Vanquishing the Viscount Page 6

  Chapter Eleven

  Emma spent the rest of the evening accepting as many requests to dance as she could fit on her card, determined to keep Lord Tidworth at bay. If he so much as breathed in her general direction—which he seemed alarmingly determined to do, following her around the room no matter where she turned—she took refuge with another dance partner, until finally he gave up the chase and disappeared off to the card room.

  Thank heaven.

  It was Miss Philippa who precipitated their departure from the ball, by spilling a large glass of port down her tunic, making her look more like Clytemnestra than a decent English gentlewoman. Mr. Charles made no effort to bid his host farewell, for which Emma was extremely grateful. She was too exhausted to face the viscount or his parents, and her efforts to avoid the man had left her nerves in shreds.

  Philippa dozed off almost as soon as their carriage lurched away down the tree-lined drive, but Charles, despite a slight slur in his speech, was wakeful.

  “What exactly did you do to put Tidworth in such a pet?” he asked her.

  Should she tell him about the incident on the road before her arrival at Figheldene? Perhaps not.

  “He recognized me,” she said. “We met briefly when he was last at your house. He didn’t like our jest—he thought we were making fun of his guests and felt it unfair when they were all donating grand amounts to his good cause.”

  Charles sniffed. “He used not to be so particular. His experiences during the war took all the humor out of him.”

  Ah. That would explain a lot. “I didn’t realize he’d been a soldier. Was he wounded?”

  “Only minor injuries—a couple of saber cuts and some fractures, all long since healed. But his older brother, Nathaniel, died of gangrene in a veterans’ hospital before his parents could get him home.”

  “But that’s awful!”

  “Yes, but don’t look so gloomy, my dear Miss Hibbert. James is not to be pitied. While you and I have not a feather to fly with, Tidworth’s so well set up, he can afford to give it away in barrow loads. He’s been a bore tonight. Let’s decide how we will punish him.”

  Revenge was the last thing she wanted—what would that achieve? It was better not to make an enemy of a man of his station. She’d already told him she came from a once-great family, and if he decided to make inquiries… Mrs. Keane would not be impressed to discover Emma had hidden her true identity. And without a good reference, what chance did she have of finding another respectable position?

  She shook her head. “Some of what he said may well have been deserved. I think he was trying to speak to me so he could apologize. Please, forget about it.”

  Charles drew a finger around the neck of his Harlequin costume, then unclipped his ruff and yanked it off. “Stupid piece of neckwear,” he muttered. “Yes, James Markham, Viscount Tidworth. I would say he’s a capital fellow, mostly. Not really like him to be rude to ladies. Although I can easily guess why he’s sensitive these days.”

  Emma sat forward. “Why?”

  “Because, not very long ago, he was jilted by the woman he intended to marry.”

  “That must have hit him hard,” she said, recalling the conversation she’d heard below the schoolroom window. “I assume they didn’t make it as far as the altar?”

  “No, it didn’t get that far. He courted her for a year, but she was corresponding with another man the whole time. Poor show. Very shabby to treat a decent sort like James that way.”

  Her jaw dropped. Even she would be forced to think twice if she received an offer from the Earl of Rossbury’s heir. And she had plenty of reason to distrust the attentions of handsome, magnetically attractive aristocrats.

  “Was he at fault, perhaps?” she asked. “He wasn’t very gentlemanly toward me.”

  “He would never have hurt Belinda. He was truly smitten. She’s very beautiful, you know. Would you like me to unfasten your ruff? You’ll be more comfortable, I’m sure. Turn around.”

  She turned around obediently, barely aware of the touch of Charles’s fingers as her mind raced. It had become clear to her that Tidworth was a proud man, and such treatment must have severely dented his pride. Even if it was extremely good news for all the matchmaking mamas.

  Charles’s hands were now in her hair, removing the pins that secured her headdress. It was a relief to be rid of it.

  “Did he tell you the particulars?” she asked. “Or is it just hearsay?”

  “You have delightful hair, Miss Hibbert—long and silky. I could stroke you like a cat.”

