  The disappointment only grew. "And do you think that's what I want? A handsome husband?"

  James was momentarily lost for words. "I – I suppose it is better to have a handsome one than not?"

  "But are his affections for me genuine? Or did you stop your research the moment you heard silly girls cooing over his handsome face?"

  "I certainly did not. On so short an observation it is difficult to say. His eyes hardly left you all night. That I can be sure of."

  Emily wondered, with a thrill of pleasure, exactly where James's eyes had been that evening if he could be so certain of it. Had he been looking at her, too?

  "There we have it," said Jacob, who was shifting uncomfortably to see Emily chatting to James with such animation. "Tilbury it is. Well, I'll happily welcome him as a brother. He's a good enough sort of man."

  "But that's not it!" protested Emily. "The matter is hardly settled, Jacob."

  Although it could well have been. She saw his point. James had given her useful advice. His end of the bargain could be considered well kept.

  The thought of going any further without his guidance suddenly seemed quite dangerous. Emily felt that she, not James, was the one standing blindfold on a narrow railing, with a horrible drop each side. If he did not guide her, who would?

  "I will happily provide my services for as long as my lady needs them," said James, with a cat's smile.

  Emily was no fool. He was doing it for his own selfish ends, and to rile up Jacob into the bargain – not for the pleasure of her company. Still, her heart could not help but rise.

  "Let us see who comes to pay me a call tomorrow. I will report back to you at five o'clock in Clarence's Coffee House. It is always my custom to drink hot chocolate after a ball, and I think five o'clock will give time for all but the most tardy of gentlemen to pay me a morning call." Morning calls, despite their name, often took place in the afternoon – especially the day after festivities which had lasted into the early hours.

  "You cannot seriously be arranging to meet a gentleman alone in a coffee house," said Jacob, half-amused, half-alarmed. Emily patted his arm fondly.

  "Certainly not, my dear brother, for you shall be there with me. Now, Mr Marsden, tell me what you had in mind for me to wreak my revenge upon the unfortunate Lord Henry Digby…"

  CHAPTER FIVE

  James rose the following morning significantly earlier than Emily's suitors were likely to. He was staying with his brother in the gorgeous ducal property of Amberley House, where breakfast was kept strictly at eleven to please the Dowager Duchess. James surprised his family by taking a cup of hot chocolate with his breakfast. It was pale and creamy, topped with a thick frothy head, and spiced with vanilla and nutmeg. The taste reminded him of Emily.

  Then he was off to the Italian Embassy, which lay in the heart of Mayfair in Grosvenor Square. The impressive columns of the buildings rose in a spacious square around a large circular garden, kept in good shape under the distant direction of the Duke of Westminster, who owned most of the surrounding properties. The architecture was one of London's finest and, some would say, most intimidating sights – a natural choice for foreign embassies.

  If James had ever been intimidated in his life, he could not remember it. He marched up to the front entrance of the Italian Embassy and rapped smartly on the door.

  "Signor Rossi, per favore," he said, handing the butler his coat. "It's a social call. Not business."

  He admired the paintings on the wall in the waiting room as he waited to be summoned through. A wonderful set of landscapes by Magnasco. They had grown familiar to him in the course of his friendship with Rossi, but every time he returned to that room he found something new to appreciate.

  "Il signore will see you now," said the butler, after a few moments' absence, and led him through to the equally art-laden receiving room.

  Rossi rose from his seat and strode across the floor to clap James on the back in welcome. "Ah! Buongiorno, amico mio! Always such a delight."

  James's Italian was passable, and had become better under the influence of Rossi's friendship, but in private they usually spoke English. It was better, Rossi said, to remember which country one was in.

  "Rossi, old chap! I was just wondering whether you wanted to throw off the ambassador for the day and come for a ride," James teased. Rossi was the ambassador's private secretary, a privileged position, and though he loved the city of London he was rarely given time to explore it.

  "If only," Rossi mourned. "Come, take a seat. May I offer you some refreshment? Tea? Champagne?"

  "Save the champagne to impress the aristocrats," said James. "I'll take some tea. Why not?"

  They spent a few minutes chatting over news of their mutual acquaintances – who had lost a bet to who, who was reportedly wooing which young woman, and who had spent their year's allowance before the summer was ended and had left London in disgrace. James steered the conversation towards his true goal without, he hoped, alerting Rossi to his purpose.

  "Say, I happened to meet one of your countrymen last night at a ball. Well, meet is a strong word. Doubt he'd associate with the likes of me. A Marchese – di Montecchio, I think? What's his story?"

  "You did well not to seek an introduction," said Rossi. "He comes from a very fine family. You never know how you will be received by these great men."