  “I pray you will not, Mr. Charles,” she said, in her most imperious voice. Why was he toying with her? She must be on her guard, after what she’d heard from behind that curtain.

  He laughed softly and ceased his stroking, but his eyes held hers. She treated him to her best Governess Look.

  With a long-suffering sigh, he said, “Oh, very well, if all you want to do is talk about Tidworth. The love rival was a Mr. Cornwallis, a rich nabob from India. Hmm. India seems a good place to make fortunes. I wonder if I should consider it? Anyway, it seems James got wind the fellow was coming back and worried he might ask for the chit’s hand, so he decided to steal a march on him, just in case.”

  She nodded. “Very sensible.”

  “He’s still convinced that if he’d got there first, she’d have accepted him. But he was held up on the road, and Cornwallis beat him to it, seducing Miss Carslake with a hideously gaudy and expensive ring. James hasn’t been his proper self since.”

  Emma’s heart thudded uncomfortably. The scenario sounded all too familiar. It took a moment before she felt brave enough to ask, “What was the cause of the delay on the road?”

  “A fall from a horse, I believe. Some well-meaning passersby stopped him from riding on, threatened him with a weapon.” He snorted. “What kind of good Samaritan would do that? Poor James, it was most unfortunate. Perhaps I should seduce the beauteous Belinda myself, and teach that Cornwallis fellow a lesson.”

  Emma couldn’t find the heart to respond. Guilt flooded through her entire being. She had, quite inadvertently, ruined Viscount Tidworth’s hopes of happiness. No wonder he’d been so angry with her since he’d met her again!

  Charles frowned at her. “Come now, Miss Hibbert, I declare I’m quite jealous. All this brooding over my friend, and not a thought for me? Come, kiss me—I’ve been waiting for the opportunity all evening.”

  Before she could gather her scattered wits about her, his hand was tangled in her hair and his mouth ranged hungrily over her own. Horrified, she put her hands on his chest to push him away.

  But he was not to be deterred. He merely gathered her more closely in his arms, stifling her cries of protest with ever more ardent lips, until she took the only recourse she could think of—she kicked Philippa.

  It was almost comical the speed with which Charles withdrew from her when he heard his sister’s mewl of complaint. Fortunately, Miss Philippa was too befuddled with sleep to notice anything amiss. Sitting upright against the squabs, she inquired, “Are we there yet?”

  Emma sat back in her seat, tilting a defiant chin at Charles. He’d caught her by surprise this time.

  It was not going to happen again.

  Chapter Twelve

  Emma had been up half the night with Willie and the children’s nurse, Jane, feeding him electuaries with honey to ease his coughing and calming him when he struggled to draw in breath. He was fretful this morning, hunched grumpily over his calculations while Mary beside him muttered over her French.

  Maybe the Keanes should take Willie to Brighton, as had been suggested by the doctor the previous day, in hopes of the sea air speeding his recovery. Emma was too weary to dwell on the other delights of the place—if it helped Willie, that was all that mattered.

  She became aware that the faint scratching of Mary’s pencil had ceased. Looking up, she inquired, “Do you have a problem, Mary?”

  “Oh no, Miss Hibbert—it’s just that you look
ill. Shall I fetch you a glass of water?”

  “Thank you, that’s very thoughtful. Fetch some for your brother, too, but don’t take all day about it—those French exercises must be done before teatime.”

  The girl scrambled down from her seat and skipped out of the room, returning ten minutes later with two cups of water and something else beneath her elbow.

  “Thank you,” Emma said, taking her glass. “What do you have there, child?”

  “It’s a letter, Miss Hibbert, addressed to you. Did I do wrong to bring it?”

  A letter! Suddenly the sun shone brighter, and the water coasting down Emma’s throat tasted sweet. Who could it be from? Her old friend, Clara Tinniswood, recently become the Duchess of Ulvercombe? Her brother George? Or her parents from Tresham? Lessons forgotten, she broke the seal and unfolded the paper.