  "Is he recently arrived in the country?"

  "Only in the last week, I believe. He has taken a house near Hanover Square."

  "And do you know much about him? Other than his greatness, of course."

  Rossi narrowed his eyes. "Now, there is something you are not telling me, Marsden."

  James saw that he would have to show his hand. "Listen, Rossi – and I don't want you to get the wrong idea – but there's a young lady's happiness at stake in the matter. I've no designs on her myself – heaven knows, Montecchio and I don't aspire
to the same class of woman – but I don't wish to see her unhappily married off, do you understand? I'd take it as a kindness if you could look into the Marchese's affairs, as discreetly as possible, of course, and let me know if you turn anything up."

  "Ah," sighed Rossi. "Is it love, Marsden?"

  James snorted. "When I am afflicted with love, Rossi, you'll know it. You'll receive the invitation to my funeral the following day. Will you help me or not?"

  "I will be happy to," said Rossi, with a wink. "You know how I adore an English intrigue."

  "Reminds you of home, I expect."

  "Now, now." Rossi tipped back his head and let out a deep belly-laugh. "Our countrymen each have their faults." He raised his teacup in a mock toast. "To intrigues!"

  "To scandals," James agreed, knocking their cups together. "Well, Rossi, if you can't come for that ride, I'll leave you to your work."

  "Always a pleasure." Rossi rang for the butler to see James out. "Take care of your heart now, amico mio. I'd hate to receive that invitation."

  "No danger of that," James laughed, shrugging back into his coat and following the butler out of the room.

  He returned to Amberley House in very fine spirits, certain that the day could bring nothing to dampen them. Unfortunately for him, he was met in the hallway by his brother Harry, Duke of Westbourne and head of the Marsden family, who spoke the words certain to put a damper on any second son's mood.

  "I've been looking over the finances, James. Pop into my study for a moment, won't you? There's something I'd like to discuss."

  Harry had not had the chance to redecorate his study since it was the property of the late Duke of Westbourne, the brothers' distant cousin. It was a gloomy and forbidding room. If a pleasant chat was in order, Harry would have chosen the library, which was airy and beautiful.

  No doubt James was in for a dressing-down.

  "Take a seat," said Harry, as he made himself comfortable behind the leather-lined desk. "And try not to look so much like a recalcitrant schoolboy. It makes me feel old."

  James sprawled as casually as possible in the chair opposite, stopping short of putting his feet up on the desk. "What seems to be the matter?"

  Harry made no answer, instead pushing an expenditure sheet across the desk. James took it and made a swift perusal. It contained a list of payments into and payments out of his allowance from his brother. There was nothing there that surprised him.

  "And?"

  "You seem to be spending rather a lot of money, James," said Harry sternly. "Rather too much of my money."

  "You know what London life is." James cocked an eyebrow. "Or perhaps you don't. You are an old married man now, after all."

  "If this is what the life of a bachelor in London entails," said Harry, "I will order you back to the countryside at once. But on a closer examination of this sorry sheet, James, it becomes obvious that it is not simply the cost of a London life." He jabbed a finger down at the latest, largest withdrawals. "These are recent. The overspending is recent."

  "So it is." James met his brother's eyes defiantly. Harry was first to break. He was always too sweet-tempered to argue.

  "I don't want to say this, James, but I have to know," he said, each word falling from his lips as heavily as a rock. "Have you been gambling?"

  In an instant James was sitting poker-straight. "How dare you."

  Harry shrugged helplessly. "I cannot see what else this all points to."

  "You think I'm like our father?"

  "I know you're not. I just… Well, William told me you were placing silly bets at White's a few months ago, and I…"

  James clenched his jaw. "I did place a bet or two, I admit it. I wanted to see what the fuss was all about. What thrill it was that led father into such a dark place. But all I felt was disgust. I never placed another bet after that night, and I never will."

  Harry groaned and lowered his head into his hands. "I want to believe you, James, but – so much money! Please, if you have an explanation, give it to me."

  James hesitated. He had never been the type to lie to his brother…but neither did he want to break a confidence. "It's a delicate matter, Harry."

  "It's my money, James." Harry frowned. "Are you in some kind of trouble? You mustn't be ashamed to tell me about it. I want to help you."

  "I know, I know." James sighed. There was nothing for it. "Very well, I'll come clean. Do you remember my friend, Andrew Wrenn?"

  "The one who died of a fever?"

  "Yes, poor old Andrew. Well, he left behind a wife –"

  Harry covered his eyes with a hand. "Yes, I see where this is going."