  It was from George, but the return address was Tresham Hall. What was he doing there when he ought to be at his medical studies in Bristol? Anxiously, she scanned the first paragraph of the letter, then sat back in her chair and drew in a shuddering breath.

  It was worrying news. Papa had contracted a vernal quotidian ague—a recent spell of heavy rain had saturated the ground and precipitated a local outbreak of the dangerous illness. With evident pride, George wrote that his special treatment regime had reduced the length of Papa’s illness from weeks to days. However, it meant the household accounts hadn’t been done, so the d’Ibert family’s creditors hadn’t been paid, and they were starting to ask searching questions.

  And there was worse news. A cattle plague had struck the herd at Home Farm, resulting in the necessary slaughter of a great many animals. This was truly horrible, not just for the financial hardship to Tresham, but also for the suffering of the poor creatures themselves.

  The final blow was the news that her parents had decided not to delay the selling of Tresham Hall any longer.

  Even though Emma had accepted the likelihood of a sale, she hadn’t expected it so soon. She’d only taken on the demeaning position of governess to help save Tresham from the bailiffs, but now it seemed her efforts had been for naught.

  Her heart felt as if a giant fist were squeezing it, and the words on the page swam before her eyes.

  “Willie, Mary,” she said hoarsely. “It’s a fine day, and we should take the opportunity to do some nature study and drawing. Get out your sketchbooks and pencils, and wait for me next to the pond. I’ll be down very shortly. Keep well away from the edge, though, and sit quietly while you’re waiting.”

  In an instant, the room was empty and she felt able to give vent to her feelings. She wept quietly, pacing the room in despair.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was a full week now since the masquerade ball at Birney House, and James was restless. There was nothing much to supervise now—the decorations had been taken down, the accidental spills had been skillfully removed, and the gravel drive raked into lines of perfect symmetry. There was plenty to occupy him on his estate at Langley—but for some reason, he was loath to leave Gloucestershire just yet.

  Maybe it was because Birney House was an easy ride from Ashleaze Court, where Belinda lived. He’d almost convinced himself to forgive her and try to be friends. After all, it was possible her choice of Cornwallis as her future mate had been forced on her by her papa, tempted by the glitter of that vulgar ruby. Which meant, just possibly, there was an outside chance…

  Shaking his head, he smiled at his own folly. A shaft of sunlight stretched a long finger across his desk, bouncing off the cut-glass inkwell with its chased silver lid, the perforated pen tray, and the long-stemmed sherry glass he’d emptied more than half an hour ago. It wasn’t like him to drink during the day—why was he feeling so unsettled?

  Maybe now was the time to begin his search in earnest for the perfect place for his veterans’ home. He should scour the newspapers, ask his acquaintances if anything was going up for sale in the environs of Bath. The charity ball had raised seven hundred and fifty guineas, an extremely encouraging start to the project.

  Mr. Keane might know—Charles’s father was very interested in the value of property and would have a good idea of how much more James would have to raise, or advance out of his own pocket, to create the perfect rest home. It might be advisable to have a quiet word with Charles, as well, to make sure there was no bad blood between them after that embarrassing incident with Miss Hibbert. And Philippa Keane was always a delight.

  It was already after noon, but if he went now, he should be able to make it back again before dark. Or would he have to beg a bed for the night? Perhaps he should pack a change of clothes in his saddlebags, just in case.

  Ah, the prospect of a ride through the green English countryside on a fine day! He needed the exercise, he needed the fresh air, and he needed stimulation, something to stop him brooding over Belinda.

  Perhaps he’d run into Miss Hibbert, so he could finally make that apology.

  Ten minutes later, he sat astride Lawrie’s broad back, cantering up the road in the direction of Figheldene Hall, and a half hour after that he was swinging lightly from his horse onto the cobbled courtyard of the Keanes’ residence.

  A groom came to take Lawrie, and James had just doffed his hat before knocking on the front door when he heard the excited shouts of children. Willie and Mary were chasing each other near the slopes of the ancient carp pond. As soon as the boy caught sight of him, he hared across and leaped into his arms, knocking his hat flying.

  “James! You haven’t been to see me in an age! Do you see how tall I’ve grown? I’m nearly as big as Mary!” Willie flung his arms around James’s neck and—as he knew it was expected of him—he swung the child around in circles until he squealed in mingled fear and delight.

  No sooner had he set the dizzy boy on his feet than he was exhorted to give him a piggyback. With a sigh, James realized he’d have to postpone his talk with Mr. Keane.

  He took Willie on a circuit of the pond, and as they returned to the courtyard, Mary came panting over with a bunch of flowers in her hand, which she handed to James, saying, “Can I have a piggyback now, please?”

  He shook his head. “Alas, you are too much of a lady now,” he said.

  Mary’s lip quivered, so he added quickly, “But we can still dance together. Shall we, my lady?”

  They did the waltz, which mostly consisted of him swinging Mary up and down as he swayed to the imagined music. He stumbled, faking dizziness, and Mary tried to hold him up, screaming in exaggerated horror.

  Willie burst into peals of laughter at the spectacle, and soon they were all laughing, artlessly, genuinely. James couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a really good, cathartic belly laugh.

  Straightening up, he caught sight of movement in one of the upstairs windows. As he focused on the spot, he realized he was gazing up at the familiar face of the intriguing Miss Hibbert. She looked pale, dark around the eyes, and she was dabbing her nose with a handkerchief.

  As soon as she saw him, she pulled out of sight with an expression of shock.

  His smile faded along with his cheerful mood.

  The woman had definitely been crying. What could have upset her so?

  Chapter Fourteen

  In an effort to pull herself together so she could go outside and face the children, Emma had just stepped to the window for a lungful of fresh air. Willie and Mary thankfully hadn’t yet left the courtyard.

  But they were playing with a gentleman visitor. Dabbing at her eyes and nose, Emma moved closer to see who’d come calling—and was thrown into an immediate state of confusion.

  Viscount Tidworth!

  Instantly, memories of their encounters added to her misery, and she ducked quickly out of sight, determined to avoid him at all costs.

  She lurked next to the drapes, battling the urge to look again and see what her nemesis was up to. Part of her was wracked with guilt for the harm she’d done to him, but she also hated him for ruining her time at the bal
l. She didn’t want him to despise her, nor did she want to care at all for his good opinion.

  All the same, she did.

  Taking another sip of her water, she tucked her handkerchief away and wished she could just go back to bed, pull the covers over her ears, and shut out the world and all its problems.

  “Woolgathering, Miss Hibbert?”

  She spun around, nearly dropping her letter. When she saw it was Mr. Charles, she stuck her hands behind her back and tucked the letter up her sleeve. He mustn’t find out who she really was. If Tresham were sold and her parents were left without a home or a farthing, her current post was the best lot in life she could hope for. She meant to hold onto it.

  Damn Charles for catching her at such disadvantage! For a brisk and virile man, he had a remarkable propensity for stealth.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” she inquired politely.

  He took her by the shoulders and gazed into her eyes. “I know you had a letter today. Mary can’t keep anything to herself, I fear. Bad news I surmise, from your expression. Poor Miss Hibbert. Things are not well at home, and you’re feeling homesick.”

  She cast her gaze downward. “I fear it is so.”

  He clicked his tongue. “Am I not sufficient distraction for you? Don’t I keep you entertained and feeling wanted here at Figheldene?”

  With these words he drew her against him, one arm about her waist and the other behind her head, pressing it into the pad of his shoulder.

  She struggled against his hold. “Please, sir, I—”

  “You may weep upon me if you wish. I’m not at all proud, and this isn’t my best coat, so I shan’t be cross if you spoil it.”

  Heavens! His kind of comfort was the last thing she wanted. She tried desperately to pull away.

  “I’m not done comforting you yet, Emma,” he whispered in her ear, as one hand came up to stroke the back of her neck. “If you give me but a moment, I can banish all your cares from your mind.”