  "No, you do not," said James, irritated. "Stop being melodramatic and listen to what I'm telling you. Wrenn had some land to his name, and as his widow, Mrs Wrenn is entitled to a third of the income from it. It's her dower right."

  "I understand the intricacies of inheritance law passably well," said Harry. "Get to the point."

  "The fact is that Mrs Wrenn has not received a penny from the executors of her husband's will. She's living in Seven Dials in miserable conditions and I have hired a lawyer to look into the matter for her. She has no resources of her own." James drew himself up, looking the picture of injured innocence. "It came out of my allowance, Harry. You were never supposed to find out. I didn't know you were keeping tabs on me."

  "You're my brother," said Harry. "I'll always keep an eye out for you. As for the money, the suspicions… I'm sorry, James. Old habits die hard."

  When their father was alive, the burden of the family's ever-diminishing finances had fallen more often than not on Harry's shoulders. James relented. Harry had done so much for him over the years. It would be churlish to hold it against him.

  "I quite understand. And now that the cat's out of the bag, may I have your permission to continue helping Mrs Wrenn? I intend to get to the bottom of this disappearing money for her – and to see her safely back in the loving arms of the Beau Monde, who have all but forgotten their friend in her distress."

  "You may certainly help her financially. Now that I know the money's gone to good use, I have no objection to you spending it. But I would not hope for much from the ton, James. Poverty sticks. Unless you can persuade some influential ladies to accept her, she will be ostracised forever as a pauper – no matter whether her finances recover or not." Harry gave James a knowing look. "And I think we both know that your powers over Society's most influential ladies is not what you hoped."

  James winced, remembering his encounter with the Duchess of Rawly. "True. But I'm working on it. Harry, if I don't help her, no-one will."

  "Then you have my blessing. And I'll keep your secret for you. No-one need know that the dashing James Marsden has a heart of gold."

  "It's for the lady's sake, not my own. Public knowledge of her situation will only make everything worse. Now, was that all you wanted?"

  Harry blinked in surprise as James rose from his seat. "Yes, but what's so pressing that you have to run away all of a sudden?"

  James adjusted his cravat in the mirror on the wall. "I have an appointment with a cup of hot chocolate at Clarence's Coffee House."

  "You certainly have developed a taste for chocolate lately," said Harry mildly. He shuffled a few papers about on his desk. "I hope there's nothing going on that I need to be concerned about?"

  "Brother, your suspicion wounds me." James checked his face in the mirror. That was twice in one day that one of his close friends had mentioned their suspicions while he was speaking of Emily. He saw nothing amiss in his expression. Nothing to betray the fact that, all through the day, his mind had kept returning to the touch of her hands around his waist, dragging him from the balcony. "I'm meeting the Earl of Ramford, that's all. A nice little chinwag about last night's mischief."

  "I won't wait up," said Harry, knowing that a cup of chocolate with Jacob, Earl of Ramford could all too easily become an evening of far more raucous entertainment at White's. "Enjoy yourself."

&nb
sp; The image of Emily's wide hazel eyes rose up in James's mind. "Oh, I intend to," he smiled.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Emily always detested the day after a ball. What was the point of sitting around in the drawing room with not even a book to entertain her, waiting and waiting in case a gentleman should call?

  "You look very nice, Emily, dear," said her mother, who had taken up her embroidery to while away the time. "Only you must not fidget so. It is unbecoming."

  "I am bored," Emily groaned, massaging her lower back as she got up from the sofa for what felt like the thousandth time. She paced from one end of the room to the other. Nothing caught her interest. "If you would only let me take out a book –"

  "You may have a book of poetry, dear. Anything else might make a gentleman question your suitability."

  "That's a terribly old-fashioned view, Mama," Emily frowned. "I don't think I would like a husband who didn't look kindly on my reading."

  "Hark at you, talking of husbands before you've received a single morning call!" laughed the Duchess. "Emily, dearest, if you have any sense you'll sit and wait quietly with a smile on your face. We want the gentlemen to find you serene and beautiful, not frowning over a puzzle in one of your textbooks."

  "I understand, Mama," said Emily, with exaggerated sweetness, and struck a pose of ridiculous innocence, with a hand cupping her chin. "How will this do?"

  She was spared the truth of the Duchess's opinion by the announcement of Lady Sarah Elmsbury and Lady Harriet Moore. Her mother was immediately distracted – for the worse. "Those two! The three of you get up to nothing but trouble! They ought to be at home, waiting for their own suitors – if they're lucky enough to get any." She sniffed and jabbed a needle into her pincushion for emphasis. The Duchess might be critical of Emily's behaviour, but at heart she truly believed there was no girl more fit to be the belle of the Season than her daughter.